Ruther_BWK

AO3 handle: Ruther_BWK “Don’t act straight when you’re gay.” -Lady Gaga

[noodles-and-tea]

:(

[rutherbwk2]

My Only Love - Thragg x Female! OC

What if Thragg, in his thousands of years of existence, loved one? At his most brutal, his most obsessed, a woman from another planet — at the very corner of the galaxy — untouched by Viltrum, conquered his heart?

What if he let her get away?

What if, they reunited?

—————————————————————————————

The people of Atila were allies of Viltrum. Similar to each other by way of brute strength and empire. Wholly dissimilar by way of art, literature, compassion, and efforts towards freedom for all. Atila built their empire through indentured servitude, yes, but even the slaves had a real chance to make their way up.

Atila was strong and even the Viltrumites understood that they weren’t to be meddled with.

Since the time of the First Days, they’ve remained mostly neutral. The people only exercised violence when necessary.

Lately, it has been more necessary. Because of their ally ship, Viltrum’s enemies, which seemed to be ninety five percent of the galaxy now, had eyes on Atila.

Princess Alana, heir to the throne, and captain of the war party, stared out at the expanse of buildings and sky.

“What is it, daughter?” Her father, the King Consort Edus, asked as he approached her.

“My heart hurts.”

A hand warmed her shoulder. She felt eyes on her, but she could not meet them.

“For?”

“We’ve lost seven hundred men and women. I know we will lose more to this unnecessary fight.”

“That is war.”

To that, she turned.

“Why don’t we declare neutrality? Before more people die?We’ve done it before and we can do it again.”

“Not since the First Days, Alana. We are an ally. We chose a side when we made that decision and-”

“When you made that decision.”

Five centuries ago, Atila suffered a famine. Their livestock contracted a parasite, the Bane, and hundreds died every day for forty days.

And everyone starved for years after that.

At first, the people believed it was a test — an opportunity to test their resilience. They gathered in the temples, prayed together, sang, and prayed more.

Others, those who did not practice the faith, slept.

There had never been such quiet.

But then, the children started dying. Slaves and citizens alike. They called it the Long Mourning.

Alana went from the middle child, the youngest daughter of 12, to the eldest of 3, in a matter of months. All who remained survived on wayward grain and yukul - the squirrels.

Until one day, an army of people, clad in white, came down from the sky. To save them.

They showed the Atilans hydroponics so they could regrow their crops. They showed them how to cross breed livestock so there was always a meat source.

They called themselves Viltrumites.

And through their kindness, the people flourished once again.

At least, that was the story the Royal Family told their people.

In truth, there was a famine. The Viltrumites did bring them out of it. But with the intention to keep the Atilans dependent — weak. Grateful.

Alana, who seemed to be the only one not naive, single handedly showed the Viltrumites how “dependent” they were.

Under the cloak of night, she snuck into each and every chamber and cut off Viltrumite heads. They couldn’t handle Atilan wine, which made their deaths so easy.

She got to all but one. Thragg. She found him sitting in the dining hall, at the head of the table. Eating. Enjoying.

And he was very handsome.

He heard her come in, but did not lift his head to greet her. So many people greeted her, bowed to her out of obligation. But not him.

“What’s in this meat?” He asked her.

“I’ve killed your people.” She responded.

And he looked bored by that. He rested his cheek on his fist and looked her up and down. He saw the blood, the sword, her beautiful hair that framed her even more beautiful face and smiled.

A real smile, with teeth, and an expression that almost read impressed. He smiled like what she did was cute.

“Hmm. So what’s in this?”

And from that moment he intrigued her. His insouciant expression. His soft voice.

And she, with blood all over her body, and her furrowed brows, genuine in her action, intrigued him.

“Yes, you are correct. But not without you in mind.”

“Well I think we should pull out of this.”

“We can’t do that.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

Alana scoffed, “I do not fear Thragg. He will do nothing.”

“Things have changed. You cannot be so sure.”

She swiped her thumb against her nails.

“Then summon him. Just him. I will talk to him.”

“Daughter-”

“Father. Summon him. He will listen.”

“Alana.”

“I will make him listen. Father, I love you, but I will not ask again.”

She heard him sigh. She rubbed her nails faster. Alana did not know if he would even come, but she could no longer risk her people.

“I will draft a letter.”

It was done now. All she could do was prepare. If her heart would stop pounding, she could move.

“Thank you. We will prepare a feast. He likes our food. It will take him two days to get here, and he will be hungry so let’s have wine and dene ready in his chambers. Also-”

A laugh made her stop. She looked at her father in confusion.

“Father?”

“You’ve missed him.”

“I have not.”

Edus brought her close and kissed her forehead.

“It is fine. I will handle everything. Clear your mind.”

Alana sunk herself in to the bath. She did miss him. A hundred years since they’d last spoken, and it flew by like nothing.

She wondered if in that time, he’d thought of her. He crossed her mind often sporadically. Most of the time it was when she was in the gardens, or at dinner, or getting ready for bed; the places he’d accompany her to.

It was when she was alone that she thought of him the most. His warmth. His touch. His laugh in her ear.

“Princess?”

She looked at her chamber maid. Her whole body, except for the top of her head was submerged in the hot water.

“More lopsi flower, ma’am?”

The whole tub was filled with purple, sweet smelling petals. The natural oils seeped out and coated in her skin and the scent stayed on her for days. It got stronger every day it sat.

She lifted her head out, “No.”

Another chamber maid was detangling her hair. She oiled every section and braided them, adding diamond shells and beads through out.

“Princess. I think we should pull your hair out of your face this time. What do you think?”

“You’ve been doing my hair since I was a child, Tanuka. Whatever you think is best.”

The older woman chuckled, “You are nervous”.

Alana splashed water on her face.

“Why does everyone think that?”

“You’ve always had a specific way for me to do your hair every time I do your hair. And now, your man is coming to see you and you don’t care?”

The princess pulled her legs up to her chest.

“He is not my man. And he isn’t coming for me. He’s coming for business.”

Another chuckle, “Of course, Princess. If that is what you believe.”

Her other chamber maid, Peru, chuckled from the side of the tub. She was meticulously filing her nails and polishing them.

All the chamber maids were excited because Alana, though she would never admit it, was excited. In all their years of serving her, she never looked for or talked about another man. Women, of course. Though no one but Thragg truly captured her.

And Alana hated that her girls knew that. She hated herself even more for doing all of this for a man.

But he wasn’t just any man, was he?

“…Tanuka?”

“Yes, Princess?”

“Braid it all. Leave some strands out in the front. And use the diamonds.”

The bathroom erupted in laughter. Tanuka kissed Alana’s head and gently pushed her back down into the bath.

“With pleasure, my girl.”

Alana stood in the mirror, looking at her naked, glowing body, barely covered by her robe. She had gained weight. Her hips were wider. Her stomach, though toned, was soft. Her breasts were larger.

“You are a woman now, Alana. You are not the small girl he knew.”

“Should I fast for the next day?”

Tanuka came behind her and draped a deep blue gown over her.

“This gown is perfect, I think. It’ll hug you just right.” She turned the dress around, “And there’s no back. We can show off some of those markings.”

It was beautiful. It wrapped around the neck and fell just above her feet. It had tiny diamonds hidden in the creases and Alana was sure that if she lived the right way, Thragg would blush.

“I will try it.”

She took off her robe and stepped into the dress. The material was soft, like her bedding and slipped on her like a second skin.

She adjusted around her waist and looked in to the mirror. She was pleasantly shocked.

Was this her body?

“Oh, Princess. You must wear this.”

“All the time.” Peru interjected.

Alana turned around, looking at her behind. It sat nicely. She had rolls on her back, but in this dress she didn’t mind them.

“I feel…like a woman.”

“Sensual?”

The princess stepped back and smirked, “Yes.”

Peru came forward and pulled her hair back.

“Tanuka? The hair is wrong in the front. We should braid it like the river. Pull it back.”

Tanuka stepped in the mirror, too. She pouted in thought.

“You’re correct. Sit, Princess.”

Alana took off the dress, put her robe back on and sat at the vanity.

An hour passed.

“Tanuka? What do you think he is like now?”

The woman parted her hair and started to braid.

“He is Grand Regent now. I suppose he is even more tense. It takes a lot to conquer a galaxy. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was brash.”

Alana clicked her nails against the wood.

“I think so, too. But I meant his heart. What do you think of his heart?”

Another part.

“Only you would know that, Alana. Not everyone sees him the way you do.”

Her mother’s dagger glittered under the light.

“I know what he is. What he’s done. I know who I am. And what I’ve done.”

“What have you done but what was best for your people?”

“Love him.”

“That is not wrong. You don’t have a responsibility to everyone in the galaxy. As heir to this throne, you have a responsibility to us and yourself.”

She knew that. She didn’t want to protect everyone. Just her corner. And her heart.

“He makes me angry.”

“That is love.”

“Do you think he will agree?”

Tanuka rubbed oil in her hands and ran it over her hair.

“I think you can try your best.”

“Hmm. My hair is beautiful. Thank you.” Some of the braids spiraled around her temples and hung, like ripples on her forehead.

“You are beautiful. As I always tell you. Please try to sleep tonight. All will be well.”

The flowers were finally in bloom. Summer would soon come.

“What is this called?” Thragg held a flower gently between his fingers.

“A flower.” Alana responded, taking a sip of her cooled wine.

“Yes, I know,” Thragg chuckled, “But what kind?”

Alana inspected it. It was mostly white, with pink dusted in between the petals.

“It is lopsi. It’s a bud. But once summer comes, it will turn purple.”

Thragg sniffed it.

“It smells…sweet. Like you.”

Alanna picked one off of a lower branch.

“I bathe with them. Break the stem.” She broke one under his nose and his eyes lit up at the scent.

“Mm. It is strong.”

“Does it repulse you?”

Thragg picked another and gave it to Alana.

“No. Flowers do not grow on Viltrum.”

Alana took his hand and they continued their walk through the garden. He held her fingers tight; he always did, like he was afraid she’d fall.

“That is sad. You can take some seeds with you. Have a garden.”

“Absolutely not.” His abruptness bothered her. He saw it in her furrowed brow. They stopped.

He sighed, “Forgive me. I just…there is no room for something so delicate on my planet.”

Alana placed the bud she was holding in his hand. Thragg went still. And he blinked and continued to blink as he thought it would subdue the burning in his chest. Her hand lingered, tiny compared to his, on his skin. And she was warm. Then she looked up at him and Thragg thought he would implode.

“Have you tried? It isn’t hard to take care of, truly. It doesn’t even need soil. They’re very resilient, they-”

He was not thinking. Her smell, her voice they just moved him. His lips captured hers and Thragg ceased hearing. He wrapped his arms around her and pressed her against his chest. He had no idea what he was doing, but it felt right.

And he hunched over so she could wrap her arms around his neck. But instead, she pulled him down on to the grass. It startled him, but he could not let her lips go. He would not.

“Sir?”

Thragg looked up from the mirror.

“What?”

Kregg inched forward, as the worm always did, and barely met his eye.

“I wanted to see if you were ready.”

Thragg’s heart skipped. He was sure the worm heard it, but he wouldn’t dare bring attention to it.

“Is that all?”

Kregg squinted.

“Is. That. It?” Thragg felt watched — concious of himself in a way he did not agree with.

“If I may…you don’t need the cape. Summer time approaches on Atila.”

Oh.

“Leave.”

Kregg turned to leave, but another question plagued Thragg’s mind.

“General?”

“Sir?”

“Do I…look suitable?”

He could see a twitch of something on Kregg’s mouth.

“Of course.”

Thragg enjoyed his time flying through space. It was silent. On Viltrum, there was always some noise: voices, grinding, crying, dying.

But in the stretch of dark and stars, Thragg could be alone with his thoughts.

He wondered if she thought of him. Rarely did a day pass that he did not think of her. Her smell. Her hands. Her mane of hair. Her laughter against his chest.

He would abandon everything for that laugh.

He stopped and roughly scrubbed his hands over his face. He looked like a fool. He should’ve brought the cape.

No, he shouldn’t have. She hated it. She said it made him look uncomfortable. Unattractive.

“Argall. Help me. Steady my hand and my heart.” He whispered to himself as he continued his flight.

What did she look like now? His heart raced at the thought. In five hundred years, she would have matured. She was a woman. They were children when they met, though no one could tell them so. Last he’d heard, she was head war captain.

Was he enough for her now? After she’d accomplished such a feat?

Thragg had half a mind to turn back when he saw her planet, tiny and blue as a freshly polished gem.

But he had been summoned. Something had to have been wrong. He flew faster.

The dinner table was…sufficient. They would enjoy it. But she couldn’t think about food.

“Breathe, Alana.” Tanuka fixed her hair. Then her jewelry.

“Is this not too much? Me, I mean?”

Tanuka rubbed her arms, “If I were him, I’d want to rip it off you.”

The Princess tried to laugh, but it came out as a nervous huff. She wished she had her knife. Something to hold so her hands wouldn’t sweat.

“Mother. Help me.” She whispered.

Metal clanking echoed in the hall, making Alana turn. Her father’s guards bowed their heads.

“He is here.”

Fuck.

They laid under the stars, spent, but still feeling each other — catching each others’ lips.

“Are you fine?” Thragg stared up at the sky. She heard him swallow; he was nervous.

“I’m fine. How are you?” She stared at the sky as well. The stars were changing; some were blue, purple, and pink. They were dying and making way for new ones.

“Dying stars aren’t as hot. But I think they are more beautiful than live ones.”

Alana shifted, faced Thragg again. He tried hard not to blush.

“You’ve touched one?” She asked.

“No. That’s- that’s just what I’ve been told.”

“Hmm.” She laid back down.

“It’s quiet up here.”

“Yes. It is my secret place. I found it when I was a girl. I fixed it up as best I could.”

“You should name this place. So generations after know who it belonged to.”

Alana felt the grass beneath her legs.

“I am fine with them not knowing. Whoever finds this place next can call it whatever they want. I enjoyed it for the time I was supposed to enjoy it.”

Thragg sat up.

“But it is yours.”

Alana sat up as well. She put her hand on his back. He was frustrated.

“Thragg?”

He took her other hand and left lingering kisses all over it. Then, he held it against his cheek — like he was savoring what her skin felt like.

Alana was put off for a moment. This sudden affection bothered her. However, it bothered her more that he was so upset.

“I love you.”

Alana’s eyes started to burn. And from how Thragg tried to look away, she guessed his eyes burned too.

“You do?”

“Yes!” Thragg exclaimed, covering his face, “Do not make me repeat it!”

Urgently, Alana straddled him and took his wet face in her hands.

“You don’t have to cry. I love you, too.”

And like a boy, he looked up at her with big, glistening eyes, “You overwhelm me.”

Alana smirked, honored by the statement, “Do I?”

Thragg nodded and kissed her gently, “Greatly. But I want to be overwhelmed by you. Please.”

The wind picked up above her head. He was close.

The Princess stilled herself as best she could. Her guards stood tall and stiff — creating a corridor for her to walk through.

Everyone else watched from the palace windows. They pretended they were working when she looked up at them, and returned to their gawking once she looked away.

They hoped this meeting favored well. Not just for civilization, but for their Princess.

Alana straightened her back as his boots touched the ground.

And there he was. Older. Some lines. Just as handsome.

What did he think of her?

The guards kneeled two by two as he passed. He didn’t acknowledge them in the slightest; his eyes were only on her.

There she was. Older. Glowing. Just as beautiful.

What did she think of him?

His shadow grew near. And nearer. Until they were face to face. Neither of them knew what to say. So they stared at each other. For a long time.

Brown irises melted together. Five hundred years worth of stories and catching up bubbles in their movements.

Two of those irises slowly got lower.

Thragg kneeled before Alana and took her hand.

“Princess. Captain.”

Alana smirked, “Regent. Follow me.”

She turned away, poised, moving her hips more than she usually would. Thragg made a choking sound that made Alana’s spine tingle, but she continued walking — continued her tease.

This long stretch of silence between them made her realize how big her home was. She noticed cracks that needed sealing, possible colors the walls could be painted, and —

“Alana.”

Her name in his mouth coiled her stomach with heat and sent it straight down to her loins. It was the same softness as before, but deeper, like he now spoke from his stomach. He spoke like a leader.

“Regent?”

They stopped. He faced her with annoyance on his face.

“Don’t call me that.”

Alana wanted to send a quip back, but he didn’t seem in the mood for it.

“…Yes, Thragg?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Hmm. What was it you wanted to say?”

Why couldn’t they stop looking at each other?

“I’ve forgotten.”

Alana smiled. She took his hand without thinking.

“Have you, really? My apologies.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong. I’m an idiot.”

She laughed at that. It carried through the hallway and bounced off the walls. The castle reacted to her: the chimes tinkled, the diamonds encrusted in the walls glistened, and the green vines turned more vibrant.

Thragg did not know if anyone else noticed this. He did not know if anyone else could.

“You are an idiot. But I’ve tried not to hold it against you.”

She proceeded to walk, not noticing that they were still holding hands.

He let her lead him.

“Where are the servants? Where is everyone?” Thragg asked.

“Preparing for dinner, I would hope. Did you bring a change of clothes?”

He hadn’t.

“No. I did not intend to stay long.”

Her pace slowed, “Oh.”

Thragg’s heart dropped.

“I did not mean it so definitively. What I meant is that I was not sure if I should stay long.”

She dropped his hand.

“I want you to do what you think is best. This is your bed chamber. It’s right next to mine. If you need anything I’ll have a servant and a guard posted for you.”

Alana turned to leave.

“Alana.” He didn’t want her to go.

“Thragg.”

But he also did not know what to say.

“You look absolutely beautiful.” Except the obvious.

She bowed her head, “Thank you.”

“Do you dream of being Grand Regent? Is that what you want out of life?”

They were sat under a tree. The long leaves provided them shade from the summer sun.

“What else would I be?” Thragg had his head on her lap, playing with the fabric of her pants.

“You could do anything you wanted. Choose something.” She was placing flowers in his hair. He let it grow out a little bit since being with her.

“I don’t know.”

“You’re smart, Thragg. I’m sure you’ve thought about it.”

He did. Often.

“A teacher. I would be a teacher, I think.”

“To children?”

“Yes.”

“What age?”

“The very small ones.”

Alana sat back on her hands, smiling at the thought.

“I could see that for you. What would you teach?”

“Arithmetic.”

“Mmm. I was never good at it. I prefer the humanities.”

Thragg placed her hand on his chest, “That does make sense for you. But I cannot defect. I have been raised to be Grand Regent. I must do it.”

Alana looked up at the trees. The lopsi were turning purple.

“I know that. It makes me sad.”

“Do not be. We have duties and responsibilities. You are heir to the throne.”

“As much as I enjoy that fact, I also dream of something different.”

“And what is that?”

Alana used her other hand to stroke Thragg’s head.

“I want to be an adventurer. I want to meet people and eat with them. I want to understand them. Learn from them. And then come back and be queen.”

“I want that for you.”

Thragg leaned up to kiss her.

“I would happy being a husband, too.” He said when they pulled back.

“My husband?”

“Yes.”

Alana leaned down to kiss him once more.

“You’d be satisfied with King Consort?”

“Yes.”

“You would not start a coup because your ego is hurt?”

“No.” He chuckled.

“I don’t know if believe you. Men are fragile.”

“That is true. But it is a good thing that I will rule will my own planet. We will be equals.”

“So we will be married, but live separately?”

Thragg shifted them so she straddled him. He lifted her with an ease that excited her every time.

“I will do my duty there and come back to you. Can I touch your hair?”

“Mhmm.”

He moved the hair out of her face and kissed her cheek, then along her neck.

“Is this just talk for you, Thragg?”

He looked up, shocked by the question.

“No. I mean every word.”

Dinner was torture. It was nauseatingly silent. Only the clinking of plates and forks, and the occasional swallow of drink filled the room.

Edus sat at the head of the table, watching Thragg.

Alana’s stepmother, Queen Traxa, did her best to drunkenly feed her little brothers, Edon and Eanus.

Thragg kept his head down in his plate. He felt the torture, too. Usually he was good with silence, but this was too much.

“Why are you so big?” The twins asked.

“Boys!” Alana scolded.

Thragg chuckled, finally looking up to answer them. Their little heads barely reached the top of the table.

“I eat little children who misbehave.”

The twins gasped and picked up their forks immediately. Alana smiled into her cup of wine. Thragg loved children, a secret only Alana knew, but he had an odd and monotonous way of speaking to them. It was funny.

“Is that true, Regent Thragg?” Alana asked, adding to the joke.

Thragg smirked, “Yes. I especially enjoy little princes.”

Queen Traxa wrapped her arms around the boys and laughed.

Finally, some life was in the room.

“Regent.” Edus’ voice cut through the joy.

“King Edus.”

“What is the end goal of this war? Of this current campaign of yours?”

Alana quickly remembered why she had summoned Thragg in the first place.

“Well, it is my hope to take two more planets under our empire. Then, a regroup. Was that the answer you were looking for?”

“I wanted to know where we, the Atilans, fit in your plan.”

Thragg put down his cup, “You are our allies. If you want, some of the spoils can be yours. Workers. Money.”

“We have enough of both. What I mean to ask…is are we safe? Does our ally ship assure us stability? Neutrality?” The king looked at his daughter.

“Father.” Alana did not want him to interfere.

“Silence, Alana.”

“We don’t have to discuss this here. Not —”

“Neutrality?”

Without another word, the Queen stood up and ushered the boys and herself out of the room.

King Edus set down his fork.

“Yes. Neutrality.”

“And why would you want that?”

Alana looked at her father, her eyes begging him to stop talking.

But as always, he was trying to protect her.

“Because this is not our fight. We’ve lost too many. We are still trying to rebuild. I cannot have your enemies attack my people. We have had peace and now, children are without mothers and fathers. They have slaughtered in battles that have nothing to do with them. We cannot afford this.”

“…You offend me, King Edus.”

Alana looked at Thragg. His fist was clenched under the table, shaking and red.

“I offend you? How?”

Thragg looked at him.

“You think that I would allow anything to happen to my allies? Do you truly think that I am too weak to protect you?”

“What?”

Thragg pushed his chair back and stood up. His shadow loomed over the table.

“When we agreed to this, I made a promise that Viltrum would protect you. That I, personally, would protect you. In five centuries, I have never faltered on that promise. Since my promise, Viltrum has been in war after war, conquered planet after planet, and not once, until now, did anyone ever touch you. Not once did we ask anything of you. So why do you want neutrality? Is it because you no longer believe in us? Is it because you feel that after only seven hundred deaths, Atila is too weak? That we did not strengthen you enough? Are you ungrateful?”

Alana stood.

“Enough. Follow me.” She walked away from the table. But she did not hear footsteps, so she turned her head over her shoulder.

“Thragg. Now.”

Alana put her finger in Thragg’s ear. She laughed quietly to herself when he swatted her hand away. She put her finger back and trailed it down his face, stopping and starting in no particular order. His skin was perfect; there were no blemishes, no discoloration, no roughness.

And he looked so sweet when he slept. She could not find sleep, not for several hours.

They’d fucked so good that Alana couldn’t close her eyes without imagining it, nor get up to try and take her mind off of it.

And there he was, fast asleep.

Her hair fell in her face as she attempted to sit upright. Some strands stuck to her face. Maybe she could drag herself to the bath.

“Where are you going, Lopsi?” Thragg mumbled, half asleep.

“The bath. If I can make it.”

She felt around for her robe.

“Lay back down.” Thragg rose up on his elbow.

“I can’t sleep.”

Before she could get up, Thragg gently pulled her back down. Without a break, he latched onto her breast and rolled her nipple between his tongue. Alana sighed with pleasure and placed her hand on his head.

His hands wrapped around her thighs, cupping the soft flesh, aroused by the spillage of fat between his fingers and lifted her legs onto his shoulders.

“There is no point in a bath.” He released her breast and moved his head up, licking behind her ear, moaning when she did.

“Mmm. Why is that?”

Alana moistened when he rubbed his face against hers.

“I am not done with you yet.” He whispered in her ear.

“How could you call my father ungrateful?” She somehow, in her anger, led him to the garden. Her secret place.

“He is. Asking for neutrality. This planet has not fought a battle since The First Days.”

She scoffed and turned away from him. She walked a far enough distance that he would have to raise her voice to speak to her.

“That is not true! We’ve lost seven hundred women and men to a war you started just a couple months ago!”

“Seven hundred compared to the billions lost every day! It is nothing!”

Alana turned around and stormed back over to him. She pushed him. It did nothing, but the action felt good.

“It is not nothing! They were people. Husband and wives, and mothers and fathers. Living people who swore loyalty to me! Who I promised to protect. It is not nothing!”

“To survive, a civilization has to lose people. They have to get rid of the weak.”

Alana’s eyes started to burn. Her body started to burn.

“You do not understand weakness. None of us are weak! My mother was not weak! My siblings were not weak! Weakness is being insecure in your own legacy that you would destroy populations of people just because they do not bow to you! Do not forgot that it was me who took the heads of one hundred Viltrumites on my own. That is not weakness!”

The words made him angry. The thought of killing her — breaking her neck — screamed in his mind. No one had spoken to him like this thousands of years.

“Weakness is leaving in the middle of the night and saying nothing for centuries! Weakness is having concubines and children all over the galaxy to rub in my face instead of telling me you never meant to stay! That you lied!”

But only she could do it. She is the only person he would allow to do it.

“Alana.” He put his hand out.

“No! You say we are ungrateful for wanting neutrality — I say we’ve earned it. I’ve earned it!”

She was hurt. Hurting. And he did it to her. He stayed away because he knew he did it to her. And the guilt was too much.

“Say something!”

He dropped to his knees and held out his arms.

“Lopsi.”

She turned her head away.

“Look at me. Please. Please.”

“No.”

“Lopsi.” He whispered, his voice cracking.

Alana rubbed her thumb against her nails.

“I want neutrality. I want it.”

“Done. If it is what you need, then I will give it to you. But please look at me.” He, still on his knees, moved closer.

“Promise me. Promise it is done.”

“I promise. On all the stars in the sky. Dead and living. I promise. I promise you.”

Alana moved closer.

“Promise me on Argall’s head. On his life.”

She could see him waver. In his watery eyes.

“Promise-”

“I promise you on Argall’s life! And mine. You will have neutrality.”

Good.

Alana knelt down in front of him. He took her arms and wrapped them around him. She felt his tears on her shoulder.

“Did they mean something to you? The women?”

He pulled back and took her face in his hands.

“None of them. They are for the mission. You are the only person I have ever loved. Truly. Unconditionally. There was not a day that I did not think of you. Please believe me. I’m sorry I hurt you. It is my greatest regret.”

“…I cannot give you heirs. I cannot add to your mission.”

“You are above it. Alana. You are above it.”

“Thragg, I-”

He could not waste anymore time. He kissed her. He pressed her against him, as close as he could, and kissed her. Simultaneous sounds of longing and desperation escaped their mouths and met in the middle. They touched wherever they could. They rubbed and grinded and melted into each other. Tears and spit painted both of their faces and tongues danced around each other, until what they were doing was no longer a kiss, but a consumption. A devouring of each other — a reconnection of souls.

Garments came off and made a colorful covering on the ground. Alana laid Thragg back and loosened her hair. The back of it fell and framed her face. Under the moonlight, she was a goddess. Thragg cried at her beauty — at the shock of being able to love her again.

He sat up, clutching her on top of him, kissing her breasts, her neck, inhaling the sweet smell on her skin.

“I want to be inside you. Please.” He whined. Alana felt him, hard and hot, against her. She took him in her hand, barely able to wrap her fingers around, and rubbed him.

He hissed at the feeling — the shivers down his spine.

“Alana.”

She arched herself and placed the head at her entrance. Her walls fluttered around it, her body missing him more than she thought possible.

When she sunk down, moans filled the garden, echoing off the glass dome around them.

Thragg held his hands at her hips to guide her up and down. Not fast or slow. But deep. Every thrust threatened release.

And when Alana could not move her hips anymore, Thragg laid her down on her stomach and fucked down into her.

There were no words. No words were needed. Their pleasure was conveyed with guttural cries. Their stomachs tightened and released and tightened again.

Thragg guided her head back so they could look at each other. Alana’s furrowed brows and bottom lip tucked between her teeth made him thrust harder — swell larger. Her throat, covered by his hand, pushed out a gasp that made him tingle all over.

Alana, through teary eyes, tightened at the sight of Thragg, his eyes closed and his head cocked to the side. With each movement, he whimpered and grunted into the air. His eyebrows cinched together tight. He was trying not to finish.

She wanted him to.

The captain got on her knees with her face and arms spread on the ground. And she fucked him back.

A long groan escaped Thragg’s throat. The sight of her softness bouncing against him made him want her so much more.

Alana reached her arm back to hold Thragg’s. She was close. He kept his pace, squeezing her arm back.

And the coils of heat swelling inside both of them popped.

Alana cried into the ground, her body tensing and vision flashing.

Thragg sent one final pulse into her before he, with a high pitched groan, covered her body with his and spilled himself inside her.

They crumpled on their sides, still connected, and tried to catch their breaths.

Alana rested her head on Thragg’s arm and closed her eyes, savoring the bliss.

He put his other arm around her waist, holding her as tightly as he could against his chest.

“Be my husband, Thragg. Kill your concubines.”

He laughed against her hair.

“Some of the children need their mothers. Otherwise, I would say yes.”

“I know. I just wanted to see what you would say.”

“I will be your husband, though.”

Alana looked out at the garden. At the trees and their budding flowers. She looked at the lopsi tree above them. She hoped he would keep his word this time.

He was already making arrangements in his head.

“Good. I will tell my Father.”

Alana shook the blood off her sword.

“I’ve just told you I’ve killed your people and all you care about is the food?”

Thragg nodded, “Yes.”

She wiped the sweat off her forehead.

“You are very strange. What are you called?”

He took a sip of wine.

“Thragg. And you?”

“Alana. Princess Alana.”

He smirked again. It angered her.

“Well, Princess Alana. We have much to talk about. Will you sit with me?”

The princess dropped her sword and walked over to him. He stood and pulled out her chair. They made eye contact as she sat and the princess swore she saw a little red atop his ears.

“I will talk with you. Thragg.”

“I’m happy to hear it. Alana.”

[rutherbwk2]

The Signal Pt. 2

Bruce’s whole body ached. For weeks, in fact, it ached. And it wasn’t the usual bruising or fractured bone kind of ache. He felt heavy. His mind felt heavy.

He guessed that this is what came after the grief. Heaviness. It had been eight months since he buried him. Summer was on its way. The soil would need to be turned over. Alfred would be returning from a forced vacation to Portugal.

The windows would need to be opened. The closets cleaned out. The garden would soon need attention. Plans would need to be made to invite Dick to the summer house. And Clark. And Diana.

And Barry.

And Wally.

Bruce stepped out of the shower.

He had to call Dick. See how he was doing. He’d only recovered from him sickness a month ago. Bruce insisted he stay with him, but Dick, though he would never say it - the sweet boy, feared suffocation. Hovering.

Bruce still hovered, but with stealth and only during patrol.

He had to call him. They spoke every day. Their talks were the only thing Bruce lived for.

That and Ace. The old girl. She stuck beside Bruce through everything. She slept in Bruce’s bed. They ate breakfast together. They exercised together (well, Ace forced Bruce to exercise with her). They went on walks. He had full blown conversations with her, as if the poor thing could talk back.

Beyond that, he was alone. And though he’d never admit it, the house was massive. And he was terrified. When the wind whistled through the windows. When the floor creaked. When the ghosts that haunted the halls whispered through the paintings and the artifacts.

Once he dressed, he dragged himself to Jason’s room. He slept in there sometimes. When he wanted to torture sooth himself.

He kept it as clean as he could. He changed the sheets every week. Organized the paperwork he’d brought in there.

“Ace.” She was usually in one of the boys’ rooms. He opened the door to Jason’s room and peeked in the darkness.

“Ace?” Nothing.

He went a few steps over to Dick’s room. He opened the door.

“Ace?” Again, nothing. Bruce’s heart started to pick up.

Had she hurt herself? Did she get lost on the property? No, she was a smart dog; she knew her way around better than Bruce did.

“Ace?!” Bruce called out again.

He couldn’t lose another one.

He darted down the stairs. It was night time. If she wasn’t upstairs, she could only be in the kitchen or on her heated bed in the living room.

He checked the living room first. Nothing.

He bolted to the kitchen. Bruce checked under the chairs, the island, and in the empty snack closet.

Bruce put his hand to his chest and tried to take deep breaths. He would find her. She’s a big dog so she couldn’t have gotten stuck somewhere he couldn’t see.

Just then, Bruce saw something run across the grass outside. Then back again.

And the double doors were slightly open. Strange.

He moved slowly towards the doors, prepared to close the doors and leave whatever was out there out.

He inched across the floor. He really didn’t feel like fighting something off tonight.

The figure stopped. Bruce stopped and squinted.

The figure had two ears, perked up above its head. And fur. Bruce, with a heavy exhale, relaxed.

“Ace. You scared me.” He walked over to the doors and opened them. The cool air hit his face with a hum. He stepped onto the patio and kneeled down.

She had a ball in her mouth.

“Come.” He ordered quietly. But she didn’t move.

“Ace. Come.” He’d never had to repeat himself. He tapped the floor with his finger. Still, she stayed.

“Ace. It’s bedtime. Let’s go.”

She dropped the ball.

“What’s wrong, girl?” Bruce shuffled closer. It was unlike her to be stubborn like this.

She whined and looked away from him. At something.

“Ace? What is it? Show me.”

He walked over to her and looked where she was looking. He couldn’t see anything. But he heard a shuffle in the bushes.

Ace perked her butt up in the air. Her tail wagged fast like Bruce had never seen before.

Another shuffle. She whined. And she kept looking at Bruce, like she was waiting for him to say something.

“Who’s there?!” Bruce stood up quick. The rustling stopped.

“Ace,” The dog was at attention, “Get ‘em.”

She darted off into the darkness.

Bruce saw a big stick and picked it up, holding it like a staff. He’d run in after her if it took too long.

But it didn’t. She came back almost immediately. With someone. Under the moonlight, Bruce could only make out a silhouette. They were tall, almost as tall as him, and a little uncoordinated.

“Who are you? Come into the light.” Bruce’s grip tightened around the stick.

Ace barked and stepped closer. The person’s fingers were under her collar, barely curled and not hurting her.

“I said who…”

The moon hit the intruder’s face. And Bruce almost shit himself.

Clearly, after all these months, he’d lost what was left of his mind. Surely, that was the only answer.

Because there was no logical way that his dead son could be standing in front of him. Not unless he was losing his mind.

“J…Ja…” His vision blurred. He hadn’t said his name in months.

“Dad.”

Something between a wheeze and a gasp caught in Bruce’s throat.

He dropped the stick.

“Dad.” The ghost stepped closer. Bruce wobbled. He tripped over himself and vomited.

And the moon was too bright and he hunched so low his head started to tighten. And his son, his reanimated corpse, was staring at him.

Then he could see nothing at all.

When he came to, Ace and Jason were looking down at him. Their eyes were wide and innocent and glowing like the moon above.

“Jason.”

The boy, though he no longer looked like a boy, leaned closer.

“Ace.” She tilted her head to the side. Jason followed her. It would have been cute if Bruce hadn’t been so disoriented — so derealized.

Bruce put his hand up to touch his boy’s cheek. His skin was covered in dirt, and cold. Bruce took his thumb and wiped what he could. He passed over the pink scar on Jason’s lips. Whoever stitched him up should never pick up a needle and thread again.

Bruce ran his hand over Jason’s head, inwardly cringing at the dents and raised cuts splattered all over.

And tears started to flow from his eyes. He couldn’t control it. Jason’s hair used to be so soft.

“Sad?” Jason gently and unsurely brushed the tears from Bruce’s temple.

The man sat up. He still just couldn’t believe it.

“You don’t sound like my son.” His voice was brittle — like he swallowed glass.

“I a…am. Daddy.”

Bruce sobbed. Because it was his son. The way he said his name: soft, not wanting or begging, and like the word meant everything to him.

So Bruce held him. He held him as tight as he could and never wavered, even when Jason collapsed into him.

“Oh, my baby. My baby. My son.” Bruce whispered, looking up at the sky and thanking whomever was up there.

And Jason melted into the warmth, into the satisfaction and irresistible ‘click’ in his brain that told him he had found exactly what he’d been looking for.

After some time, Bruce brought him inside. Into the light and warmth. Into his home.

He bathed him. He washed the dirt and pain of his losing him down the drain.

He fed his boy and poured him juice with shaking hands.

And when he was full, he laid him on the couch and put a blanket over him and Ace. And he sat down beside him and watched.

He watched his chest rise and fall and his eyelashes flutter as he dropped into a deep sleep.

And once his soft snores filled the room, Bruce covered his face and cried as silently as he could.

Upstairs, his phone rang for the fourth time. He’d forgotten to call Dick.

How quickly things changed.

[rutherbwk2]

The Signal Pt. 1

Almost full sentences. Jason could think in almost full sentences. The words came back to him day by day, like downloading code. He could describe the sun, the sky, his hospital room.

“What’s that, Jason?” The nice lady pointed to the orange and black drawing he did. He attempted. He couldn’t hold the crayons too steady.

“C…Cat. Is cat?”

“Yes. It is a cat.”

He just couldn’t verbalize any of it yet. He remembered how a cat’s fur felt: soft, a little spiky on his fingers, cold. But his lips and tongue struggled to form the shapes they needed to get the words out.

Jason pointed to the blue zig zagged and scribbled across the paper.

“And that?” The nice lady asked.

Jason’s lips puttered, “Blue.”

She laughed, “Yes it is blue. But, it’s called the sky. Say sky.”

Jason watched with deep concentration as her teeth touched and opened around the letters.

“Sss…” He hissed, “Sk..kuh..e…sky.”

Her white teeth sparkled as she grinned from ear to ear.

“You are a marvel. Yes. Sky.”

Jason looked out of the window. He got off his bed and pointed out.

“Sky. Sky?”

The lady followed, “Yes.”

“Blue sky?” Jason furrowed his brow. The sky was not blue, though. It was nothing. He held up his drawing to compare.

“Dark sky, Jason. It’s night time.”

A flash of something dark entered his mind. A memory. Him laying on something dark and warm. What was it called again? And above him, a watercolor mush image of his dad. It was all soft.

“What is it, Jason? What do you see?”

Jason touched his gown, ran his hands over his chest.

“Cat? No!” He knocked his palm into his head. What was it called?

“What? Show me.” The lady took his hands and held them out.

“Dark. Soft.” He wriggled a hand out and touched under her doctor’s coat. When he felt the fabric under his finger tips, he took in a breath. It was soft, exactly like in his head.

“This!” He patted it, “Dark this!”

“Sweater?”

Jason grunted a yes.

“That’s what you see? A dark sweater?”

Another grunt.

“Dad. Dark sweater. Dad.”

The lady doctor looked at him. He could see the softness, like the sweater, in her eyes.

“In the tv?”

Jason shook his head, “No! Out! Out in sky!”

He removed his other hand from her grasp and pressed himself against the big, cold window. He looked down at the buildings and the people. He wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for, but something inside itched at him to find whatever it was.

“You’re not ready for out.”

He turned to the doctor and made a noise, like a puppy learning how to bark with volume. With purpose.

“Out!”

“Not yet. Come sit down.”

“No! Out!”

Jason stepped back when the lady stepped forward.

“Jason. Calm down. No out.”

Something flared in Jason. Hot and familiar. His stomach twisted and his brain zapped in quick succession.

Mad.

Mad.

He had a chair raised high above his head before he knew it. With a scream he threw it at the window.

“Jason!” The lady attempted to step forward, but stayed back when he picked the chair up again.

With a series of exasperated grunts, Jason hit the window over and over again. The metal legs thumped against the laminated glass.

“Jason! I don’t want to call security but I will! Stop this!” The lady rushed over to the phone and picked it up. She wasn’t sure if she would use it for its intended purpose or for protection.

“OUT!” Jason screamed at the top of his lungs. He hit the glass again.

“What’s going on?!” A male nurse entered the room. Jason recognized him. He changed his stitches when he had them.

“He won’t calm down. Help me restrain him!”

The nurse took his gloves off and lunged at Jason. But before he touched him, Jason swung around and hit the man in his head. It was an accident, but now there was blood spreading on the floor.

The lady doctor gasped. Jason, surprised, looked at her. And for a terrifyingly long moment, they stared at each other.

No sounds in the air. Just Jason’s heavy breathing and the faint dial tone from the phone.

And Jason’s arms started to hurt. And so did hers.

Both their faces softened. Neither of them would hurt the other.

She hung the phone up. She put her hands out to Jason, like she always did.

“Your turn.” She whispered.

And the heat in his chest settled.

Jason dropped the chair and launched himself at the doctor. His arms wrapped around her waist and he tucked his head into her chest. With no hesitation, she hugged him back. She held him tight.

“M…Mo…Mommy.” He said into her skin.

The doctor, touched, kissed his head. Her lips tingled against his growing buzzcut. She kissed the white patches spanning across his forehead and on his eyebrow.

“I could lose my job. I could lose my fucking job.” She let go of him and walked to the window. She took out a key from her coat pocket and unlocked it.

“Out?” Jason came up behind her and frowns when he feels the cool wind on his face.

“Out. Put this on.” She took off her lab coat, and then her sweater. She put it over his head and helped him get his arms through the sleeves. It fit him perfectly.

“Mommy?” Jason asked. But in his asking, the doctor heard how scared he was. How confused.

“No. Doctor Hajah.”

“Do…ctor Ha…a…jah.”

“Yes. Now go.” She helped him out of the window. They were on the first floor, so the jump wasn’t far. Jason’s socks hit the grass and he immediately wiggled his toes.

He looked back to her. Some of her curls came loose from her ponytail. That never happened before. She really was beautiful.

“Go!” She shooed him.

And he went. Into the darkness. All the way across Gotham. He didn’t know how he remembered the way. His feet just moved.

And at a certain point, when he was weary and hungry from walking, he looked up.

He looked up and saw it. The signal. It guided him. It guided him straight to the manor.

To him.

[spikedfearn]

One-Shot

♱ pairing: Remmick x fem!reader

♱ summary: They called you a witch. A heretic. A whore for consorting with the devil. So they dragged you to the pyre, but before the fire can touch you, Remmick, a creature of the night you've come to fall for, descends upon your village and leaves no one alive—teeth bared, hands soaked, your name on his lips. Every scream was a psalm. Every body, a sermon. They called you cursed, and maybe you were. Because what followed wasn’t salvation. It was him.

You were never meant to be spared. You were meant to be his. You weren’t saved. You were sanctified.

♱ wc: 7k

♱ a/n: Big Castlevania fan over here—this fic was heavily inspired by the Lisa Tepes x Dracula dynamic (you already know the vibes). Because listen…if my man isn’t willing to slaughter an entire village for trying to burn me at the stake, then I don’t want him 😤 This is the third and final fic in the triple drop—hope it ruins you in the best way!! shout-out to raven @theabhartachsbride for letting me use her remmick edit for my fic banner <333

♱ warnings: graphic violence, mass murder, gore, blood play, biting, marking, mild breeding kink, possessive behavior, monsterfucking, supernatural elements, dubious morality, post-massacre intimacy, soft x violent dynamic, unprotected sex, p in v, oral (f! receiving), Castlevania-inspired themes

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

♱ Fic Masterlist

They told stories about the woods.

Whispers passed from mother to daughter, scrawled into the margins of hymnals, murmured between shutters as night fell thick and quick over the village. They said things lived past the river. Old things. Things that watched, waited, fed.

They said girls went missing.

They said their bodies were never found whole.

They said the monster had red eyes and could smell a lie like smoke.

You listened to the stories the way everyone did: with one ear and half a soul. Then you turned twelve, then fourteen, and stories gave way to bruises.

You learned quickly that the real monsters lived in your house.

And when you turned eighteen and your mother was gone and your father’s backhand had grown careless and cruel, you stopped being afraid of the woods.

Because the woods didn’t scream at you. They didn’t smell like rot and whiskey. They didn’t hold grudges and broken plates and the weight of every word you didn’t say.

The woods were quiet.

And quiet, for a girl like you, was holy.

So you crossed the river barefoot one night, lip split and blood crusting in your hairline.

There was no moon—just the churn of the current beneath you and the hollow in your chest that never quite closed. You didn’t mean to go far. You just needed somewhere to sit, to breathe, to shake the feeling that your skin didn’t fit anymore.

But the trees seemed to part for you.

Like they’d been waiting.

The clearing was there, tucked beyond a bend in the river trail, ringed in ash and crowned by a crooked, rotted tree that clawed at the sky with splintered fingers. Bones scattered the ground—bird bones, deer bones, bones too long to name.

And in the center, as if he’d been carved from shadow itself, sat a man.

Or something that only resembled one.

He was still. Sprawled. One leg drawn up, the other stretched long. A heavy coat hung from his shoulders like wet smoke, collar turned high. You couldn’t see his face until he lifted it.

Eyes like dying stars.

Red. Not bright. Not glowing. Just wrong.

Your lungs forgot themselves.

He stared at you. And kept staring.

Not like a man startled by a trespasser. Not like a beast sizing up prey. But like he knew you. Had been waiting for you.

Your heartbeat drowned out the river. Your bare toes curled in the wet grass. And still, you didn’t move.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t snarl.

He blinked once. And then looked away.

You came back the next night.

And the one after that.

You didn’t know why. You just did.

At first, he didn’t speak.

He watched from the shadows like you were something delicate he didn’t trust. Like a flame that might flicker out if he exhaled too hard.

The third time, you found him with blood on his hands. It slicked his knuckles, pooled beneath his claws—because yes, they were claws now, long and sharp and black at the tips. There was a fox carcass half-shredded beside him. The smell of iron was thick in the air.

You froze. He didn’t.

He simply wiped his fingers on a strip of cloth, slow and methodical, and said, “You shouldn’t be here.”

Your voice came out smaller than you meant it to. “But I am.”

Something twitched in his expression. Like he didn’t expect you to speak. Like he didn’t hate it.

“You don’t fear me,” he said, more statement than question.

You hesitated. “Should I?”

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Over time, you learned the shape of him.

Not just his body—though that, too, lingered in your thoughts. His movements were too quiet. His shoulders rolled like something used to hunting on four legs. His canines weren't just fanged—they all were, every one of them sharp, crooked, stained.

But there was restraint in him.

A stillness that felt held together by a thread. A monster tied to a pillar and dared not to snap.

He never got close. Never touched. But you felt it. The way his gaze pulled at you. The way the air bent around him. The way your pulse betrayed you every time he looked at your throat.

And God, he looked at your throat a lot.

Sometimes, you talked.

You told him about the church bells that rang too loud, the father who drank too much, the boys in the village who stared at you like they deserved something. You told him about the ache in your chest that never went away, the dreams that ended in silence, the scar on your thigh from falling off the roof when you were nine.

He listened.

He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t tell you to pray harder. Didn’t try to fix you.

Sometimes he said nothing at all.

Sometimes, silence was the kindest thing in the world.

Once, you brought him something.

A peach, stolen from a merchant’s cart.

You set it down on the stone between you. Said nothing. He didn’t touch it at first. Just stared.

Then, finally, he picked it up. Turned it over in his palm. Held it to his face and breathed in, like scent was new to him.

Then he looked at you.

And you couldn’t breathe.

He didn’t eat it. Didn’t throw it away.

He placed it gently in the dirt, pressed into the earth, and covered it with a flat stone.

Like he was planting it. Or burying it.

You never asked which.

The first time he touched you, it was an accident.

You tripped, as you sometimes did. The forest floor was uneven, and you’d gotten too close to him while walking the ring of ash that surrounded the clearing. Your ankle buckled.

And before you hit the ground, his arm was around your waist.

Cold. So cold.

He steadied you. Just long enough to catch your balance. Just long enough for your hands to find his coat and for your chest to knock into his. Just long enough to feel the breath hitch in his throat.

Then he stepped back like you’d burned him.

He looked at his own hand. Flexed it once. Twice.

“Sorry,” you whispered.

His voice came low and raw. “You shouldn’t be.”

After that, something shifted.

Not in the way he behaved—he still sat just out of reach, still watched without speaking—but something had opened. A thread had been tied between you, thin and shimmering, and every visit pulled it tighter.

You started dreaming of him.

Of his hands, his mouth, the way he moved.

Sometimes you woke with your thighs slick and your pulse frantic.

Sometimes you woke with his name in your mouth, even though he’d never told it to you.

The bite didn’t come all at once.

You talked about it, in your way.

“What happens if you drink from me?” you asked.

He stiffened. Then: “I don’t feed on mortals who ask to die.”

“What if I’m not asking to die?”

He said nothing. But his hands clenched in his lap.

“I want to understand,” you told him. “You’re always so careful. So still. Doesn’t it hurt?”

He looked up at you then.

And something broke.

That night, you let him bite you.

You offered your wrist, palm up, your breath shaking but your eyes steady.

He took it slowly. Gently. His hands were cold, but careful. He brought your skin to his mouth like it was a prayer.

His lips were soft. His breath—none.

And when his teeth broke your skin, you gasped.

Not from pain.

From feeling.

Like every nerve lit up. Like a flame passed through you and didn’t burn—just reminded you that you were alive.

He drank slowly. Barely a mouthful.

But it was enough.

When he pulled back, blood shimmered on his chin, and his eyes—his eyes were blazing.

You touched his face before you knew what you were doing. Wiped the blood away with your thumb.

He leaned into your palm.

And for a moment, the monster didn’t exist.

Only the man. Hungry. Reverent. Real.

Then he pulled away, like it hurt to be near you.

“You don’t know what you’ve done,” he rasped.

You did.

You just weren’t sorry.

Later, you felt it.

The thread between you became a cord.

You could feel him. Not clearly, not always, but enough.

Enough to sense when he was near. Enough to feel him watching when you couldn’t see him. Enough to hear his breath when the wind died. Enough to wake from sleep with your chest aching like he’d whispered your name into your dreams.

You were marked.

And you didn’t care.

You came back to him, again and again, because nowhere else felt like anything anymore.

You never asked what he was.

He never asked why you stayed.

The bond between you didn’t need language.

Only time. And blood.

And something older than fear.

It began with the change in the air.

Not the wind. Not the scent. Not the thick press of late-autumn fog rolling in off the water. No, it was something deeper. A shift beneath the skin of things. A tremor that hadn't reached the surface yet, but you felt it anyway.

Remmick felt it too.

He was quieter than usual. More still. His movements, usually fluid and slow like water, became sharp. Calculated. Like a creature trying not to spook prey.

Only you weren’t prey. Not to him.

You’d given him your wrist. Your pulse. Your trust. You belonged to each other in a way that didn’t need to be spoken aloud.

So when he stopped meeting you in the clearing for three nights in a row, you knew something was wrong.

On the fourth night, you found him kneeling in the ashes.

The ring of the firepit was cold and broken, stones overturned like something had scattered them in rage. The ground was scorched beyond its usual blackened ring. His coat was discarded at the base of the tree, damp with river mist, as if he’d waded in fully clothed just to feel the chill.

He looked at you with eyes that were too dark. Too tired.

You crouched beside him slowly.

"What happened?"

"You’ve been seen," he said.

His voice sounded ruined. Like it had been dragged across broken glass and handed back to him.

You blinked. "By who?"

He didn’t answer.

But you knew.

You felt it, suddenly. A pulse of fear that wasn’t yours. It hit the bond like lightning.

Remmick’s hands twitched once in his lap.

"They followed you," he rasped. "To the river. Didn’t cross, but…close. They know you’ve been leaving."

You didn’t speak.

There was a pressure blooming behind your eyes, and your throat felt full of stones.

He finally turned to look at you.

"We don’t have much time."

You tried to act normal the next day.

Tried to carry your basket to market and not flinch under the stares that lingered too long. You noticed it now. The way they watched your throat. The way they leaned toward the priest when he spoke. The way chalk marks had been scraped along your doorstep in a language that no one taught aloud.

You thought of the way Remmick flinched when sunlight touched his coat.

You thought of the way he had looked at you the night you let him bite you, like he was holding the only softness he’d ever known.

You hurried home with your shoulders curled forward like you could keep a secret that way.

That night, you crossed the river barefoot.

He was waiting for you.

Not in the clearing.

At the edge of the water.

Standing beneath the trees like he belonged there. Like he was the forest. He didn’t speak when you approached. Just opened his coat.

You stepped into it without hesitation.

His arms came around you. Cold. Strong. Familiar.

You buried your face against his chest and breathed in the scent of pine and iron and smoke.

You stayed that way for a long time.

"They want to burn you," he said finally, his lips against your hair. "At dawn."

You didn’t move.

"They think I marked you."

"You did," you said quietly. "But not how they mean."

His arms tightened around you.

"I won’t let them take you."

You knew he meant it.

But you also knew what sunlight would do to him.

You returned home before dawn, shoes dripping river water, his voice still in your ears.

They want to burn you.

You didn’t sleep. Didn’t eat. Didn’t speak to your father when he spat on the floor and muttered something about witches.

You sat in your room with the door bolted and your scarf clutched tight in your hands, tracing the faint marks on your wrist. The place where his mouth had touched you.

You tried to think of plans. You thought of running. Of slipping away before the sun rose. But even if you left, where would you go? There was no place he could follow safely. Not at dawn. Not in sunlight.

You were the one marked for burning. But he was the one who would die trying to stop it.

You considered staying. Giving yourself over. Dousing the fire before it reached your toes.

But you thought of him.

The way he touched your hand like it might vanish. The way his breath shivered when he pulled away from your skin. The way his eyes changed when you said mine.

You wouldn’t let him die for you. Not like this.

So when they came for you, you didn’t run.

It was just before first light.

They kicked down your door. Three men. A fourth behind them with a noose. One of them had a cloth soaked in vinegar. It stung your eyes as they pressed it to your face, shouting over your screams.

Your father stood in the corner, arms crossed, eyes blank.

He said nothing. Did nothing. Just watched them drag you away like it wasn’t even happening.

You were yanked through the doorway, arms bound behind your back, the wind biting at your bare ankles. A torch flickered ahead of you. Salt was poured in your path. You tasted metal in your mouth. Your knees gave once, but they didn’t let you fall. They dragged you upright like a sack of grain.

The square was already full.

People poured from their homes like rats from the walls. Stonefaced, shawls wrapped tight, lips moving with quiet prayers. Children were pulled behind skirts. Men stood with arms folded, expressions grim and tight. You saw the boy who once gave you a flower look away.

The priest stood at the edge of the chapel steps, his arms outstretched like he was welcoming rain. His mouth moved too fast for words to keep up. Spit flew with each syllable.

“Witch!” “Marked!” “Daughter of rot!”

You were pushed forward. Stumbled. Your shoulder slammed into the edge of a crate, and you hissed in pain.

They tied your wrists tighter. Rope rough and old and stained with something dark. Your skin burned where it chafed. You felt the bite marks under the wrap on your wrist throb—like they knew what was coming.

The pyre had already been built.

Not at the chapel, but the center of the square.

A tall post. A platform beneath it. Bundles of dry brush stacked at your feet. Oil was being poured in lazy waves around the wood, darkening it. Someone was humming.

They tied you to the post with three thick ropes. One at the waist. One at the chest. One at the throat.

You shivered.

Not from cold.

From knowing he could feel this. That somewhere in the woods, across the river, Remmick knew.

You closed your eyes. Tried to block it out. But it was all too loud. The torches. The voices. The hammering of your heart.

The priest approached. In his hand, he held a bowl. He dipped his fingers into it and flung something wet at your face. It smelled like garlic and bile.

“I cast out the demon in you!” he screamed.

“I cast out the rot and the curse and the unclean seed!”

Someone in the crowd repeated him. Then another. Then a chorus. It rose like a wave, building and frothing and curling over your head.

Burn her. Burn her. Burn her.

The sky was turning. From black to deep blue. Then to pale.

You could feel the air shift. The morning coming.

You looked to the tree line.

Nothing moved.

You prayed he wouldn’t come. And you prayed he would.

The priest held up the torch.

“Let this girl be cleansed!”

He turned toward the pyre.

Your breath caught.

And far, far away, under the trees—something moved.

The torch never touched the wood.

Not because the priest faltered. Not because the crowd intervened.

But because something landed on the chapel roof with a sound like thunder cracking bone.

Every head turned. The air changed. The birds stopped. Even the fire held still.

You didn’t see him—not yet.

You felt him.

A pulse. Through the trees. Through your blood. Through the mark on your wrist that burned like it had just been made.

The priest turned back to you, torch raised again.

“Let this girl be cleansed!” he screamed.

And then—Remmick dropped into the square like a curse made flesh.

He didn’t descend. He didn’t fly. He fell—from the bell tower in a blur of movement, coat flaring, claws bared, a snarl already ripping from his throat. He crashed into the center of the crowd, and the ground shook.

Someone screamed.

Then came the tearing.

You had seen him still. You had seen him cold. You had seen him hold back.

You had never seen him like this.

Berserker. Gone. Unleashed.

His eyes weren’t red. They were glowing—brighter than firelight, bleeding light like open wounds. His mouth was all teeth. Not fangs. Teeth. Rows of them, jagged and wrong and drenched in blood before the first man even hit the ground.

He didn’t move like a man.

He didn’t even move like an animal.

He ripped.

The priest tried to speak again. Remmick was on him before the sentence was finished. One hand closed around his face—not his throat, his face—and crushed it like fruit. Bone and brain and blood exploded across the chapel steps. Bits of skull clattered across stone.

The crowd broke.

But it was already too late.

He was in it. Through it. A blur of rage and claws and shrieking flesh. People ran and were caught. Screamed and were silenced. One woman slipped in a pool of blood and tried to crawl—Remmick dragged her back by the ankle and split her open across the stones like a sack of meat.

You couldn’t look away.

He was beautiful.

Awful.

Covered in red. A silhouette against the rising sun, unmoved by it, untouched by it—for now. For just long enough.

A man swung an axe. It glanced off Remmick’s shoulder. He grabbed the man by the jaw and the chest and pulled in opposite directions.

The sound will never leave you.

Wet. Snapping. Screaming.

Another tried to stab him from behind. Remmick turned and sank his claws into the man’s stomach, twisted, and pulled out something that glistened.

Intestines spilled like rope. The man screamed until Remmick tore out his throat with his teeth.

Children were screaming. People trampled each other. Doors slammed shut—too late.

Remmick didn’t care.

He leapt onto a rooftop, drove his claws through the tiles, and pulled a screaming body through the window. Blood sprayed across the panes. He burst through the door seconds later, dragging two more by the hair.

He threw one so hard into the chapel wall that her bones exploded on impact.

The second he held by the back of the neck and slammed her face-first into the pyre, again and again, until the wood was painted with pulp.

Another man—one of the ones who tied you—tried to run. Remmick caught him by the spine and lifted him clean off the ground. Then he bit—not the throat, but the shoulder, tearing through muscle, chewing, snarling as the man shrieked and flailed.

He dropped him half-alive. Then crushed his skull beneath his boot.

A group of villagers tried to form a line—tools raised, makeshift weapons drawn.

Remmick laughed.

It wasn’t human.

It was a jagged, broken, animal noise that echoed through the square like a war cry.

He charged.

Three fell in the first pass. One had his arm torn off at the shoulder. Another had his ribs opened like a door. The last tried to crawl away and was dragged backward, leaving deep red trails in the dirt.

Remmick crouched over him and feasted.

You heard the snap of bones. The gurgle of blood. The wet, rhythmic tear of sinew.

You gagged. But still, you watched.

The chapel bell began to ring—someone trying to sound an alarm.

Remmick blurred upward.

You saw him leap. You saw the bell stop mid-swing.

And then the bell tower collapsed.

Bricks rained down. Dust choked the square. A man’s leg jutted from the rubble, twitching.

Remmick walked through the smoke. Face split wide in a snarl. His coat hung in tatters. His claws were drenched to the elbows.

He was still hungry.

And then—he saw him.

Your father.

Standing at the far end of the square. Too cowardly to come close. Too proud to run.

Remmick’s head tilted slowly.

You felt the shift in him—not hunger. Not rage. Hatred.

Not for what your father had done tonight.

But for everything he had done before.

Remmick didn’t sprint. He stalked.

Your father turned and bolted.

He didn’t get far.

Remmick tackled him to the ground in front of the chapel steps. One clawed hand slammed into his shoulder, pinning him like a nailed insect. Your father screamed and punched and kicked—but it was nothing.

“Please—please, I didn’t know—she’s nothing—”

Remmick growled low, deep. A sound like stone splitting.

Then he started at the knees.

Claws tore through tendons. He dragged the body closer to the flames. Your father screamed and thrashed, but Remmick held him fast, shredding muscle, grinding bone under heel.

He didn’t kill him quickly.

He peeled skin from flesh. Tore out the tongue. Drove a claw straight through his eye and twisted it until the socket cracked. The screams became gargles. Then wet moans. Then silence.

He stood over the twitching wreckage of the man who raised you and spat blood on his corpse.

Only then did he turn back to you.

It took twelve minutes to empty the town.

The square was unrecognizable. Blood pooled in the gutters. Viscera clung to windows. A head rolled to a stop near your feet.

You were crying.

You hadn’t realized until the tears cooled the blood on your cheeks. Your body shook against the post. The ropes still held, slick with your sweat and the spray of what had once been your neighbors.

Remmick stood with his back to you.

His shoulders rose and fell like bellows.

And then, slowly, he turned.

His face was half-blood, half-shadow. His chest heaved. His mouth was open. His teeth were wrong.

And then his eyes met yours.

And the red dimmed.

He came back.

One step. Then another.

He was limping. One hand hung broken. His coat had burned away on one side, revealing a chest carved with old scars and new wounds, healing already. You could see the steam curling from where his skin tried to fight the coming sun.

He reached the pyre.

He reached you.

Without a word, he pulled the ropes free.

Your knees gave. He caught you.

His hands were sticky. His arms shook.

He held you like you were something soft in a world made of fire.

“You came,” you whispered, voice wrecked.

His head lowered.

“I’ll always come.”

You buried your face in his neck.

And as the sun finally crested the chapel roof, he lifted you into his arms and walked—limping, burned, bloodied—into the tree line.

Where no one would ever touch you again.

The forest swallowed you.

His arms did not falter.

Smoke still clung to your skin. Your mouth tasted of iron. Your body trembled with the ghost of fire, the memory of rope, the phantom press of eyes that no longer existed.

He didn’t speak as he carried you. Didn’t look back. Didn’t slow.

Not even as blood dripped from his fingers onto your thighs. Not even as smoke curled from his exposed skin where the sunlight licked too close.

Only once you were deep within the trees—deep enough that the air felt thick again, that moss swallowed your steps and the light broke in filtered green—did he fall to his knees.

He laid you down like something precious. Like something his.

You reached for him first.

Your fingers found his face, slick with sweat, with blood—not all of it his—and cupped his jaw.

His eyes had dimmed, but not dulled. The glow had faded to a low ember, banked but still burning.

“Remmick,” you whispered.

He closed his eyes. Just once. A single, slow blink. As if hearing his name from your mouth still did something to him.

You sat up slowly, muscles screaming, bones aching in ways you hadn’t known possible.

There was blood in your hair. On your lips. You didn’t ask if it was yours.

“I’m alright,” you murmured, though your voice trembled.

He opened his eyes again. “You’re not.”

But his hands still hovered like he didn’t know where to touch you. Not after what he’d done.

So you took his hand and laid it on your cheek.

“You came,” you said again.

“I told you I would.”

You leaned into his palm.

And he let out a sound—quiet, low, almost like a sob, if monsters could sob.

He cleaned you slowly.

Pulled water from a stream that ran cold and sharp nearby, and soaked a scrap of cloth in it. Pressed it to your face, your neck, your wrists. Hands trembling the whole time.

You let him.

Even when it stung. Even when it hurt.

He worked in silence until he reached the edges of the wound on your shoulder, and then he paused.

His thumb grazed the mark he left. The bite.

It pulsed beneath his touch.

“You’re bound to me now,” he murmured.

You nodded. “I want to be.”

He inhaled sharply. Like he didn’t know what to do with that.

“You don’t understand what that means.”

You leaned forward, forehead to his. Your breath shared. Your blood, still in him.

“I don’t care.”

That night, he didn’t sleep.

He sat with his back to a tree, holding you wrapped in what was left of his coat. Watching. Listening.

You woke to find his eyes on you. Always on you.

“Rest,” you whispered.

“I don’t need rest.”

“You’re hurt.”

“I heal.”

You reached out, pressing your fingers to the edge of one of the fresh burns. His skin was already knitting itself back together, but the heat of it made you hiss.

“You still feel it,” you said.

His eyes dropped to your throat.

“So do you.”

In the days that followed, you began to move again. Slowly. Carefully.

You followed him deeper into the woods, into places no human foot had touched in centuries. Places where the ground steamed in the morning, and the air hung heavy with the scent of moss and decay.

He found a ruin for you.

An old chapel, long since claimed by the forest. Vines covered the stones. The roof was half-gone. Ferns grew through the cracks in the altar.

You made it home.

He brought you what you needed. Soft cloth. Food you didn’t ask about. Furs to sleep on. Fire when you needed it. Silence when you didn’t.

And every night, he lay beside you.

Not touching. Not speaking.

Just breathing.

Just there.

And the bond between you grew.

You felt him before he entered a room. Felt it when his hunger stirred. Felt it when his anger flared like a match in your blood.

He never asked to feed again.

But one night, when your fingers brushed the edge of his coat and your eyes met his across the fire, he said, barely audible—

“You’d let me.”

You nodded.

He didn’t move.

Because he didn’t trust himself to stop.

You dreamt of him.

Not the way he had been in the square, not the red-eyed god of vengeance, but the way he looked when he was calm. Quiet. Still.

You dreamt of his hands. His mouth. His voice in your ear.

You woke up wet. Shaking.

You didn’t hide it.

You found him standing at the edge of the ruin, bathed in mist, looking out at the trees like he could see something you couldn’t.

You stepped behind him. Touched his back.

He didn’t move.

“Remmick.”

A pause.

Then: “Say it again.”

You did.

He turned slowly, eyes burning. But not with hunger.

With want.

With restraint.

With desperation.

“I want you to touch me,” you said.

His breath hitched.

“I’m not gentle.”

“You are with me.”

The mist coiled around you both.

And for a moment, everything in the chapel stopped breathing.

Not just Remmick—who held your gaze like a man shouldering the weight of a thousand years—but the walls themselves, the night wind, the crumbling rafters overhead. Even the shadows seemed to retreat into corners, as if what was about to unfold wasn’t meant to be witnessed.

Remmick didn’t move. Not at first. But the flame behind his eyes flickered—slow, red, hungry—and when he finally did take a step forward, it felt seismic. You heard it in the crack of old stone, in the shift of air around your bare skin. His boots echoed against the flagstones like thunder. Deliberate. Controlled. Until he was right in front of you.

His hand came up—that long, scarred, bloodstained hand—and for a moment you thought he might cup your cheek like you were fragile. Instead, he hovered just above your jaw, trembling.

“Say it again,” he said, voice low, like gravel and prayer.

You swallowed. “Touch me.”

He did.

His thumb brushed your jawline, featherlight. Reverent. A careful man cataloguing something holy. Then his palm cupped your cheek fully, warming to your skin. His other hand followed—tracing the edge of your collarbone, ghosting over the still-tender marks he’d left earlier. The ones that proved you were his. His fingertips shook slightly.

“You’re sure?” he murmured, lips close to your temple now. “You want me like this? After all I’ve done?”

You nodded, leaning into him. “I trust you.”

And that—that did something to him.

He surged forward, but didn’t kiss you yet. Just pressed his forehead to yours. Breathing hard. Hands roaming down your shoulders, your arms, as though grounding himself.

“Then let me worship you,” he rasped.

You were lifted—not thrown, but lifted—as if your weight meant nothing. He carried you to the nearest patch of moonlight spilling through a shattered stained glass window. The kaleidoscopic light painted your skin in fractured reds and oranges. He knelt with you, laying you out on the padded cloak he had shed earlier.

Remmick hovered above you, straddling your hips, his hands sliding beneath your thighs, guiding them apart gently. He stared—at your flushed chest rising with breath, your bitten lip, your parted legs—and he swallowed something like a growl.

“If I start, I won’t stop,” he warned.

“Don’t stop.”

His mouth was on your neck in a second—not biting, not yet—just kissing, slow and open-mouthed. Tongue dragging across the sensitive line of your throat. Then lower, over your collarbone, his hands following the path of his lips. Palms flat, warm, roaming up under your shirt, pushing it up inch by inch.

He groaned when he saw your bare skin. Bent down and mouthed at your ribs, your stomach, like he’d been starving for this. He kissed each scar like it was a sacred scripture.

You writhed beneath him when his tongue circled your navel. When his fingers hooked in your waistband and paused.

“Still want this?”

“More than anything.”

He slid your clothes off slowly—not to tease, but to savor. As if he’d never get this chance again. When he bared you fully to him, he stared. His lips parted. His eyes flashed.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered.

You reached for him—desperate to feel him bare too—but he caught your wrist, gently pinning it beside your head.

“Let me have you first,” he said. “Let me take my time.”

His head dipped between your legs.

You gasped—a raw sound, primal—as his tongue pressed flat against your cunt. Long, slow licks. Like he was memorizing you by taste. He groaned against you, the vibration making you cry out. His fingers spread you open. His mouth didn’t relent.

You gripped the stone floor, legs trembling. Whimpering his name.

He didn’t stop when you came the first time. Or the second. He held you open and devoured you, whispering broken praise in between.

“So sweet,” he muttered. “Never tasted anything like you.”

When he finally surfaced, his mouth and chin were slick. His eyes were wild.

He stripped in a blur—shirt shredded, belt undone, pants shoved down—and you got your first look at all of him. Pale, marred with scars, hard and ready and utterly beautiful.

Remmick knelt over you again, kissed you deep—let you taste yourself on his tongue—and groaned when you clawed at his back.

“Tell me how you want it,” he growled. “I’ll give you anything.”

You bit his bottom lip. “I want all of you.”

He aligned himself—slow, careful—and when he pressed into you, it was overwhelming. Stretching, burning, perfect.

You cried out, and he stilled, trembling.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “You take me so well…fuck, you were made for me.”

And then he began to move.

He starts slow, but the weight of him is unbearable in the best fucking way—like he’s carved himself inside you and intends to stay.

Every deliberate roll of his hips stretches you open, wet and aching, your cunt already slick and clenching as he sinks in to the hilt over and over. The slow grind of his pelvis against yours is obscene, maddening, and all the more unbearable because he’s looking at you like you’re something holy. Like you’re the damn relic he’s been hunting. Like you’re the chapel.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters raggedly into your throat, voice tight and breaking, his forehead pressed against your cheek. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven. You know that?”

Your legs are locked around his hips, heels hooked together at the small of his back. You can feel every muscle in him shift with each thrust—deliberate, deep, dragging through your soaked pussy like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you from the inside out.

He shifts up onto his knees so he can watch you take it. His hand slides between your thighs, thumb grazing your swollen clit, teasing circles that make your spine arch off the floor with a needy cry.

“There,” he grits, breath fogging as he watches your mouth fall open, “that’s it, girl. Just like that. You feel me?”

You nod, but it’s useless—you can’t speak, not with the way he’s fucking you now. Deeper. Harder. Still so slow, but decadent—like he’s savoring every single second your cunt clings around his cock.

The chapel groans around you both, beams shifting in the wind. Dust trickles from the rafters. But the only sound that matters is the wet slap of skin against skin, your slick noises echoing in the stone ruin with every thrust of his hips and the desperate little whimpers you can’t hold back.

“Didn’t think I’d ever get this,” he says, voice shredded, like it hurts to admit. “Didn’t think you’d let me. Thought I’d fuckin’ die wantin’ you.”

“You have me,” you rasp, fingers digging into the muscle of his shoulders. “You have me now.”

That does something to him.

He swears under his breath and kisses you—hard. Tongue sweeping yours, swallowing your whimper, stealing your breath. His hips stutter. Then pick up pace. He starts fucking you for real now, not just slow, reverent rocking, but full-bodied thrusts that have your back scraping across his cloak, your thighs trembling around him, your pulse thrumming in your ears.

Your cunt is dripping, and it only eggs him on. He lifts one of your legs over his shoulder, folds you deeper, angle sharper. The next thrust punches the air out of your lungs.

“Goddamn, look at you,” he groans, voice wrecked, watching the way your body arches for him. “Mouth hangin’ open like a little fuckin’ doll, takin’ me like this.”

“Remmick—”

“Say it again.”

“Remmick,” you gasp, sobbing out his name now, “don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

He growls low and leans down, his teeth grazing your jaw as his cock drives deeper, harder, steadier. The sound of you squelching around him is filthy and loud, your arousal smearing down your thighs and slicking the base of his cock with every relentless thrust.

“You’re gonna come on my cock, aren’t you?” he grits. “That what you want? You want me to make this sweet little cunt come, baby?”

You can’t even answer.

You’re close, so close—that fluttering buildup making your thighs shake and your belly clench, heat coiling, rising, burning in your bloodstream like fire.

Remmick knows it too. He slides his hand back down and presses two fingers to your clit, rubbing tight circles that match his rhythm, his voice hot and desperate against your neck.

“Come on then,” he mutters. “Let me feel it. Want you to soak my cock. Show me you’re mine.”

That’s all it takes.

You break—thighs locking tight, cry torn from your throat, cunt spasming around him so hard it makes his breath catch. You’re gushing on him, stars popping behind your eyelids, whole body trembling as you shatter beneath him.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down.

You’re still coming when he buries himself to the hilt, lets out a deep, wounded groan, and spills inside you—heat flooding your pussy in thick, pulsing waves, his hips twitching through every breathless thrust.

And even then, even as his mouth finds yours again in a breathless kiss, he doesn’t pull out.

The world is still when it ends.

A hush, like the chapel itself is holding its breath. As if even the ghosts that once lingered in the ruins have turned away to grant you a moment of peace.

You lie tangled together on the altar floor, your skin flushed and sticky, legs still wrapped loosely around his waist. Your thighs tremble in the aftermath, soft tremors echoing from somewhere deep in your core. His come spills out of you slowly with every exhale—thick, warm, spent—as he stays buried to the hilt inside you, his weight slumped against you like a blanket you never want to shed.

Remmick doesn’t move for a long time. He just breathes.

His head is buried in the crook of your neck, lips ghosting against your throat with every quiet, grounding inhale. You can feel the tension slowly bleeding from his shoulders. His hands still shake, even as one of them settles low on your stomach, splayed protectively. The other brushes tenderly against your jaw, his thumb catching the edge of your mouth like he’s tracing the curve of something sacred.

“You alright?” he murmurs finally, voice raw and hoarse.

You nod, too wrecked for words.

You feel more than alright. You feel full in a way you’ve never known. Like every piece of you that had once been hollow—all the parts that had withered and hardened under your father’s shadow, under the weight of cruelty and silence—have now been filled, stretched, stitched back together with the warmth of his body, the fire in his gaze.

You don’t know how long you lie there, tangled and silent. The air smells like dust, like rain coming. There’s ash in the distance, woodsmoke still drifting in thin ribbons through the broken rafters. But none of it touches you.

Here, in this ruin, you’ve been rebuilt.

Eventually, he lifts his head. Looks at you like you hung the fucking moon.

And he smiles—not wide, not crooked, but small. Soft. The kind of smile that feels like sunlight on bruised skin.

“Didn’t hurt ya, did I?” he asks, voice low, gentle.

You reach up, thumb brushing his damp hair from his face, fingers cupping his cheek. “No. You made me feel…” You pause. Swallow. “Like I’m not broken anymore.”

His breath hitches.

“You never were,” he whispers. “They just made you forget.”

He finally pulls out, slow and careful. You wince at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. His come trickles out of you in thick, wet drips down your thighs, but he doesn’t look away. Doesn’t recoil.

Instead, he lifts your leg and presses a soft kiss to the inside of your knee. Then another. And another. His hands trace lazy paths down your body like he’s mapping the shape of safety. Of home.

You reach for your clothes, but he stops you. Drapes his coat over your bare body instead. Then gathers your hair in his hands, palm smoothing over your head tenderly.

“Come on,” he murmurs after a while. “Let’s get you warm. You’ll sleep better with a fire.”

You let him help you up. Your knees wobble, but he steadies you without a word, pulling you close against his chest. His heartbeat thuds slow and steady beneath your ear—a rhythm you swear you’ll spend the rest of your life memorizing.

The town is gone. The chapel is empty. The world outside has been gutted and rebuilt in your image—razed to ash so something new can grow.

But this…this moment is untouched.

And as you both step outside hand in hand, blood long since dried and the earth soft beneath your feet, you know without speaking that you’ll never be alone again.

Not in this life.

Not in the next.

Not even in the grave.

Because he chose you. And you chose him. And the only thing left now is everything.

The chapel disappears behind you.

But his voice stays.

Low. Certain. Eternal.

“We’re going home.”

[iceemochaa]

This was so beautiful 😭😭😭 I enjoyed the straight massacre a little too much.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

She's Only 5'2" || 𝗗𝘂𝗻𝗸 & 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗗𝗿𝗮𝗴𝗼𝗻 ||

A/n: I love him, he's so fucking cute

Princess!Reader / Short!Reader / Plus size!Reader.

You are five-foot-two, round hipped, soft-armed, and currently very pregnant.

Duncan the Tall is seven feet of knight, scar, and quiet thunder and he is hovering behind you like an anxious tower with legs.

Everyone in the Red Keep is afraid of you.

Not Duncan.

Not the man who could snap a spear like kindling.

Not the knight who once stopped a riot just by standing there.

They fear you.

And Aegon V Targaryen finds this endlessly entertaining.

The corridor is narrow, lined with tapestries and stiff-backed courtiers who part like the sea as you approach. You walk calmly, chin lifted, one hand braced against the small of your back, the other carrying a goblet of watered wine you absolutely should not still be holding according to every maester in the castle.

Behind you, Duncan clears his throat.

“My love,” he rumbles gently, caustiously, “perhaps...perhaps the maesters are right. You shouldn’t be walking so fast.”

You don’t slow down.

“I’m not walking fast,” you say sweetly. “You just have long legs.”

A lord flattens himself against the wall as you pass. A lady dips into a curtsy so low she nearly loses her balance. A page scurries out of your path like you breathe fire instead of sharp opinions.

Duncan watches this in quiet horror.

He leans down, voice pitched low. “Why are they doing that?”

You sip your wine. “Because last time someone told me to ‘rest,’ I threatened to bite him.”

“That was a joke,” Duncan says, alarmed.

You smile. “He didn’t know that.”

By the time you reach the solar, Duncan is carrying three pillows, a blanket, and a chair that was already in the room but apparently not close enough to your liking.

You sit. Then immediately frown.“This chair is crooked.”

Duncan freezes. A servant goes pale.The chair is replaced within seconds.

“Better,” you say.

Duncan exhales like a man spared execution.

⸻

The door opens without announcement. Aegon V Targaryen strolls in, hands behind his back, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Ah,” Egg says, eyes flicking between you and Duncan. “I see the realm’s true terror is awake.”

You raise a brow. “Careful, Your Grace.”

He grins wider. “See? Chilling.”

Duncan bows so fast he nearly cracks his head on a beam. “Your Grace.”

Egg waves him off and drops into a chair across from you. “I passed three lords in the hall whispering prayers. One of them asked if you bite everyone or just fools.”

You shrug. “Depends on the day."

Egg laughs outright. “Gods, I love this marriage.”

Duncan looks deeply conflicted.

A maester enters, wringing his hands. “Your Highness, we really must insist you lie down. Standing and sitting so often—”

“No.” The word lands like a blade.

The maester blanches. Duncan opens his mouth and you, you lift one finger. He closes it immediately.

“I am carrying a child,” you say calmly. “Not a curse. I will sit when I wish, walk when I wish, and if you tell me one more time that I am ‘too delicate,’ I will demonstrate otherwise.”

Silence.

Egg presses his lips together, shoulders shaking.

The maester retreats, head down, praying.

Duncan watches him go, then turns to you, voice soft and worried. “You didn’t have to scare him.”

You reach for Duncan’s massive hand, squeezing his fingers. “I didn’t scare him. I educated him.”

Egg loses it. Full laughter, head tipped back.“Seven hells,” he wheezes, “Dunk, you look like you’re married to a dragon in human skin.”

Duncan flushes. “She’s… spirited.” His massive hand reaches out to take your much smaller one to give it a gentle squeeze.

You beam at him. “He means terrifying.”

Later, when the court has dispersed and the room is quiet, Duncan kneels to rub your calf, something you absolutely did not ask him to do, but he insists on anyway.

“You shouldn’t frighten them so,” he murmurs, carefully running his hands down your leg to your swollen feet. “They mean well.”

You card your fingers through his hair, gentle despite everything. “I know.”

He looks up at you, eyes earnest and warm. “I just… I worry. They see you as fierce instead of tired.”

You cup his cheek. “Duncan. I am fierce because I am tired.”

He considers that.Then he nods, solemn as if knighted by the truth itself.

“Very well,” he says. “Then I will stand behind you and make certain no one forgets it.”

You smile, leaning down to kiss his brow.

Across the room, Egg watches the two of you with a fond, knowing look.

The smallest woman in the room.

The tallest knight in the realm.

And somehow, everyone knows exactly who is in charge.

[ghostlybfgf]

ser duncan the tall masterlist

ser dunk x reader headcanons

ser duncan x targaryen!reader headcanons

husband!dunk headcanons

nsfw alphabet <33

sleeping position

dunk and baelor’s kinks

dunk being rough

dunk is a munch

falling in love headcanons

another knight crowning you ft. others

ser duncan and jealousy headcanons

wearing a revealing nightgown headcanons ft. others

ser duncan and size kink

kissing headcanons ft. others

wet dreams of you ft. others

'NFWMB' – targaryen!reader

'fire in my heart' – baratheon!reader ft. husband!lyonel

'yours, mine, ours' – targwife!reader ft. dad!dunk

'the girl is mine'

Thank you for you love! Likes, reblogs, feedback and comments are all welcome. – JJ.

[superman-creampieing-batman]

I know you don't have tiktok which i great bc I can't be bothered hunting down the link to it

But I saw a video earlier I thought you would appreciate

A skit of Barry and Oliver cackling watching Hal crashout because Clark responded to Hal's messages to Bruce with naked selfies of him holding a sleeping Bruce naked in bed with a 'he's a bit busy rn' message

Figured you'd like the possessive Clark xx

Omg babes this is exactly the kind of shit I'm into! Ughh now I want a tiktok account too, but it's banned in my country.

Ehh whatevs.

I just read a fic, it's somewhat the same.

It's not exactly like the scenario mentioned above, but it's fucking hilarious. Clark and Bruce are genuine little shits in this,and poor, poor Hal Jordan.

[rutherbwk2]

Italics- Russian

A few years after season 1, Shane and Ilya have adopted a baby girl. She’s, objectively, the most precious and beautiful child they’ve ever seen. And she’s such a little marvel, too. Irina Hollander Rosanova was a quiet and extremely alert baby; it was like she’d been in the world before. Shane and Ilya could not ask for a better baby.

Ilya, of course, is a SAHD. He wanted to do it - there was no room for discussion.

And their days were filled with Russian nursery rhymes, enriching reality tv shows and long, deep naps.

It was what Ilya needed.

Shane didn’t want to leave them. His departure for his away game was drawn out with kisses and more kisses and hugs and more hugs. But Shane also missed playing.

And now, after a week long trip, he was back.

Ilya made pasta. Irina, obviously, was his taste tester.

“Daddy’s coming back today, malyshka.”

Irina, just happy her papa is talking to her, smiles with her full gums and reaches out for him.

“Malyshka,” Ilya cooed, lifting her with a kiss to her thick hair, “You’re my favorite girl in the world.”

Ilya took her tiny hand and kissed all over it, illiciting a laugh from Irina. A laugh from Ilya followed.

“I love you more than I love Daddy.”

Like divine intervention, the gravel crunched in the driveway and the headlights from Shane’s truck shined through the window.

“Ah!” Irina bounced in Ilya’s arms, looking at the front door.

“Who’s that? Huh, baby? Who is it?” Ilya bounced her in his arms and walked to the living room.

“Ah!” The keys jingled and Ilya leaned against the back of the couch.

“Ily…Oh!” Shane called out, not expecting that he would be right in front of him.

“Who’s that, Irina? Is that Daddy? Say ‘hello, Daddy!’” Shane gave Ilya a kiss. Ilya smiled and kissed him again. Irina couldn’t take her eyes off of Shane. And Shane made sure to give her a kiss on the cheek, too.

“Is that my girl?” Shane took Irina and lifted her into the air. Ilya’s heart dropped a little, but at Irina’s laugh, it quickly settled.

“I missed you so much.” Shane pulled them both into a tight hug.

And that’s it.

[ky-landfill]

THE JJ ART!! EEEE

any fic recs? 🩷

”You’re lying to me, Bruce.”

[frownyalfred]

hi res. im on chapter 17 of dead man's party and this part

“I imagine there were many times,” Martha started, a delicate line appearing between her brows, “when you were dead, and he wanted nothing more than to be able to do something as simple as make you soup.”

is actually making me nauseous. oh my god. like this shit has my chest hurting. i don't remember the last time i cried over a fic lol. id sing my praises etc but im too tired sorry. anyway hope youre having a good morning/afternoon/whatever

Thank you 💜 I really loved that part because Martha isn’t absolving Bruce of all blame, but rather encouraging Jason to see another side of him. You died but he grieved you. You died but you didn’t know that grief and baruch hashem you never will.

[rutherbwk2]

Harvey and Bruce give Glinda and Elphaba (specifically Annaleigh Ashford and Stephanie J. Block).

[feral4youu]

Somebody’s watching me

Summary: 1935. For over a century you and Remmick have lived as shadows among the living—husband, wife, and two children who never change. But the neighbors are watching now. They whisper about the family that doesn’t age, about the children who never outgrow their clothes. And still, you long for one more child. It is a craving that could damn you, because if the world uncovers what you are, it won’t come with questions—it will come with fire.

Warning: Smut, arguments, blood, death, lies, past memories & more.

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged!

[kittyminion]

SINNERS OF THE SAINT

remmick x f!black!reader

SUMMARY: you lived a quiet, simple life in rural mississippi, but when paranormal activity knips at the darkest corners of your mind, you're left to wonder if its the universe warning you, or is it the sinister man visiting you most nights WARNINGS: southern gothic, black!f!reader, angst, smut 18+, fluff, mentions of dead animals, religious tones, paranormal themes, remmick eats human food, dark themes: stalking, trespassing, baby, sweetheart

WORD COUNT: 3.6k

The air outside was thick and clenched around your lungs with a vice grip. Sweat dripped down your back, soaking into your dress, your feet bare as you grabbed a pail of milk. You could hear the wind wafting through the thick grasses, your hair pulled back in a scarf while you wiped a hand over your face—eyes blurring with sweat.

Living alone in the deepest parts of Mississippi did something to your brain—made you see no one but yourself. It made you listen to the quiet at night and hold your cross a little tighter against your throat. It made you hang herbs above the door and hammer crosses onto each wall in every room of your house. It made you throw salt over your shoulder and cover the mirrors at night.

One thing you did find comfort in was being alone. You lived by your own rules and your own schedule, and although the silence made your head hurt sometimes, you learned how to take care of yourself. You didn't open the door when people knocked because you knew no one for miles. You kept a shotgun loaded underneath your bed and you locked up tight as soon as the sun drowned beneath the horizon.

All these things kept you safe and made the ache in your heart lessen a little, and as the years passed, you thought nothing would ever bother you. That was until you felt the air shift. As Mississippi got cold, the bugs snuck their way inside. You kept the animals locked in, kept a jacket tugged around your shoulders, and spent most of your time inside instead of out.

But the first time something disappeared, you thought nothing of it—just a pair of socks from your dresser. But then it was your toothbrush, slipped from the jar in the bathroom. After that, a knife in the kitchen disappeared. The most rattling thing was the cross above your bedroom door. It was one you carved from oak yourself, pinned just above the doorframe. And when you woke up one morning, expecting to see it, your heart froze entirely as you sat starkly still in your bed.

Your skin was coated in sweat, shift sticking to your body mercilessly, and you stepped out of your bed slowly, feeling a sort of aura overtake you. Saliva built in your throat as you grabbed the necklace around your neck and moved out of the room, eyes peeled and ears on edge. The floorboards creaked underneath your weight, but you stuck to the wall, flinching as a small marble rolled out from the kitchen and stopped at your feet.

"Fuck!" You spat, rushing backwards, back slamming into the door as you shoved yourself into your bedroom. You pressed your forehead against the door as you breathed heavily, chest heaving. You didn't have any pets, save for the cows and chickens outside, but they couldn't get out. You didn't feed any stray cats or dogs, and no little rodents could so deliberately taunt you like that.

Muttering prayers underneath your breath, you stepped out once more, knees trembling as you rubbed a hand underneath your nose to wipe away sweat. The light that you switched on in the hallway flickered, then went out entirely, the bulb bursting and littering glass above you. You kept walking though, sweaty feet sticking against the floor, your body pressed against the wall as you peeked into the kitchen.

Nothing was amiss, no dish overturned or seasoning misplaced. The missing knife was replaced in the holder, your toothbrush sat against the counter carefully, and the cross—God, the cross—was hanging above the porch door, leaning slightly to the left, mocking you with its unstraightness.

The hair on the back of your neck raised, goosebumps pimpling your skin as you slowly spun around. There, on the floor, was a plate, dirty from leftover food—the fork and knife crossed over each other politely, then a note, right on top, reading: kindness is not an act, it's a reflection of your soul.

♱⋆˙⟡

Leftovers continued to go missing after that. And subconsciously, you left wrapped plates in the fridge for this mysterious person, not giving too much thought to the sinister feelings of it all. If you needed to placate whoever this was, then you would, only if it would save your life in the end.

You woke up most mornings to stare at your cross, then you'd listen in the quiet for footsteps. Maybe a sound in the kitchen to indicate someone was there, but there was never anything so blatant. But you did start finding dead animals more and more—a cat, underneath the old truck, a few rats stuffed in your trash. And the biggest: a deer, right at the edge of the woods, drained of all its blood, two little pinpricks against its neck.

That's when it became obvious who you were dealing with. They were quiet and skillful—smart and clever. Enough to fuck with your mind, but not bother you beyond that. They thanked you for each meal with a note and left crosses of all sizes, some little charms from necklaces and bracelets, and others handmade, already hammered into the wall for you.

Other days, the eggs were already collected and sitting in the fridge, or the cows were already milked, a pail waiting for you when you woke. And most recently, dishes done, laundry hung and folded, yard raked, grass cut.

The first night you saw him, you'd never forget. He didn't approach or talk to you, but you were sitting on the porch, rocking back and forth in the porch swing, a glass of water in one hand and a book in the other. You'd lost track of time as the sun went down—completely enthralled with your book.

The air shifted around you, the wind halting completely, and that caused you to look up from your book. When you realized how dark it was, you stood, sighing, body lethargic from the day, but you didn't see him standing on the other end of the porch, arms by his side, eyes gleaming into sharp flecks of red.

He watched you silently as you moved inside, locking up the door, then setting your things aside as you went into the bedroom. He approached the back door then, undoing the locks easily—invited in from your words years ago.

Remmick knew you didn't remember him—he was just a stain in your memory that had quickly faded away after that first visit. He'd come to you seeking solace from the sun. Back then, you were naive to the dangers in rural Mississippi. Your faith was little, and your fear was nothing damaging. So as soon as you saw him, he charmed you to let him inside, muttering something about the heat of the sun. Remmick meant to suck you dry that day—consume all your energy, good and bad, then leave, knowing no one would be looking for you.

But you were just so stunning, inside and out. It hurt how beautiful you were, skin soft and rich, face innocent and bright, personality the exact thing the world needed to heal. You offered him a glass of water that day and a plate of food—said he could come back anytime, so he did.

He lingered in the kitchen and opened the fridge quietly, glancing inside for something to eat. Remmick came up empty, though, so he moved into the hall, avoiding the creaky floorboards, hands stuffed in his pockets.

Your scent was overpowering, so much so that Remmick drowned in it. He could smell nothing but the sweetness on your skin and the shampoo in your hair.

He pushed closer to your bedroom, hearing you hum a fine tune. When he peeked inside, your back was to him as you pulled the covers back in your bed, and once you climbed in, Remmick had already slipped past the door into the small living room full of you. He picked through the books on your shelf and the random knick-knacks.

And you didn't hear him, or maybe you weren't listening for him. You just laid in your bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to lull yourself to sleep. You could hear the soft moos of the cows in the barn and the knocking of the wind against the windows, but when you heard a creak, you paused—halting your breathing.

Sitting up, you stared out into the hall, the darkness looming at you like the most frightening nightmare known to man. But when you saw him pass by the door, hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes ahead, you stood quickly, reaching underneath the bed for your shotgun, "show yourself!" You spat, cocking the gun back, and Remmick chuckled to himself, the sound echoing throughout the house like a ghost's whisper.

He approached your bedroom once more, and frowned at you, eyes on the gun, "what're you doin', sweetheart? I thought we established peace." Remmick moved closer, footsteps light against the floor, while you glared at him hard and sure, recognition flashing in your eyes, but it did little to calm the brewing storm in your chest.

"How'd you get in? I lock every door and every window."

Remmick hummed to himself, head tiliting and he reached up and grabbed the gun, slow and gentle, then he tucked it underneath his arm, moving closer. Your back pressed against the wall as you stared at him.

"The food was good, best I've had in a while." He reached up and brushed your jaw, frowning at your recoil. Your eyes squeezed shut, and Remmick leaned the gun against the wall and crossed his arms, "no reason to be scared now, baby. Been in and out of this place for months now, and this is when you're scared shitless? Think I'm gonna hurt you? Maybe suck some of your blood?" He squatted to meet your eyes, then chuckled, shaking his head lazily.

"Say somethin'."

You moved into the corner, closer to the gun, then grabbed it once more, just for security. "You're a vampire—Remmick. I remember you from years ago." It wasn't a question, but a statement, and Remmick nodded. "People been looking for me, so I gotta lay low, been stayin' over there in those woods. Not for the faint of heart, I tell you." He sat at the edge of your bed, still observing, elbows against his knees.

"Why are people lookin' for you?" You sat, legs underneath you, chest heaving as you tried to get ahold of yourself.

"Killed a man, bit his throat out and left a bloody scene," his eyes widened suddenly and he raised his hand, "not for no reason though, baby." You flinched as he stood, but he kneeled in front of you and grabbed your face with both hands, tilting your head up so he could lock eyes with you, "I would never hurt you, sweetheart. May not seem that way, but I promise. You been taking care of me, and I won't forget that."

He slowly tilted your head to the side and leaned close, sniffing up the sweet, iron-y scent of your blood as it flowed through your neck. You pressed the shotgun to his stomach and pulled the trigger, but Remmick moved out of the way just in time, and the slug struck the wall across the room.

He leaned against the door frame and shook his head, "you're lucky I'm not who I used to be, baby."

♱⋆˙⟡

The next time Remmick returned, he was fixing your wall. You sat starkly in bed, shotgun in your lap, while you watched him, breathing deep to attempt to calm yourself. He was wearing a shirt and pants, the shirt loose and unbuttoned, his chest hard and defined beneath it. Sweat gleamed on the back of his neck as he sanded down the spackle, then he began repainting the wall.

"Why you so afraid of me, sweetheart? I ain't never put you in harm's way." He turned towards you, eyebrows raised, paintbrush in hand, and you shook your head loosely, "you've been sneaking into my house for months—how else am I supposed to feel?"

He chuckled, low, but humorless, and nodded, "fine, I understand. But the sooner you accept my presence, the easier this will be for you, 'cause I'm not leavin' anytime soon. Got nowhere else to be anyway." Dread impaled your heart, but you didn't let it show on your face. You stood slowly, still holding the shotgun, and you went into the kitchen, deciding to distract yourself with cooking something, despite your lack of hunger.

You grabbed some chicken and a few potatoes and began stripping the potatoes of their skin above the trash can. The shotgun leaned against the fridge, but Remmick grabbed it and set it aside as he pulled the fridge open and grabbed the bottle of orange juice you'd freshly squeezed that morning.

"Got any family?" He wondered, legs cocked out as he sat at the dining table, fingers tapping against it lazily. You were tense, your back to him, but then you grabbed a knife and began slicing the potatoes.

"Nobody but me. And I know you already know that." He chuckled, nodding, "smart. Why you alone? And what made you move out into the middle of nowhere?"

You threw the potatoes into a pan with onions and seasoning, then switched on the fire on the stove. "Runnin' from somebody. Somebody an awful lot like you." He paused at your tone, then stood, approaching you from behind, chest against your back.

"I haven't hurt you, sweetheart, and I never will."

You scoffed, shaking your head, "that's what he said, right before he—" you paused, face hot with anger, then you stepped back, forcing Remmick away, "you don't care, do you, Remmick? You're just here for free meals that eventually lead up to sucking me dry and leaving me to rot, right?" You glared at him harshly, forgetting all about the potatoes sizzling on the stove.

Remmick leaned against the fridge, arms crossed, no ounce of previous humor in his voice. "I ain't a liar—"

"—yeah, you just omit the truth! Get out—or kill me. One or the other." He bit his cheek, body thrumming with irritation, but he nodded, walking towards you, and your face burst with fear, but he simply kissed you on your cheek, then slipped out the door.

He still lingered though, sitting on the porch, rocking back and forth on the bench, staring out at the woods, scaring away the lesser monsters. And when you finished cooking, you stepped outside, plate in hand, and handed it to him.

Remmick thanked you politely, and you sat beside him, sighing, "I'm sorry—" he shook his head, "don't apologize, I get it. But I want you to understand the man that I am." He turned to you, plate on his lap, "I respect you, wholeheartedly. You're not an object, or a meal, you're a lady, my lady. The woman who took care of me without even realizing it." You couldn't deny the swell of emotion as he called you his, but you didn't move closer—you didn't even look at him.

You were confused—confused about what this was. What this the start of a relationship, or the start of your downfall? Remmick continued eating, knee knocking into yours a few times, and when you welcomed him back inside, he didn't make a big show of his happiness; he just thanked you.

You set up a pallet on the couch, blankets on the bottom, the back cushions removed for space, and one of your pillows at the end. He tugged his shirt off and sat, looking up at you silently. You opened your mouth, wanting to say something, but no words came out. Remmick pressed his hand against the side of your thigh and tilted his head, "what?"

"I'm trusting you. I'm trusting your words, and even if it makes me a fool, I really want this to be the truth." It was only because you desired companionship. For so long had you been alone, moving throughout life only thinking of your best interest. Really, deep inside, you wanted to take care of someone other than yourself, even if it meant cooking meals for a vampire and letting him sleep on your couch.

Remmick stood, hands coming against your waist as he smiled, sharp and curt, "you're not a fool, baby." He squeezed your hips and pulled you close, cheek against yours. You didn't hug him back, but you did loosen, body slacking against his, but Remmick held you up, "ain't no fool, but you are a lover, and nothin' wrong with that."

♱⋆˙⟡

Remmick stuffed pancakes into his mouth, then moaned low, while you sat across from him, a fork in your hand as you watched, fascinated. You never thought a vampire would love your cooking so much, but Remmick was continuously proving you wrong. He sipped orange juice, then placed his silverware down when he was finished, eyes on you intensely.

Red dots gleamed within his pupils if you looked just right, but you said nothing, "you liked it?" He nodded wholeheartedly, standing then beginning to wash his dishes. He was shirtless, pants low on his hips, suspenders hanging loosely by his legs. Remmick was muscular— enough that his arms tensed each time he moved, and he cocked his leg out and glanced back at you, "got somethin' to do today?"

You shrugged, "the same as usual."

You showed him the bathroom afterwards, the tub right in the center, while the sink was against the wall, a circular mirror above it which you'd covered with a blanket. Remmick hummed at the sight of it, then snatched the blanket away. You paused at the sight of his lack of a reflection, and Remmick muttered, "got no soul, baby."

You disregarded his words, "I keep the bucket filled, so when you're finished, go outside and refill it." You placed the bucket in the lit fireplace, on your knees, while Remmick sat on the stool next to the tub.

"Join me." He said, and you didn't respond at first, too busy making sure the bucket wouldn't spill over, but then his words replayed in your head, and you glanced back, "what?"

He grabbed your hand gently, and tugged you to your feet, "join me in the bath, sweetheart. Plenty room for both of us, plus we'll save water." He didn't let you reply, reaching towards the bucket of boiling water, then pouring it into the tub, ignoring the redness of his flesh from the fire.

You didn't know what to think. You hadn't been with a man in a long time, and definitely not a vampire who loved your cooking and couldn't keep his hands off of you. But before even realizing, you were tugging down the straps of your shift, eyes glued to the tub, while Remmick undressed too, mouth pulled into a simple grin.

When he was naked, he circled you, hands against your back as he pulled the shift off, hands trailing down your sides, then hooking on your panties. You stepped out of them, and Remmick leaned against you, the softness of his dick grazing your leg as his arms wrapped around your torso.

"So pretty, you know that? Don't let nobody tell you you ain't 'cause you are." He pressed a lazy kiss to your neck, tongue lolling out to lick up the saltiness on your skin. You shivered, hand against his arm, your eyes fluttering closed. The room was hot from the fire, your skin moist with sweat.

Remmick walked you over to the tub, then stuck his hand in to check the temperature. He nodded at you, then you stepped in, letting the water encompass your shoulders while Remmick sat across from you, legs threaded with yours. He admired your figure, hand holding yours, "what you feelin'?"

You shrugged honestly, "I'm confused. Why do you like me so much? I'm just a random woman living in Mississippi—sure you've come across other me's."

He scoffed, waving you off, "sweetheart, I've never met nobody like you, so don't even put that thought in your head." He climbed on top of you and kissed you, passionately, but gently. His arm tucked underneath your waist, and he lifted your thighs, slotting himself right against you, but he didn't thrust, he only grinded—his tip brushing over your clit.

You moaned, hand threading into his hair as Remmick trailed heavy kisses down your body, tongue on you like a fly on food. He twirled your nipple, then bit it softly, making your back arch, "so stunning, sweetheart." He replaced his tip with a finger, flicking your clit rhythmically until you were shuddering against him.

"Remmick—fuck, don't stop!" He listened, slipping farther down your body, tongue lapping your cunt like his life depended on it. He gripped your thighs tight, water swishing around his face, but it did little to distract him. You gripped the edge of the tub, head thrown back, thighs clenching around his head.

Remmick chuckled against you, chin coated in your arousal. When he glanced up at you, gauging your pleasure, he went faster, tongue entering you swiftly while his thumb pressed against your clit. Your toes clenched, chest heaving, and you let out a sweet moan, throat bobbing with a labored gasp. Remmick pulled your leg over his shoulder and with a thrust of his finger, you came, heavily and intensely, body tensing tight and sure like a rubber band, then you released entirely, twisting onto your side, your spine bending.

Remmick climbed back up and kissed the corner of your mouth, "best meal you've given me, baby."

[mbaku-babygirl]

I'm sorry... Remmick is stealing socks now???

The beginning definitely had me clutching my pearls a lil. But yeah, this was cute!!! 🤭🤭💗💗💗

[kittyminion]

can't even tell you why he was stealing socks and a toothebrush lmao

[ellesthots]

brighter days

i. “first impressions”

battinson!bruce wayne x corensupes!clark kent | series

read on AO3 🖤

parts: next

plot: a year after the historic flooding of Gotham City, Bruce and Clark meet at a group therapy session.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x corensupes!clark kent

cw: mature, strong mental health themes, in-depth discussions of grief and loss, emotional hurt/comfort, sexual content, strong language, fluff, mild/moderate angst, mutual pining, forced proximity, opposites attract, slow(ish) burn, dual pov

word count: 3.9k

a/n: trying something new with this series! sexual content will be present, but not with the depth of smut. a first for elle !! wanting to explore grief, help both these lil babies (they are fully grown adult men) grow and connect in new ways.

DISCLAIMER: by writing therapy sequences, it does not mean i condone the therapy in this fic. i do not endorse any of the therapeutic interactions as being good or bad, and it is not meant to be taken as advice. if you gain a new perspective from the interactions in this fic, that is lovely!! i am deeply passionate about grief and creating a place to explore grief, better understand it, and share that with all of you in community! with that said, this fic and its therapy sequences are not substitutes for real therapy. this is simply fun and fiction! <3

The door was heavy—doors were never heavy for Clark. At least the carpeting felt the same under his shoes. Barely holding him up. Just another way that grief changed everything and nothing all at once.

He didn’t like coming to Gotham; it was too dreary, and the people were generally unnerved by Clark’s kindness. He didn’t want to be here, not really, but if he was recommending his Ma see someone, it would be hypocritical not to follow his own advice. 

“Thank you.” He smiled at the older fellow who held the door open to the church gym. Compared to the haze of gray smog outside, the lights were dazzlingly bright; he squinted as he sat in one of three empty chairs toward the far edge of the circle. 

Deep breaths, Clark. It’s good you’re here.

He repeated this mantra for the next five minutes, though the breaths hurt. Everyone here was closed off, tightly coiled, yet somehow loose. He played with his tie, then clasped his hands in his lap. A strange feeling of introversion kept him quiet.

He tried to smile at the other participants, but they kept to their phones, their laps, or focused on the ground between their feet. Looking around helped him feel better about his wardrobe choices the past month—baggy, stained sweatshirts, frizzy hair, and puffy eyes to match. Already feeling deeply seen, his heart throbbed for what the others were going through. 

A shorter woman wearing a blue sweater walked up and took the seat two to Clark’s left. Her heart beat slow and steady, different from the speeds of the others—aside from a gray-haired man with a pacemaker sitting across from him. Her voice was soft, and she introduced herself as the group leader. He turned to really engage, earnest to show that she and her instructions were heard. He could step in to help, if ever needed. 

What made her want to run this group? What tragedies had she endured that made her want to do this work? It was great of a local church to offer up their gym to a group that wasn’t faith-based. It was a nice gym, too, even if the hoops were a little rusty, and the floor a little dinged. All from good use, Clark was sure. It had character.

The counselor continued, her smile warm and kind. “I have a clipboard today, but don’t worry, I won’t be recording any of your responses past the introduction. This is for first-session attendance and our welcome question only. I’m Samia, by the way. We should have all talked on the consultation call last week.”

A few members nodded. What were their names? One of the women looked young, too young to be in a group about grief. Her eyes looked especially red. His heart hurt. He hoped this would help her. 

“Hi Samia.” 

Samia smiled at Clark, and he felt tears well up in him for the first time since that hospital call. He broke eye contact, holding a sudden and visceral understanding as to why the rest of the group acted this way. 

He really hoped this would help. 

Avoiding the paparazzi was a fucking ordeal on the drive, but thankfully this dilapidated building was in a part of town no one cared about. 

Bruce let the door of his Stingray slam as he pocketed his keys and narrowly avoided a disgusting puddle. Iris was ridiculous to think this would be anything but a drain. This was truly the medium she required to reduce session frequency? He was fine. Twenty years. Twenty goddamn years had passed.

The front door was too light, forcing him to stumble back and the heel of his dress shoe to catch in a hole. Two hours. Eight weeks. He dug his teeth into his tongue and shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. The hallway was dingy. Horribly run down. Did anyone take pride in things anymore? Did anyone even go here outside of these ridiculous groups? 

Hopefully the group’s attendance would be as empty as the streets looked. It was uncomfortable to sit in complete silence and stare at a therapist, but it was a hundred times more bearable than the alternative. 

His teeth threatened to split from his grinding. Wasn’t like he could say anything real even if he wanted to. The second he saw another human he’d have to plaster his mask on, be at least a semblance of cordial and accommodating or else risk his family’s already desecrated reputation. Anything he said was ammo. 

The alternative stared him in the face when he walked through the slim door frame, faced with a tight-knit circle in the center of the room—only one chair available, and closest to the facilitator. Fuck. Fuck! 

At least no one looked up, outside of the instructor, Samia. She hadn’t given a last name, and he hadn’t cared enough to look into it past the consult. 

Metal creaked when he sat, keeping his attention focused on the empty middle of the circle. When would everyone start whispering? He could almost feel eyes migrate toward him, and his cheeks got hot. 

“Hey.” 

He startled when the man to his right spoke; too quietly to address the group, too loud for Bruce to ignore him. A smile took up the whole lower half of his face. His hair was a bundle of curly black, his eyes a very bright blue behind black glasses, and his flannel was soaked with rain. He didn’t look from here. 

Bruce nodded, swiftly averting and not returning the man’s uncanny grin. He obviously knew he was a Wayne and was trying to schmooze. Ugh.

The facilitator provided welcome distraction as she started discussing group norms. God, he was brought right back to the year after the murders when Alfred forced him to attend his first—and before this, only—group therapy session. 

“Respect, I think.” The man to his right spoke up, chipper and clear. “And not judging the weight of people’s pain. Everyone deserves to feel heard here, nothing is too small.”

Bruce gnawed at his cheek and barely concealed a sigh. How the hell had he managed to snag the seat next to the teacher’s pet? 

“Thank you. Does everyone agree with these so far?” 

Out of his periphery, he watched most participants nod. Horrifically boring. Tonight he’d meet with Gordon to visit the Penguin’s old drug lab; hopefully he wouldn’t make the connection to Wayne Terminus, get himself all tied up in the investigation. Maybe he should go alone tonight. Think a bit more on things… 

Did Penguin really think no one would find his hideout, that a little rubble would cover it all up? If anything, that brought more attention to what he’d evidently tried desperately to hide. His gang had been partially successful, obliterating any recoverable evidence of the drug he was making. Didn’t seem like Drops, but it could’ve been. Didn’t have much evidence to the contrary. Didn’t have much evidence at all.

“Let’s begin to the right.” 

Bruce blinked back to the moment, disoriented. “Sorry?”

Samia smiled at him, and it twisted his stomach. “We’re starting introductions now. Name, pronouns, and if you could think of one word to describe grief, what would it be?”

Come on. This was like middle school orientation. 

“Bruce. He. Loss.” Bruce adjusted uncomfortably in his seat, and Clark felt an instinct to help him take off his coat or something. He must’ve been really affected to not remember what Samia had just said. He couldn’t imagine how stressful it would be to have the life of Bruce Wayne; at least what he knew about it, anyway. 

“Thank you, Bruce.”

Clark smiled at Bruce, who refused to look at anything but the floor. Straightforward. A touch antisocial. Handsome, in a grunge sort of way. He didn’t seem too far from what the papers said about him. But had his parents really been that bad? How did he feel about it? He hadn’t made any public comment, at least not so far as the Planet knew. 

Samia’s and a few other’s attention shifted to him, and he felt his cheeks go red. “Loss! That’s a good one. Um, I’m Clark.” He looked around at the group, trying to make sure everyone felt comfortable. “He and him, respectively. Uh,” he scratched his head, a bit more nervous than he thought he’d be. “I guess my word would be…” 

How did he feel? Hollow wasn’t quite the right word, but… empty? No, that would be disrespectful to Ma. And Jimmy. And Lois. Things weren’t empty but they were… “Sad.” 

“Thank you, Clark.” A few in the group nodded, especially the young woman to the right. She did look sad. 

He paid special attention to everyone—which, he guessed, meant no one got anything special, but nonetheless. A middle-aged woman to his right, Irene, said ‘delicate’. Her glasses were thin silver frames, and she had striking green eyes. To her right, Dave, a man who looked to be in his fifties wearing a striped bowling shirt with his initial. His word was ‘cruel’. 

Then the younger lady, Lucia, who wore a plain black hoodie that was baggy and a shred tattered. She took a while to answer, sniffing and crossing her arms tighter around her chest. Her word was ‘tender’, and her voice cracked on the edge of it. He wanted to leap in after each and everyone’s answers and tell them it would be alright.

Neil, the older fellow who sat beside Lucia, had a raspier voice. Clark admired his leather jacket, and made a mental note to compliment it on the way out. His word: ‘inevitable’. 

He felt the energy in the room shift; intrigue and discomfort weighted the air. Samia made no comment, thanking him before moving on to Ama, whose dark black hair was styled surprisingly well from the rainstorm just outside. He needed to ask what products she used; the humidity here was nuts. Sage was the last member, their hair dyed a cool blonde that flowed into green. ‘Transformation’ was their word. 

What difference made someone say ‘tender’ versus ‘cruel’? ‘Sadness’ versus ‘transformation’? What an interesting group. This will be good.

Bruce hated it here. Hated it. He wasn’t coming back after the end of this; he was paying enough attention to hear the next inevitable question, but that was all. Maybe he could find another group where a dog wagging its tail wasn’t sitting right beside him. 

There was a brief intermission at the halfway mark; a ten minute ‘bio break’ as the facilitator called it. He’d excuse himself then. Dart out when Clark’s attention was otherwise taken; he had a feeling the man would try to stop him. He acted like a camp counselor. Overzealous. Posturing. 

“Who wants to start?”

Shit. He didn’t lift his gaze from the floor, hoping it would reduce chances of being called on. What were they to talk about now? Would they all get in a big group hug at the end? 

“I can start.” 

There weren’t grades in therapy; this Clark guy knew that, right? 

“My weather pattern today… that’s a lovely question, wow.” Clark looked like he took the question far too seriously, all scrunched and thoughtful. It made Bruce’s teeth hurt. “Mine is ‘cloudy’. I’ve seen brighter days. Literally, too; I’m from Metropolis, not really used to the rain.” 

Of course. A transplant from the good ol’ sunshine city. Sure an apt representative.  

“You seem quite bright today, Clark.”

Samia was alright; the subtle challenge in her voice made the man laugh uncomfortably, pretending he wasn’t nervous. Pretending he was so fine; that’s why he was at a grief group, huh? That was why he drove all the way out of Metropolis city limits; to get something he didn’t need? 

“Yeah, I want to make a good impression. First day and all.” 

Bruce squinted. Hmm.

Samia addressed the group. “Does anyone else feel that way, too? Wanting to make a good impression today?” 

Everyone in the group nodded, a few of them vigorously, forcing Bruce to move his head a tad to match. 

She referred back to Clark, the focus being too close for comfort. Only a little while longer and he’d be out of this vice grip. He could make it. 

“How does it feel that everyone agreed?” 

Clark took a heavy breath. Out of the corner of his vision (because he wouldn’t dare give the entirety of his attention to such an extrovert), he noticed the man sink into the seat and shoulders fall. His grin faded, his clenched fingers loosening in his lap. “Makes me feel less alone. Like I might be able to let my guard down here.” 

Bruce could never let down his guard, and no one here understood that; no one else needed to concern themselves with a sneaky soundbite getting regurgitated onto the front page of every newspaper on this side of the US. No one else had to monitor every single word they said because the world believed disgusting lies about their parents; no one here carried that weight of performance, a weight he would never live up to, that he didn’t want to live up to. Just like Joker, just like the Riddler, gossip-mongering vultures wanted a moment to feel seen; they wanted to feel like they mattered, and he wasn’t about to acknowledge them, give the public any crumb of anything—

“Bruce, I noticed you sigh. Is something coming up for you?” Samia crossed her legs, gently setting the clipboard down to funnel all her attention into him. 

Here we go. “Nothing, stretching.” 

Her brown eyes shot right through him, refusing to let him fall to the background. “Would you like to answer the warm-up question next?”

What had that Clark guy said? Weather pattern, mood? He shoved the first word out of his mouth. “Rain.”

“Is it a heavier rain, or a drizzle?”

“Just rain.” 

“Thank you, Bruce. Let’s follow the circle to the left.” She shifted towards a person with faded green hair dye, who glared at him. His jaw set.

“No offense, but it’s weird to have a celebrity here.” A guy with a monogrammed ‘D’ on his shirt pocket chimed in, repositioning in his seat with a frustrated groan. “Especially one like him?”

“What do you mean ‘like him’?” This woman had silver glasses, though Bruce was hardly looking at anyone outside of basic signifiers. 

The person glaring at him spoke next. “Not like everyone here hasn’t seen the Riddler’s message.” 

“Exactly. I don’t feel comfortable having a Wayne here.” ‘D’ crossed his arms in a huff, his glare more akin to a leer. Bruce’s chest got tight. 

“Hey.” The oldest guy shook his head slowly, disappointed. Bruce wanted to run. Leave. Escape. “That Riddler flooded half the city. The Waynes were good people. Give the fellow a chance.”

“The billionaire? I’m supposed to listen to him complain while people rot? When even the sidewalk in front of this building is unwalkable?” The person was still glaring. Might not have blinked. Bruce already knew people fucking hated him, but being forced to sit right underneath it without escape made him ill.

“Well, to be fair—construction takes a very long time and Gotham City is huge,” Clark spoke up, and it was shocking his voice was anything besides grating. D wasn’t having it.  

“Doesn’t do jack shit but get drugged up in his mansion for ten, twenty years, then walks—”

“We aren’t upholding the group norms. It’s not respectful to engage this way.” Samia interrupted, quite stern for how he’d understood her to be. “Let’s allow Bruce to speak if he’d like to. Bruce,” he wanted to scream. “We can move on or you can respond.”

Eight pairs of eyes burned into him like a magnifying glass under the sun. “I’ll leave.”

Samia leaned close and lowered her voice, a delicately furrowed brow framing her face. “I’d like to check in with you privately if that’s alright?”

“I don’t think it’s a good fit.” He stood from the chair and walked across the gym, cursing why Iris ever thought a counseling group would work. He was too big, too known. Lurking above everything with a reputation that never ceased to precede him. His shoulders slumped as he stepped out into the rain, alone. 

This was good. He’d get more time to investigate Penguin’s old spot. Busy both rationalizing this concave bruise and dissociating from it, his heel caught on the front door’s lip. Rubbing salt in the wound, he stumbled through potholes to reach his car.

Bruce caught the breath he didn’t know he needed with his hands anchored to his thighs, the icy winter rain slamming against his scalp. It never got easier to be chewed up and spit out by his city. 

“What?! You’re just gonna let him get bullied out of a grief group?” 

Clark had rarely been more upset; the gall to harass, bully, push someone out of such a space? By peers in the man’s own hometown, no less? It was despicable. If they knew who Clark really was, he could make a point about not being one-to-one copies of one’s own parents. His face twitched, hands curled into fists, begging Samia to do something.

“If he doesn’t want to be followed, I can’t force it. I will follow up with him at my discretion. As stated on the consultation call, anyone is free to leave at any time and for any reason.” She smoothed her jeans out with her hands, nodded at him, and turned to the larger group. “Okay everyone, we will be revisiting the group norms.”

“Unacceptable.” Clark shared a look of disappointment with anyone who would meet his eye. “I’m gonna go talk to him.” He stood, relishing in the hard scraping sound of the chair’s legs. 

“Don’t waste your time, dude.” Sage rolled their eyes, and his spine straightened. Breathe, Clark. Breathe. Don’t be intimidating.

“He’s a member of the community just like any of us. He’s more a part of this city than I am, for crying out loud.” He surged across the gym at a jog, not bothering with the front door.

Rain had picked up outside, and the air in his lungs was harsher, slicing at him. His limbs were weak, his capacity losing grip. Grief was like Kryptonite, he was learning. 

Bruce Wayne was around the corner, parked in front of the church on a side street. He didn’t deserve to be treated like this; even if he was shitty, which he didn’t truly believe. Bruce’s quiet wasn’t calculated, it was plain and simple. Straightforward. 

“Hey, Bruce!” Clark rushed all the words out at once, the man already opening the door to his Chevrolet. “That wasn’t cool what happened back there and I, well, I wanted you to know that I’ve got your back. Piling on you like that, it’s wrong.”

He paused; the rain was hard to see on Bruce, completely donned in black with longer black hair to boot. “Have a good night.”

He stepped closer, dunking his foot in a pool of mud water. He hopped around, landing in another, then stubbornly stood wherever his feet landed, embarrassed. He’d acted more flustered in this single month than the rest of his life combined. “I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.” The man just stared at him, looking unreadable. Clark grasped at straws for any sort of connection, any lure. 

“I liked your answer for the intro question: loss. I’ve been feeling that. And rain, that was um, that was a wonderful answer. Very fitting for the city.”

“Bye, Clark.”

Clark chose not to read into why his heart sped up hearing his name in that voice. “Just because they’re loud doesn’t mean they’re right. You came here because you wanted to, and—you deserve to be in there as much as them.”

“My therapist required it.” Bruce grimaced like it was hard for him to say so many words in a row. Perhaps it was. One of the few celebrities who didn’t have a single interview to their name. He could’ve milked his fame, but he hadn’t.

“Will you find a different group?” He was worried for the sad-looking man. Where would he go? Who else did he have? If he were in his position, he didn’t think he’d look for another group; what if this was his only chance to be helped? 

“You should go back.”

Why would Clark want to after an interaction like that? “If they’re going to push you out based on assumption, that’s not a group I want to be a part of.”

“Don’t know what to tell you.”

“Let’s go back in there. We can talk to them. You can show them you’re not who they think you are.” If Bruce left now, everyone would feel justified in their estimations with no chance of redemption. 

Bruce answered quickly, tone flat. “I don’t care to do that.”

“Don’t let them kick you out. The first half each week is the worst part, anyway. Samia says the last hour is grief education. She even says you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”

“No one’s comfortable with me there.”

That knocked the wind out of him. Did Bruce Wayne ever get out? Did he have friends? Did he have anyone? Stuck solely to Metropolis for the past year as the flooding damage was cleared, he hadn’t yet come face to face with the level of vitriol the residents had for the Waynes. It didn’t feel wholly justified. 

“I’m comfortable.” Clark swallowed, the tips of his fingers tingling. “And Lucia, Irene, Ama, they’re quieter, they might actually despise what the others were saying. Neil—Neil defended you. I bet he’d be sad to see you go. The group wouldn’t be complete without its eighth member.” He put his hands on his hips, proud of his negotiating skills after witnessing the single inch Bruce pushed the car door towards closing. 

“I’ll think about it.” He pursed his lips into a tight line, and Clark felt equal urges to back off and keep pushing. He opened the door another two inches. Dang. Why did Bruce feel so slippery? 

“I’ll save your seat next week.” Clark feigned nonchalance as he played off the rain stinging his eyes. Shouting above the monsoon was exhausting in a worn body, but he was willing. “Even if I have to bring my own.” 

Bruce stood, staring, but said nothing.

He didn’t know how long they stayed there, but by the time he got into his car and left, and by the time he’d wandered back to the old gym, the group was on intermission. 

He took his seat and fixed his gaze in the same spot Bruce had. Clark didn’t know if the man would come back, but he had to hope. What an interesting group. 

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[ellesthots]

brighter days

i. “first impressions”

battinson!bruce wayne x corensupes!clark kent | series

read on AO3 🖤

parts: next

plot: a year after the historic flooding of Gotham City, Bruce and Clark meet at a group therapy session.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x corensupes!clark kent

cw: mature, strong mental health themes, in-depth discussions of grief and loss, emotional hurt/comfort, sexual content, strong language, fluff, mild/moderate angst, mutual pining, forced proximity, opposites attract, slow(ish) burn, dual pov

word count: 3.9k

a/n: trying something new with this series! sexual content will be present, but not with the depth of smut. a first for elle !! wanting to explore grief, help both these lil babies (they are fully grown adult men) grow and connect in new ways.

DISCLAIMER: by writing therapy sequences, it does not mean i condone the therapy in this fic. i do not endorse any of the therapeutic interactions as being good or bad, and it is not meant to be taken as advice. if you gain a new perspective from the interactions in this fic, that is lovely!! i am deeply passionate about grief and creating a place to explore grief, better understand it, and share that with all of you in community! with that said, this fic and its therapy sequences are not substitutes for real therapy. this is simply fun and fiction! <3

The door was heavy—doors were never heavy for Clark. At least the carpeting felt the same under his shoes. Barely holding him up. Just another way that grief changed everything and nothing all at once.

He didn’t like coming to Gotham; it was too dreary, and the people were generally unnerved by Clark’s kindness. He didn’t want to be here, not really, but if he was recommending his Ma see someone, it would be hypocritical not to follow his own advice. 

“Thank you.” He smiled at the older fellow who held the door open to the church gym. Compared to the haze of gray smog outside, the lights were dazzlingly bright; he squinted as he sat in one of three empty chairs toward the far edge of the circle. 

Deep breaths, Clark. It’s good you’re here.

He repeated this mantra for the next five minutes, though the breaths hurt. Everyone here was closed off, tightly coiled, yet somehow loose. He played with his tie, then clasped his hands in his lap. A strange feeling of introversion kept him quiet.

He tried to smile at the other participants, but they kept to their phones, their laps, or focused on the ground between their feet. Looking around helped him feel better about his wardrobe choices the past month—baggy, stained sweatshirts, frizzy hair, and puffy eyes to match. Already feeling deeply seen, his heart throbbed for what the others were going through. 

A shorter woman wearing a blue sweater walked up and took the seat two to Clark’s left. Her heart beat slow and steady, different from the speeds of the others—aside from a gray-haired man with a pacemaker sitting across from him. Her voice was soft, and she introduced herself as the group leader. He turned to really engage, earnest to show that she and her instructions were heard. He could step in to help, if ever needed. 

What made her want to run this group? What tragedies had she endured that made her want to do this work? It was great of a local church to offer up their gym to a group that wasn’t faith-based. It was a nice gym, too, even if the hoops were a little rusty, and the floor a little dinged. All from good use, Clark was sure. It had character.

The counselor continued, her smile warm and kind. “I have a clipboard today, but don’t worry, I won’t be recording any of your responses past the introduction. This is for first-session attendance and our welcome question only. I’m Samia, by the way. We should have all talked on the consultation call last week.”

A few members nodded. What were their names? One of the women looked young, too young to be in a group about grief. Her eyes looked especially red. His heart hurt. He hoped this would help her. 

“Hi Samia.” 

Samia smiled at Clark, and he felt tears well up in him for the first time since that hospital call. He broke eye contact, holding a sudden and visceral understanding as to why the rest of the group acted this way. 

He really hoped this would help. 

Avoiding the paparazzi was a fucking ordeal on the drive, but thankfully this dilapidated building was in a part of town no one cared about. 

Bruce let the door of his Stingray slam as he pocketed his keys and narrowly avoided a disgusting puddle. Iris was ridiculous to think this would be anything but a drain. This was truly the medium she required to reduce session frequency? He was fine. Twenty years. Twenty goddamn years had passed.

The front door was too light, forcing him to stumble back and the heel of his dress shoe to catch in a hole. Two hours. Eight weeks. He dug his teeth into his tongue and shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. The hallway was dingy. Horribly run down. Did anyone take pride in things anymore? Did anyone even go here outside of these ridiculous groups? 

Hopefully the group’s attendance would be as empty as the streets looked. It was uncomfortable to sit in complete silence and stare at a therapist, but it was a hundred times more bearable than the alternative. 

His teeth threatened to split from his grinding. Wasn’t like he could say anything real even if he wanted to. The second he saw another human he’d have to plaster his mask on, be at least a semblance of cordial and accommodating or else risk his family’s already desecrated reputation. Anything he said was ammo. 

The alternative stared him in the face when he walked through the slim door frame, faced with a tight-knit circle in the center of the room—only one chair available, and closest to the facilitator. Fuck. Fuck! 

At least no one looked up, outside of the instructor, Samia. She hadn’t given a last name, and he hadn’t cared enough to look into it past the consult. 

Metal creaked when he sat, keeping his attention focused on the empty middle of the circle. When would everyone start whispering? He could almost feel eyes migrate toward him, and his cheeks got hot. 

“Hey.” 

He startled when the man to his right spoke; too quietly to address the group, too loud for Bruce to ignore him. A smile took up the whole lower half of his face. His hair was a bundle of curly black, his eyes a very bright blue behind black glasses, and his flannel was soaked with rain. He didn’t look from here. 

Bruce nodded, swiftly averting and not returning the man’s uncanny grin. He obviously knew he was a Wayne and was trying to schmooze. Ugh.

The facilitator provided welcome distraction as she started discussing group norms. God, he was brought right back to the year after the murders when Alfred forced him to attend his first—and before this, only—group therapy session. 

“Respect, I think.” The man to his right spoke up, chipper and clear. “And not judging the weight of people’s pain. Everyone deserves to feel heard here, nothing is too small.”

Bruce gnawed at his cheek and barely concealed a sigh. How the hell had he managed to snag the seat next to the teacher’s pet? 

“Thank you. Does everyone agree with these so far?” 

Out of his periphery, he watched most participants nod. Horrifically boring. Tonight he’d meet with Gordon to visit the Penguin’s old drug lab; hopefully he wouldn’t make the connection to Wayne Terminus, get himself all tied up in the investigation. Maybe he should go alone tonight. Think a bit more on things… 

Did Penguin really think no one would find his hideout, that a little rubble would cover it all up? If anything, that brought more attention to what he’d evidently tried desperately to hide. His gang had been partially successful, obliterating any recoverable evidence of the drug he was making. Didn’t seem like Drops, but it could’ve been. Didn’t have much evidence to the contrary. Didn’t have much evidence at all.

“Let’s begin to the right.” 

Bruce blinked back to the moment, disoriented. “Sorry?”

Samia smiled at him, and it twisted his stomach. “We’re starting introductions now. Name, pronouns, and if you could think of one word to describe grief, what would it be?”

Come on. This was like middle school orientation. 

“Bruce. He. Loss.” Bruce adjusted uncomfortably in his seat, and Clark felt an instinct to help him take off his coat or something. He must’ve been really affected to not remember what Samia had just said. He couldn’t imagine how stressful it would be to have the life of Bruce Wayne; at least what he knew about it, anyway. 

“Thank you, Bruce.”

Clark smiled at Bruce, who refused to look at anything but the floor. Straightforward. A touch antisocial. Handsome, in a grunge sort of way. He didn’t seem too far from what the papers said about him. But had his parents really been that bad? How did he feel about it? He hadn’t made any public comment, at least not so far as the Planet knew. 

Samia’s and a few other’s attention shifted to him, and he felt his cheeks go red. “Loss! That’s a good one. Um, I’m Clark.” He looked around at the group, trying to make sure everyone felt comfortable. “He and him, respectively. Uh,” he scratched his head, a bit more nervous than he thought he’d be. “I guess my word would be…” 

How did he feel? Hollow wasn’t quite the right word, but… empty? No, that would be disrespectful to Ma. And Jimmy. And Lois. Things weren’t empty but they were… “Sad.” 

“Thank you, Clark.” A few in the group nodded, especially the young woman to the right. She did look sad. 

He paid special attention to everyone—which, he guessed, meant no one got anything special, but nonetheless. A middle-aged woman to his right, Irene, said ‘delicate’. Her glasses were thin silver frames, and she had striking green eyes. To her right, Dave, a man who looked to be in his fifties wearing a striped bowling shirt with his initial. His word was ‘cruel’. 

Then the younger lady, Lucia, who wore a plain black hoodie that was baggy and a shred tattered. She took a while to answer, sniffing and crossing her arms tighter around her chest. Her word was ‘tender’, and her voice cracked on the edge of it. He wanted to leap in after each and everyone’s answers and tell them it would be alright.

Neil, the older fellow who sat beside Lucia, had a raspier voice. Clark admired his leather jacket, and made a mental note to compliment it on the way out. His word: ‘inevitable’. 

He felt the energy in the room shift; intrigue and discomfort weighted the air. Samia made no comment, thanking him before moving on to Ama, whose dark black hair was styled surprisingly well from the rainstorm just outside. He needed to ask what products she used; the humidity here was nuts. Sage was the last member, their hair dyed a cool blonde that flowed into green. ‘Transformation’ was their word. 

What difference made someone say ‘tender’ versus ‘cruel’? ‘Sadness’ versus ‘transformation’? What an interesting group. This will be good.

Bruce hated it here. Hated it. He wasn’t coming back after the end of this; he was paying enough attention to hear the next inevitable question, but that was all. Maybe he could find another group where a dog wagging its tail wasn’t sitting right beside him. 

There was a brief intermission at the halfway mark; a ten minute ‘bio break’ as the facilitator called it. He’d excuse himself then. Dart out when Clark’s attention was otherwise taken; he had a feeling the man would try to stop him. He acted like a camp counselor. Overzealous. Posturing. 

“Who wants to start?”

Shit. He didn’t lift his gaze from the floor, hoping it would reduce chances of being called on. What were they to talk about now? Would they all get in a big group hug at the end? 

“I can start.” 

There weren’t grades in therapy; this Clark guy knew that, right? 

“My weather pattern today… that’s a lovely question, wow.” Clark looked like he took the question far too seriously, all scrunched and thoughtful. It made Bruce’s teeth hurt. “Mine is ‘cloudy’. I’ve seen brighter days. Literally, too; I’m from Metropolis, not really used to the rain.” 

Of course. A transplant from the good ol’ sunshine city. Sure an apt representative.  

“You seem quite bright today, Clark.”

Samia was alright; the subtle challenge in her voice made the man laugh uncomfortably, pretending he wasn’t nervous. Pretending he was so fine; that’s why he was at a grief group, huh? That was why he drove all the way out of Metropolis city limits; to get something he didn’t need? 

“Yeah, I want to make a good impression. First day and all.” 

Bruce squinted. Hmm.

Samia addressed the group. “Does anyone else feel that way, too? Wanting to make a good impression today?” 

Everyone in the group nodded, a few of them vigorously, forcing Bruce to move his head a tad to match. 

She referred back to Clark, the focus being too close for comfort. Only a little while longer and he’d be out of this vice grip. He could make it. 

“How does it feel that everyone agreed?” 

Clark took a heavy breath. Out of the corner of his vision (because he wouldn’t dare give the entirety of his attention to such an extrovert), he noticed the man sink into the seat and shoulders fall. His grin faded, his clenched fingers loosening in his lap. “Makes me feel less alone. Like I might be able to let my guard down here.” 

Bruce could never let down his guard, and no one here understood that; no one else needed to concern themselves with a sneaky soundbite getting regurgitated onto the front page of every newspaper on this side of the US. No one else had to monitor every single word they said because the world believed disgusting lies about their parents; no one here carried that weight of performance, a weight he would never live up to, that he didn’t want to live up to. Just like Joker, just like the Riddler, gossip-mongering vultures wanted a moment to feel seen; they wanted to feel like they mattered, and he wasn’t about to acknowledge them, give the public any crumb of anything—

“Bruce, I noticed you sigh. Is something coming up for you?” Samia crossed her legs, gently setting the clipboard down to funnel all her attention into him. 

Here we go. “Nothing, stretching.” 

Her brown eyes shot right through him, refusing to let him fall to the background. “Would you like to answer the warm-up question next?”

What had that Clark guy said? Weather pattern, mood? He shoved the first word out of his mouth. “Rain.”

“Is it a heavier rain, or a drizzle?”

“Just rain.” 

“Thank you, Bruce. Let’s follow the circle to the left.” She shifted towards a person with faded green hair dye, who glared at him. His jaw set.

“No offense, but it’s weird to have a celebrity here.” A guy with a monogrammed ‘D’ on his shirt pocket chimed in, repositioning in his seat with a frustrated groan. “Especially one like him?”

“What do you mean ‘like him’?” This woman had silver glasses, though Bruce was hardly looking at anyone outside of basic signifiers. 

The person glaring at him spoke next. “Not like everyone here hasn’t seen the Riddler’s message.” 

“Exactly. I don’t feel comfortable having a Wayne here.” ‘D’ crossed his arms in a huff, his glare more akin to a leer. Bruce’s chest got tight. 

“Hey.” The oldest guy shook his head slowly, disappointed. Bruce wanted to run. Leave. Escape. “That Riddler flooded half the city. The Waynes were good people. Give the fellow a chance.”

“The billionaire? I’m supposed to listen to him complain while people rot? When even the sidewalk in front of this building is unwalkable?” The person was still glaring. Might not have blinked. Bruce already knew people fucking hated him, but being forced to sit right underneath it without escape made him ill.

“Well, to be fair—construction takes a very long time and Gotham City is huge,” Clark spoke up, and it was shocking his voice was anything besides grating. D wasn’t having it.  

“Doesn’t do jack shit but get drugged up in his mansion for ten, twenty years, then walks—”

“We aren’t upholding the group norms. It’s not respectful to engage this way.” Samia interrupted, quite stern for how he’d understood her to be. “Let’s allow Bruce to speak if he’d like to. Bruce,” he wanted to scream. “We can move on or you can respond.”

Eight pairs of eyes burned into him like a magnifying glass under the sun. “I’ll leave.”

Samia leaned close and lowered her voice, a delicately furrowed brow framing her face. “I’d like to check in with you privately if that’s alright?”

“I don’t think it’s a good fit.” He stood from the chair and walked across the gym, cursing why Iris ever thought a counseling group would work. He was too big, too known. Lurking above everything with a reputation that never ceased to precede him. His shoulders slumped as he stepped out into the rain, alone. 

This was good. He’d get more time to investigate Penguin’s old spot. Busy both rationalizing this concave bruise and dissociating from it, his heel caught on the front door’s lip. Rubbing salt in the wound, he stumbled through potholes to reach his car.

Bruce caught the breath he didn’t know he needed with his hands anchored to his thighs, the icy winter rain slamming against his scalp. It never got easier to be chewed up and spit out by his city. 

“What?! You’re just gonna let him get bullied out of a grief group?” 

Clark had rarely been more upset; the gall to harass, bully, push someone out of such a space? By peers in the man’s own hometown, no less? It was despicable. If they knew who Clark really was, he could make a point about not being one-to-one copies of one’s own parents. His face twitched, hands curled into fists, begging Samia to do something.

“If he doesn’t want to be followed, I can’t force it. I will follow up with him at my discretion. As stated on the consultation call, anyone is free to leave at any time and for any reason.” She smoothed her jeans out with her hands, nodded at him, and turned to the larger group. “Okay everyone, we will be revisiting the group norms.”

“Unacceptable.” Clark shared a look of disappointment with anyone who would meet his eye. “I’m gonna go talk to him.” He stood, relishing in the hard scraping sound of the chair’s legs. 

“Don’t waste your time, dude.” Sage rolled their eyes, and his spine straightened. Breathe, Clark. Breathe. Don’t be intimidating.

“He’s a member of the community just like any of us. He’s more a part of this city than I am, for crying out loud.” He surged across the gym at a jog, not bothering with the front door.

Rain had picked up outside, and the air in his lungs was harsher, slicing at him. His limbs were weak, his capacity losing grip. Grief was like Kryptonite, he was learning. 

Bruce Wayne was around the corner, parked in front of the church on a side street. He didn’t deserve to be treated like this; even if he was shitty, which he didn’t truly believe. Bruce’s quiet wasn’t calculated, it was plain and simple. Straightforward. 

“Hey, Bruce!” Clark rushed all the words out at once, the man already opening the door to his Chevrolet. “That wasn’t cool what happened back there and I, well, I wanted you to know that I’ve got your back. Piling on you like that, it’s wrong.”

He paused; the rain was hard to see on Bruce, completely donned in black with longer black hair to boot. “Have a good night.”

He stepped closer, dunking his foot in a pool of mud water. He hopped around, landing in another, then stubbornly stood wherever his feet landed, embarrassed. He’d acted more flustered in this single month than the rest of his life combined. “I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.” The man just stared at him, looking unreadable. Clark grasped at straws for any sort of connection, any lure. 

“I liked your answer for the intro question: loss. I’ve been feeling that. And rain, that was um, that was a wonderful answer. Very fitting for the city.”

“Bye, Clark.”

Clark chose not to read into why his heart sped up hearing his name in that voice. “Just because they’re loud doesn’t mean they’re right. You came here because you wanted to, and—you deserve to be in there as much as them.”

“My therapist required it.” Bruce grimaced like it was hard for him to say so many words in a row. Perhaps it was. One of the few celebrities who didn’t have a single interview to their name. He could’ve milked his fame, but he hadn’t.

“Will you find a different group?” He was worried for the sad-looking man. Where would he go? Who else did he have? If he were in his position, he didn’t think he’d look for another group; what if this was his only chance to be helped? 

“You should go back.”

Why would Clark want to after an interaction like that? “If they’re going to push you out based on assumption, that’s not a group I want to be a part of.”

“Don’t know what to tell you.”

“Let’s go back in there. We can talk to them. You can show them you’re not who they think you are.” If Bruce left now, everyone would feel justified in their estimations with no chance of redemption. 

Bruce answered quickly, tone flat. “I don’t care to do that.”

“Don’t let them kick you out. The first half each week is the worst part, anyway. Samia says the last hour is grief education. She even says you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”

“No one’s comfortable with me there.”

That knocked the wind out of him. Did Bruce Wayne ever get out? Did he have friends? Did he have anyone? Stuck solely to Metropolis for the past year as the flooding damage was cleared, he hadn’t yet come face to face with the level of vitriol the residents had for the Waynes. It didn’t feel wholly justified. 

“I’m comfortable.” Clark swallowed, the tips of his fingers tingling. “And Lucia, Irene, Ama, they’re quieter, they might actually despise what the others were saying. Neil—Neil defended you. I bet he’d be sad to see you go. The group wouldn’t be complete without its eighth member.” He put his hands on his hips, proud of his negotiating skills after witnessing the single inch Bruce pushed the car door towards closing. 

“I’ll think about it.” He pursed his lips into a tight line, and Clark felt equal urges to back off and keep pushing. He opened the door another two inches. Dang. Why did Bruce feel so slippery? 

“I’ll save your seat next week.” Clark feigned nonchalance as he played off the rain stinging his eyes. Shouting above the monsoon was exhausting in a worn body, but he was willing. “Even if I have to bring my own.” 

Bruce stood, staring, but said nothing.

He didn’t know how long they stayed there, but by the time he got into his car and left, and by the time he’d wandered back to the old gym, the group was on intermission. 

He took his seat and fixed his gaze in the same spot Bruce had. Clark didn’t know if the man would come back, but he had to hope. What an interesting group. 

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[rutherbwk2]

Bruce is the only one that can get Krypto to actually listen. Krypto doesn’t need to be told twice and it’s been like that since the first day Batman walked into the Fortress.