Pairing : (F/M) || Sirius Black x Reader
Word Count : 5.2k
Warning : I don’t know, nothing I suppose.
Synopsis : Their game of love hate pretend has to put to halt as Sirius gazed into the crystal ball.
Notes : Post number 1 for my 7-days post celebration. If you like this story and would like to support me, please visit my kofi page and perhaps get me a coffee?☕
“Divination is rubbish.”
Sirius whines as he drags his feet to the class, spiteful mumbles escaping his lips with every step closer to the dreadful lesson. He loathes Divination class, to say the least. Other than the fact that the Professor always rambles about nonsense Sirius could never comprehend, sharing the hour with her irks him to the bone.
“Just because your pea-sized brain couldn’t compute the knowledge given does not mean the class is rubbish, Black.”
hey so if you have time, maybe you could write some more cook fanfics? Im currently obsessed w him cause I'm rewatching skins and you're the only good fanfic writer i trust
Best friends sister 𐀪𐀪
Innocent reader Headcanons edition (18+)
𐀪𐀪 cook naturally gravitated towards you and your calm and kind demeanour, you had never been one to talk down to his or even make fun of him when he showed up to Freddie’s half blind and stumbling, you would just bring him a glass of water and sit with him.
𐀪𐀪 cool is overly gross and a tease when he’s around you, the innocent look on life you had was something so foreign to cook who is so deep in the party scene he forgets girls like that existed apart from you. So he makes show of grabbing your ass or making dick jokes on you cause he loves how scandalised you get.
𐀪𐀪 Freddie has marked you off limits and whenever he sees cook looking at you with that stupid sparkle in his eye or when he’s touching you, the back hand he receives is instant lmao. Freddie hates the flirting.
𐀪𐀪 since he know how much Freddie hates the flirting cook makes it a point to slap your ass harder in front of him or pull you into his lap more when Freddie’s in the room. “Cookkkk, Fred’s right there stop it” you whisper to him after he’d come up behind you and wrap around you, ghosting his lip on your neck “ohhh so you just don’t like it when Freddie’s around?” “Cause all the other time you just Take it, aye girly?
𐀪𐀪 the first time you’ve ever smoked was with cook in the middle of the night in your back garden, you were 16 and he was just about to turn 18. He had been teasing you all day about being a goody goody when you’d told him you’ve never done anything like that, that was also the first time you had ever given a guy a blow job.
𐀪𐀪 cooks the type of guy to make up stupid “games” so that he can get you in a compromising position (he’s a horny teen idk what yall expect). Like asking you jump up and down really fast or asking how you would shake salt into your mouth 🫠
𐀪𐀪 cook offers to help you practice kissing. He’d been thinking about it all day Monday when you had admitted to him on Sunday you had never made out or even kissed a boy, fuck did that do something to him. Cook loved the thought of you being untouched and boy did he take the lesson serious. So Monday night he had implemented his “program” so you could master kissing under the guise of being a helpful friend and it ended you him showing you what it felt like to be eaten out
𐀪𐀪 after cook kissed you for the first time he impossibly became more obsessed with you, constantly making excuses to hang around you or touch you in any way that would be weird for a friend to touch another like, he became pussy whipped with the pussy
𐀪𐀪 all your friends had a crush on cook but were also a bit scared of him and cook loved the attention from the “slutty birds” but knew he only had eyes for you, sweet angel you.
𐀪𐀪 cook is extremely protective, he cannot STAND when another guy looks at you because he knows what they’re thinking. “I’m a guy I know what they’re thinking think when they look at you, they think your some fresh daisy to corrupt baby” “that my job” he says low enough to not reach your ears.
𐀪𐀪 cook like to grip you hair back and spit in your mouth 😵💫 he gets such a power trip because you never complain how gross that is and just swallow with a giggle.
𐀪𐀪 cook would stumble into your family’s flat at least 3 times a week look to sleep in your bed, wanting nothing more then when hes half blind and high off his head than to be with you, cuddled up with you, held by you.
𐀪𐀪 despite all the mean shit cook does to you, you are one of the only person other than your brother and jj he trusts but since trusting Freddie is a foggy now after all the effy stuff happened, even when he was trying to win over effy you never left him.
𐀪𐀪 when he went awol off with effy to find his dad you were the one to convince him to come home with you, after he did he stayed in your room every single night for a month and cried and held onto you every night the first week, not once did you complain and just let him spill his guts.
𐀪𐀪 you HATED effy after all of the awful things she’s done to cook, you’re sweet cook who never had anyone to understand him.
𐀪𐀪 you always called cook pet names in a sweet honeyed voice just for him, “honey” “cookie” “baby” jamsey” “cookie baby” it made everyone sick but cook just had a flutter in his stomach and hearts in his eyes every time.
𐀪𐀪 cook had like a bad obsession with your boobs, constantly grabbing them or simply pulling your top up without a bra on, He decides between just looking at them or using his on them multiple times and day and you’ve never had a problem with it.
𐀪𐀪 cook wants so badly to fuck you, he jerks off genuinely every night thinking about your face when he puts in in for the first time but can’t because he’s so scared of corrupting you even though you want it just as bad but he only allows himself to put the tip in.
𐀪𐀪 lets you clean him up, wash his face, cut or style his hair or remind him to slow down. You are the only person who could convince James cook to stay in on a Saturday night to do facials.
𐀪𐀪 after remembering how much cook loved orange poppyseed muffins and making a whole batch for him he ate you out in your kitchen to the point of stars to show how grateful he was.
In a world where night creature adoption centers dotted every city block like pet shops once had, it had become almost unusual not to own one. Whether it was a shade for companionship, a domesticated kelpie as a therapy creature, or a vampire—rare—nightlings were everywhere. They had been folded into daily life, marketed as living luxuries, symbols of status and style. You couldn’t walk three blocks without seeing someone cooing over their duskbeast or posing their feathered hellcat for likes on Instagram.
For decades, night creatures were hunted on sight. No trials, no containment—just cold, clinical extermination. Vampires were the most visible, but they weren’t alone. Kelpies drowned in dry tanks. Fairies were burned to ash in “containment fires.” Merrows were dissected for study under the flickering lights of whitewashed labs.
It was done under the guise of safety. Public protection. Clean streets and peaceful nights.
But people watched. And people remembered.
It started with the footage.
Blurry, shaky clips taken on contraband phones. Videos of people laughing as a werewolf hissed and begged. Images of black bags dragged into trucks. The limp hand of a nightborn child, fingers twitching with the last of its stolen strength.
They called it evidence. The government called it fabricated.
The protests started small—signs painted on old bedsheets, marches in the dead hours, flowers left on government steps. “They Bleed. We See.” but the movement grew faster than expected.
The government could no longer call it fringe hysteria, they had to call it a crisis.
But they didn’t want to concede. Not fully. They didn’t want to admit they’d been wrong.
So they compromised.
They stopped the killings.
Not because they saw personhood but because they saw profit.
Sanctioned containment was proposed not as mercy, but as an “ethical, manageable alternative to wasteful culling.” The motion passed in the midnight hours, slipped beneath the noise of another budget bill.
The bill wasn’t called the Night Creature Protection Act.
It was called the Domestic Integration Reform Initiative.
DIRI.
Ownership was encouraged, even expected—especially in cities where the rehoming shelters were “overburdened” and the euthanasia rate for unadoptables hovered quietly above 38% and so it all began.
But you didn’t want one.
Not a vampire. Not a fairies. Not a werewolf, not a dreamhound, not a thing that could look at you and feel and still not be considered a person.
So you made yourself a promise.
No night creature. Ever.
No matter how lonely you got. No matter how beautiful they were. No matter how often your friends said you’d be such a good match for a nervous one.
No.
You didn’t want obedience, you wanted choice.
You wanted to look someone in the eyes and know they were staying because they wanted to.
You had stuck to that.
For years.
Until you met Remmick.
The road to the adoption shelter cut through the forgotten edge of the city, where the concrete split in long, pale veins and the warehouses loomed like sleeping giants. Chain-link fences rimmed the road in either direction, hung with tattered warning signs and the quiet menace of barbed wire. Steam leaked from the gutters, pooling low and slow around the tires of passing cars like smoke that had nowhere left to rise.
You rode in silence, watching the landscape slide by, as your friend hummed under her breath in the driver’s seat. Her scarf was slung loose around her neck, fluttering when the breeze slipped through the open window.
She was smiling, excited. Her fingers tapped rhythmically against the wheel as she navigated the turns, already imagining the collar she’d pick out, the bed she’d set up, the first photo she’d post online with a caption like “Welcome to the family.”
You stared out at the ruins of the old freight yards, where the government once processed surplus creatures for destruction—before legislation had shifted, before public outrage had spilled loud enough across newsfeeds and city halls to change the system.
Your friend was one of the good ones, you reminded yourself.
Her family had marched for nightkind rights during the following round of protests. She had stood beside you at rallies. Her father had donated to shadow-lawyers trying to push protection bills through the House.
But now, here she was—smiling as she pulled into the shelter lot, ready to adopt her second creature, like she was visiting a petting zoo.
“You really need another one?” you asked, eyes on the road. Your voice was flat, tired before the conversation even began. “What about the kelpie one?”
She sighed. “My brother wanted one. But he’s too young, and I want him to take care of something that’s… safe. Something trained. Predictable. So I give it to him.”
You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you looked out the window, watching the different types of creatures that were dragged around the city tied to their obligatory collars and harnesses.
“And do you seriously need one?” you said it in an almost reproachful tone of voice, even though you didn't mean to but she caught it anyway and looked at you askance.
“You know I’m not like that,” she said softly. “You’ve known me since we were kids. You know my family fought for them. They’re safe because they serve.”
The truth hung between you like fog in the car.
She was right. They’d been spared mass extermination only by offering usefulness in return.
As the car rolled to a stop, you caught sight of the shelter building ahead: squat and windowless, flanked by metal fencing and dead trees. A faded sign out front read:
NIGHTKIND INTAKE & ADOPTION CENTER – UNIT 7
The letters were plain. Official. Cold.
The kind of wording that left no room for mercy.
You stared at the sign, a bitter taste rising in your throat.
Your friend cut the engine and glanced over. “You sure you want to come in?”
You didn’t answer right away. Your hand was already on the door handle.
“I’m sure,” you said quietly, entering in the shop before her.
The creatures shelter smelled like antiseptic and something worse—like despair that had dried into the grout. Like bleach failing to hide the scent of fear. It was clean, yes, but in that too-quiet, state-funded way—where the color palette was limited to grays and yellows that used to be white, where every sound was swallowed by concrete walls and cheap, humming fluorescents overhead.
The kind of place where silence wasn’t restful. It was resigned.
Your friend didn’t seem to notice. She was radiant with excitement, practically floating beside you as the shelter clerk led you both through the first corridor. Her coat flared at her hips, stylish and bright against the monotony, and her boots clacked like punctuation against the linoleum floor. She was already talking about names.
You watched as she leaned in closer to the clerk, nodding enthusiastically as he launched into a lazy explanation about temperament ranges and adjustment phases. He looked bored. She looked enraptured.
“Now,” the clerk said with a grunt, stopping at a wide door, “the real stuff’s in the back.”
The lock disengaged with a mechanical clunk. The door hissed open.
Your friend lit up. She practically skipped ahead, her heels clicking against the floor like applause. Her silk scarf fluttered behind her, slipping from her shoulders as she disappeared around the corner.
You watched it float down near a cell in the middle of the corridor, totally forgotten.
“You coming?” she called, her voice light, sweet, unaware.
You sighed, moving forward beyond the door and entering the new wing. There was something heavier about this hallway. The quiet wasn’t sterile anymore—it was strained. Like the space itself had learned to brace.
You bent to pick up the scarf, its fabric whispering across the floor.
And then another hand reached for it.
A pale hand.
Too pale.
You froze.
The fingers were long, elegant in a strange, haunting way but covered in small sores. And when you looked up, you saw him.
He was crouched in the shadows of a side cell, where the corridor turned at a sharp angle. The bars cut harsh vertical lines across his face, but you could see him clearly enough. His hair was dark and matted. His face was like his hands, with scratches and cuts scattered here and there that were trying to heal. But it was his eyes that held you there.
Blue-grey. Bleached pale, like winter skies before snow.
They weren’t feral. They weren’t angry. They weren’t anything you expected.
They were… sad.
You stared. He stared back. Neither of you moved. The scarf lay limp between your hands, caught in the moment like a truce.
Then came the crack.
A flash of motion.
The clerk slammed his truncheon against the bars, the sound sharp and brutal. The vampire jerked back like he’d been struck, mouth parting just enough to flash two small, pitiful fangs.
He whimpered.
Not a snarl. Not a growl. Not even the sharp hiss they all expected from his kind. Just a soft, broken sound—like a wounded dog too scared to bare its teeth. It cracked something in you.
“Don’t do that,” you snapped, voice low, tight with something you didn’t want to name. You stood up without thinking, your body angling instinctively between the cell and the clerk like a barrier.
He looked at you with a scoff, as if you were the one being unreasonable.
“Trust me, this beast is unstable,” he said, lazily spinning the truncheon in one hand, like it was just another tool. “People keep bringing him back here after a week or two. Always angry. Always panicked. Bit a guy once just for trying to pet him days ago.”
He jerked his head toward the vampire, who had retreated into the furthest corner of the cell. There was barely any light back there—just the dim bleed of fluorescence from the hallway—but you could still see him.
Still watching.
He’d curled in on himself in a way that didn’t look defensive, just… small. His knees drawn to his chest. Shoulders bowed. Arms wrapped around himself like they were the only warmth he’d ever known. The long, tattered sleeves of his issued shirt had worn through at the cuffs, and his bare feet were pressed flat to the concrete, toes curled like he didn’t quite trust the ground beneath him.
He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. He just stared, like he was bracing for the next blow—only it didn’t come from the truncheon this time.
It came from the clerk’s next words.
“Another few weeks and I’ll get him out of my way once and for all,” the man muttered, tired and unbothered, like it was just the weather or paperwork. He leaned against the cell, tapping the baton absently against the bars. “Useless stock like that? We can’t keep him forever. Not worth the space.”
Your blood ran cold.
Not adopted. Not rehabilitated. Not transferred.
They’ll end him.
Some quietly sanctioned protocol. A needle. A bolt gun. The kind of solution they saved for animals no one wanted.
Your friend called your name from the other end of the hallway. She’d picked a fairies already—a small, doll-like thing with green eyes and perfectly combed hair.
You turned back one last time.
He hadn’t moved.
Still curled against the wall. Still watching.
But now his eyes were different.
Not just sad.
Hopeful.
Like somehow, he knew you weren’t like the others. That you saw something—someone—underneath the filth and the hunger. The raw, trembling bones of a person no one else had bothered to look for.
You left with your friend. Her new pet levitating securely at her side, encased in a pink collar and leash.
You didn’t sleep that night.
The shelter was quieter the next evening.
It stood at the end of the street like a mausoleum waiting to be filled. No birdsong, no passing traffic—just the slow grind of your boots on frost-slick pavement and the low hum of distant machinery behind reinforced walls. The sign out front was the same as yesterday.
You had barely slept. You’d spent the night pacing your apartment, drowning in silence. Every room had felt too full and too empty all at once, like a life you’d half-stepped out of. The image of Remmick—curled in the back of his cell like something exiled from warmth—wouldn’t leave you.
Not his face. Not his eyes. That look—raw, trembling, and quietly hopeful—had followed you into your dreams. And when you woke to the first colorless light of morning, you already knew.
You couldn’t leave him there.
Not in that cage. Not with them.
The clerk at the front desk barely glanced at you as you stepped inside, his face lit with the glow of a cracked tablet screen. The front office smelled of sterile citrus and overheated plastic. Somewhere in the distance, a muffled voice called out a unit number, followed by the sharp click of boots on tile.
You cleared your throat. “I’m here for one of the nightkind. The one from Cell 17-B.”
The clerk sighed. “What for?”
You raised your eyebrow, your jaw clenched. “Adoption.”
He continued to stare at the tablet, looking perpetually bored. “Which breed?”
“Vampire. Dark-haired. Blue-grey eyes. Cell 17-B,” you repeated, harder.
Recognition flickered in his eyes, and then something colder settled in his expression as he looked up at you. He leaned back in his chair, sighed, and said flatly, “The biter?”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.
He clicked his tongue and stood, muttering, “I hope you know what you’re doing,” before disappearing into the back.
You waited in the small metal chair beside the front desk. The air conditioning was too cold, the hum of fluorescent lights like a constant headache burrowed behind your eyes. A security camera in the corner buzzed faintly. Time moved differently here—thick, slow, and hard to swallow.
When the clerk returned, he had a clipboard in one hand and a data-slate in the other.
“Your name? We’ll assign him an owner record” he asked.
You gave it. He typed it in. The screen flickered blue for a moment, then green.
“You’ll need to acknowledge liability. He’s been flagged. Former owners returned him twice for aggression. You saw the notes yesterday, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“Still want him?”
“Yes.”
He looked at you again then, really looked—like he was trying to gauge whether you were stupid, noble, or just hopelessly naïve. But he said nothing more. Just handed you the stylus.
You signed.
And the deal was done.
They made you wait in a different room—a release bay with heavy double doors and iron anchors built into the walls. The walls were gray, institutional, and bore the telltale scuff marks of boots and struggling creatures dragged in or out against their will.
When the door opened, it was not the creature who stepped through first, but two handlers in matte black uniforms. Between them, shackled at the wrists, bound in a collar and with a muzzle over his mouth, was the vampire.
Remmick, from what you read in his file.
His head was lowered, hair wet from you didn't know what. His posture was hunched, shoulders curled inward, as though bracing for a blow. He was thinner than you remembered—sunken in, fragile. His skin had the translucent quality of someone who had gone too long without nourishment, wounds that failed to heal properly.
But his eyes—
The moment they found you, everything changed.
They widened first in disbelief, then in something else—something too complicated to name. His lips parted, just barely, and his breath hitched like he hadn’t drawn air in hours.
You stepped forward. “Take those off.”
The handler frowned. “Protocol says he stays restrained until he’s secured on property. For your safety—”
“I don’t care about protocol. Take them off,” you said, louder.
There was a pause.
And then, wordlessly, one of the handlers knelt and undid the cuffs. The metal dropped from Remmick’s wrists with a soft clatter. The other loosened the muzzle, and it slid down his face like dead weight. The collar remained. They were not allowed to walk without it, or they would be considered "unowned."
You took a careful step forward, keeping your voice low.
“Remmick. That's your name, right?”
His head twitched slightly at the sound, as he recognised his name.
“Do you remember me? We saw each other briefly yesterday.”
No reaction. You were starting to get nervous. Maybe you'd misunderstood. Maybe he had no intention of leaving with you.
“Do you want to come home with me?” you asked.
That word—home—must have done something. His shoulders gave the smallest jerk, and his eyes narrowed, confused, as if trying to decode a word he’d never heard used without consequence. He blinked slowly, once.
Then, finally, he took a single step forward.
You didn’t reach for him. You just stood there, hands at your sides, letting him decide.
It was slow.
Tentative.
Like every motion cost him something.
But eventually, he crossed the last bit of space between you and you took the leash that was hanging from his collar and swinging in front of his body.
The walk out was slow. You kept your hand tight around the rope but you didn't pull or tighten it, you let Remmick decide the distance and pace at which to walk. He suddenly tensed up at the sound of a horn in the night. Every sound made him twitch. Every light made him glance over his shoulder. But he stayed beside you, clinging to his collar like a lifeline.
The front desk clerk didn’t say a word as you passed. But you saw the way he looked at Remmick—like something broken that should have stayed on the shelf.
You met his eyes.
And kept walking.
Outside, the cold air wrapped around you both like a sheet of glass. Your car waited at the curb. You opened the passenger door and helped Remmick in gently. He stared at the seat, then at you, as though unsure he was really allowed to sit.
“Go on,” you said softly. “It’s okay.”
He settled in slowly, limbs still unsure. You closed the door after him, circled to the driver’s side, and got in.
You hadn’t meant to linger in the doorway, watching him.
But there was something about the way Remmick stood there—just inside your apartment, arms curled close to his chest, eyes wide as he took it all in like a wild animal unsure if the trap was hidden in the warmth.
His clothes hung off him in layers of gray and brown—threadbare fabric that clung like a second skin of dust. He smelled faintly of old concrete and damp metal. You didn’t say anything about it. You just smiled softly and said, “You must be freezing. Let me run you a bath.”
The water steamed as it filled the basin—an clawfoot tub tucked into your tiny bathroom, old porcelain but nice and clean. You added a handful of the nicer soap you’d been saving for yourself, watching bubbles bloom over the surface like fragile clouds. The steam fogged the mirror. It felt quiet in there. Safe.
You loved your bathroom. It was the one place where you could relax and leave your troubles at the door. You hoped Remmick felt the same.
You stepped from the bathroom and saw him standing in the hall, silver-eyed and hesitant. The guilt of his position prickled—somehow, you felt less human for seeing him so stripped of fear, so entire in his insecurity.
"Come." You called to him, waving a hand to inviting him closer.
He blinked, then walked slowly across the lacquered floor.
When he reached the bathroom door and glimpsed the tub fully—steam rising like mist from a secret pond—he halted again. Regulators clicked in his mind. Hope, indecision, fear.
He cleared his throat, voice rough as gossamer. “…All of this—is it… for me?” His fingers brushed the rim of the tub.
You nodded. “Yes, of course.”
He stared at you. Then he asked, voice pointed at the bubble-laced water, thick with fragrance and light flicker, “How long can I stay?”
You blinked. “You mean...in the bath?”
But just nodded. He wasn’t looking at the water anymore. His eyes were on you now—direct, uncertain, fragile.
You swallowed, your throat suddenly tight. “…As long as you want.”
He blinked at that. Once. Twice. Like he wasn’t sure he heard you right.
Then he looked back at the bath. His hand lifted slowly—hesitating in the air like it was reaching into a memory—and he touched the rim of the tub, tracing the porcelain edge with his fingertips.
“Alright,” he said softly.
And then, without any preamble, he started to undress.
Right in front of you.
The motion wasn’t sultry. Wasn’t calculated. It was casual, automatic—like the idea of modesty didn’t register to him as something that applied. He pressed his thumbs into the waist of his pants, tugged them down inch by inch, exposing thighs pale as polished bone.
Your breath hitched when the room suddenly felt too small. Embarrassment flushed every inch of you. Your heart thundered. You bolted upright.
“There are towels… on the sink.” You coughed, voice tight, a little choked. “And, uh, soap’s already in, just—uh—take your time!”
You didn’t wait for a response. You backed out of the bathroom like it was on fire and shut the door with a little more force than you meant to.
Outside, your heartbeat was in your throat.
You leaned against the wall and let out a long, slow breath.
It was fine. Totally fine. He didn’t mean anything by it. He wasn’t flirting. He wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable.
You headed to your bedroom and grabbed the loose, comfortable clothes that your ex-boyfriend left at your place without ever coming to pick them up. You'd never felt like throwing them away, especially since if he ever knocked on your door again, you didn't want to tell him you'd thrown them away. At least they'd have a use now, even if only briefly.
The bathroom light glowed beneath the door, soft and golden. You’d given him time. Enough to sit, to soak, to breathe. Enough to warm the chill from his skin and loosen the weight in his bones.
But eventually, you needed to make sure he was alright.
You raised your hand to the door.
Knuckles hovered for just a moment. Then—gently—you knocked.
“Remmick?” you said, your voice low so it wouldn’t startle him. “Can I come in?”
There was a beat of silence. Then you heard the soft splash of water shift, a towel rustle on tile.
And then—his voice. Throaty. Thin.
“Of course.”
You opened the door gently.
Remmick was standing with a towel around his waist, hair damp and curling slightly now that it had been washed. He wasn’t looking at you directly—just standing there, uncertain, his hands gripping the towel too tightly. His collarbones jutted out like fragile sculpture, a faint bruise still visible beneath one. Steam clung to his skin like silk.
He was very frail; you could see the bones sticking out too far, and his skin was an ugly, faded color. He had probably not been properly nourished in months.
He cleared his throat to bring your attention back to his face, and you mentally slapped yourself for being so indiscreet in your analysis.
“No need to be askin' me for permission.”
You blinked.
A chill moved through you—not because of his words, but what lay beneath them. The quiet resignation in them. The learned pattern.
“…I belong to ya now,” he added, quieter.
You wanted to tell him that you didn’t agree with the system. That he could choose to say no to anything that was being forced on him. That he wasn’t a slave. He was no longer human, but he was still a living being.
However, a speech like that could have thrown him into a crisis or pushed him toward behavior that would get him into trouble.
So you simply added:
“I will always ask your permission,” you said softly, stepping in with a folded bundle in your arms. “For anything involving you.”
He looked up at you then. The light caught his face at an angle that made his eyes look like bright rubies.
You offered the bundle out.
“Here,” you said. “Clean clothes. They’re probably a little big, but soft. Thought you’d be more comfortable for tonight.”
He hesitated for a long second—then reached out, fingers brushing the sleeve of the shirt with awe. He stared at it in his hands like he didn’t quite understand what he was holding.
“There’s a hoodie in there too,” you added. “And tomorrow, if you’re feeling up to it… we can go out. When the sun goes down.”
His eyes flicked up again.
You smiled gently.
“I thought we could go to one of the nice shops. You can try on anything you want. Choose what you like. It’s up to you.”
Remmick didn’t answer.
Not right away.
He stood there, half-dressed in steam and silence, holding soft cotton like it was treasure. His lips parted, but no sound came out. For a moment, you thought maybe he didn’t hear you—or didn’t believe you.
Then, finally, in a voice that cracked on the first word, he whispered:
“I can… choose?”
“Of course you can.”
Another pause.
“No one’s ever…” he began, but the words trailed off. His shoulders slumped a little, eyes glassing over—not with fear this time, but something closer to disbelief. Hope, maybe. Soft and shaking and half-buried.
His fingers dug into the hoodie at his chest. He looked down at it like he was afraid you can take it away from him at any moment. Take away that moment of happiness for your own personal enjoyment.
“I don’t really know what I fancy,” he said, almost apologetically. “Clothes, sure. I just… wore what they handed me. What they picked out.”
“We’ll figure it out,” you said.
He blinked.
You could see it in his eyes: the way the idea bloomed. Slowly, quietly. The way it tried to take root in soil that had never been made to grow anything. The shape of a life he’d never been allowed to imagine.
“Thank ya,” he said finally. Not performative. Not automatic. Just quiet. Real.
The first weeks Remmick spent in your home felt like living inside the slow thaw of an ancient winter. He moved quietly, like someone learning how not to disturb sunlight—careful around corners, lingering with purpose but not permanence. It was as though he was still bruised by the shape of captivity, carrying the echo of barred cells inside his bones, and every step he took beside you was a question: Am I allowed this?
He never asked for help, but soon enough he offered it. You’d wake in the morning to find the living room arranged: pillows fluffed, the coffee table wiped, dust erased from corners you hadn’t even bothered to see. Dishes cleaned before breakfast. Laundry taken in sets, towels folded and stacked neatly on a rack.
He never show off. But you could feel him: the way he hovered at the edge of chores, hesitant, not sure yet if it was his space. Eventually, he began to follow timid instructions—“If you’d like help, Remmick…”—and he nodded, like an apprentice afraid to claim the title, learning fast.
You still found him watching you when you weren’t looking. His eyes—those eyes of his, grey during the day, and carmine red at night—drifted from the hallway, peeking around doorframes or across the kitchen threshold as you moved about. Not because he distrusted you. Not in any way you’d ever make something for ill intent. But because he hadn’t been sure anyone was trustworthy before.
In those first days, his hunger stayed muted. You left blood packets outside his laundry room door like a ritual—gentle, hands gloved, voice soft: Here’s today’s pack. I’ll check back in a while. He never asked for more. He never even lingered at the door. He took it. Walked away. Waited.
Blood for him was life. A way of reconditioning a body that had known deprivation. You found him this way: perched on the corner of the bed after dinner, blood packet in hand, head bowed. Trying not to make the slightest noise.
Almost cute.
That afternoon, you came home with groceries, groceries for you, groceries for your evening at home, and within the crate, tucked under your arm, a fridge box for his blood sacs. You rested the box on the counter, half-inclined to set it aside and when you looked up you found him sitting on the other side of the counter.
His eyes darted toward the box in your hands. His nostrils flared, just a bit. A tiny betrayal of the need he was trying to suppress.
You lifted the sac with a gentle tilt of your hand. “You want another one?”
The question was casual. Offered like anything else you might ask a friend. But the moment it left your lips, his body tensed.
Remmick’s gaze dropped. Then, slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet yours. Not directly. Slightly to the side of your face. A habit, you’d come to learn. A softened way of looking without confronting.
His voice came out quiet, dry with shame.
“I… I don’t wanna be a pain, ya know,” he said. It cracked partway through the sentence, just a tremor. His hands twisted in front of him, fingers digging nervously into the hem of his sleeves. “It’s grand by me. You’re already too kind. No need to be spendin' any more on me.”
He tried to smile after that, and it was the worst part of it all. That broken attempt at reassurance—at making you feel better for what he needed.
That smile, half-curled and tight at the corners, said more than the words had.
The bag in your hand felt heavier than it should’ve.
You set it down gently on the counter, your heart tightening in your chest. You took a small step toward him—not too fast, not too close—just enough that he could see you fully now, without obstruction. His breath caught slightly, a barely audible inhale, like a reflex he hadn’t meant to make.
“Remmick,” you said, softly, as if trying not to disturb something delicate. “You’re not a bother. You’re not costing me anything that matters.”
He blinked, rapidly, like the words didn’t compute. His jaw worked—once, twice—as if he were trying to bite back a response before it escaped on instinct.
“I mean it,” you continued, your voice steadier now. “If you’re hungry, you tell me. That’s not something you have to earn.”
His hands fidgeted again. A slow, unconscious gesture—you recognized it now. Like a tic he used to keep himself grounded when the emotions were too much to handle all at once. When shame wanted to eat through him faster than hunger ever could.
“I’m fine with less,” he murmured. “I can go a few days… or even weeks, sure. I’ve done it before. I just thought—I didn’t want to seem ungrateful.”
You exhaled, slow and aching. “You’re not ungrateful. You’re just… used to people expecting you to apologize for being alive.”
That made him flinch. Not visibly. Not in a way anyone else would’ve noticed. But you saw it. A twitch at the edge of his eye. A small shift in his stance. The way he held himself tighter.
“I’m here to make sure you’re safe,” you said, “not to ration your comfort. You’re allowed to ask for more, Remmick. You’re allowed to want more.”
He stared at your hand. For a moment, you thought he might back away because of your proximity and walk away. But he didn’t. Instead, he let out the softest, weakest laugh you’d ever heard.
“That’s… really hard to believe,” he said. “But I’m givin' it a go.”
You nodded once. “That’s enough for me.”
And then you handed him the blood sac.
He took it this time.
Carefully. Reverently, almost. Like it was a gift he hadn’t known how to accept.
And when his fingers brushed yours in the exchange, cold and trembling, you didn’t flinch. You just held his gaze for a moment longer than before. To make him understand that you neither feared him nor disgusted him.
Then, you turned back to the fridge and started putting away the rest of the box like it was just another part of your day.
But in your peripheral vision, you saw him.
Still standing there. Still holding the sac. Still stunned, somehow, for your unusual behaviour.
From that day on, you offered aloud: “Do you want two or three tonight?” And he began answering: “Maybe three… if that’s okay.” And it always was. You made sure it was—tucking away guilt with each pack you placed, ensuring his body could begin to heal and finally breathe.
Remmick hadn't gotten physically close to you until that fateful night.
The hum of the TV filled the living room. You’d chosen something mindless—a late-night reality show with canned laughter and predictable drama, the kind of background noise that didn’t require your attention more than necessary.
Remmick sat at the far end of the couch, knees drawn up, arms tucked in the pajamas he had chosen himself at the store under your constant urging. He had started sharing your space, becoming more verbally present. He was no longer just a presence, but also a companion. Sometimes he even made suggestions. Small ones, sure, but always made on his own initiative and with pleasure.
He especially loved playing and singing, so you bought him a banjo, which he strummed every now and then, writing down the lyrics and chords in his notebook.
But not tonight, tonight he seemed to want to share the evening of TV with you.
You were halfway through an episode when the camera panned across a couple on-screen, nestled in a corner of a nursery. A small baby curled between them, cheeks round and flushed. The father kissed the child’s head. The mother held them close. It was simple, mundane. Affection dressed in soft cotton and domestic warmth.
And beside you, something in Remmick shifted.
You didn’t notice it at first. Just a faint change in how he held himself—shoulders rising slightly, eyes flicking toward the screen, then away.
The next moment, he wasn’t watching the TV anymore. He was watching you.
You felt it more than heard it—that brittle stillness that signaled something unseen was breaking open beneath the surface.
Remmick didn’t speak. Didn’t fidget. He just sat there, folded in on himself, like something inside him was twisting tighter and tighter with every beat of quiet that passed.
His eyes were wide and red, unfocused, like he wasn’t seeing the room anymore. Like his thoughts were somewhere else. And then, without warning, without a sound—
He leaned in.
It was slow. Hesitant. Not like a predator approaching prey. Nothing calculated or hungry in the movement. It was more like watching a wilted flower lean toward the last light of the day—weak, instinctive, a pull toward something it couldn’t name.
His cheek came to rest against your shoulder.
You froze, not out of fear, but surprise. You hadn’t expected it—not from him. For weeks, he’d kept a careful, respectful distance.
But now he was here, curled gently against your side, head pressed just under your collarbone, like a creature trying to relearn touch.
His body was trembling. Not violently. Just a faint, barely-there shiver—like he was holding in every impulse not to bolt. And still, he stayed there.
“Just a bit,” he whispered.
His voice was raw, barely audible.
Then, after a breath, you felt something else.
Air moved across your neck. Cool, unnatural.
His breath.
His lips parted.
You didn’t see it right away. You felt the shift first—the soft draw of muscle, a change in tension where his mouth hovered just at your pulse.
And then you saw them.
Fangs.
Not bared. Not flashing in threat. Just there—half-covered behind his pink lips.
Your body reacted before your mind could catch up.
Your hand rose to your neck, more from the tickling than anything else. But Remmick probably interpreted it differently.
He recoiled like he’d been struck, crawling away from you before you could say a word. His face twisted in confusion and something that looked horribly like shame.
“No—” he gasped, voice cracking. “I—I wasn’t—didn’t mean to—I wasn’t gonna bite ya, I swear it—”
His hands flew up like he expected to be grabbed, shoved, punished.
“I was just—just—” His breath hitched again. He backed away further. “I’m sorry.”
His knees touched the floor of the apartment, right in front of the sofa you were sitting on. Clawed hands covering his face, and then—you saw it.
He bit down. Hard.
Not on you.
On himself.
His fangs dug into the side of his thumb, teeth sawing through the flesh like he couldn’t tell the difference between punishment and pain anymore.
You moved forward on instinct.
“Remmick—”
But he was already biting harder, his other hand twitching as he tried to steady himself, nails raking down his arms like he couldn’t bear the skin he lived in.
“No, no, no,” he muttered. “Stupid. I’m stupid. Ye were kind and I— I ruined it—”
You caught his wrists gently before he could draw more blood and do more damage.
He didn’t fight you.
Just stood there, shivering, eyes wide and terrified.
You guided his hands down slowly.
And in that moment, you understood.
He was asking about being held. About being seen. About the terrible, unbearable yearning to be near someone who didn’t flinch from him like he was a monster.
“Remmick,” you said softly. You didn’t let go of his wrists. “You didn’t ruin anything.”
His eyes flicked up to meet yours—startled, desperate, disbelieving.
“I know you weren’t going to bite me.”
He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, but no sound came out.
“I saw you,” you continued, your voice as gentle as you could make it. “I saw what you were trying to do.”
He shook his head slowly. “But ye—ye froze—”
“I was surprised,” you admitted. “It’s not the same thing as being afraid of you.”
That stopped him.
His lower lip trembled. His arms had gone stiff beneath your touch, but he wasn’t pulling away anymore.
He was listening.
“Next time,” you said quietly, “tell me. That’s all.”
A long, shaky silence passed.
Then he nodded—once. Barely.
And then he did something you weren’t ready for.
He pressed his forehead into your stomach and let out the smallest sound you’d ever heard from him.
A whimper.
Not from pain. Not from fear.
From the awful, weightless relief of not being rejected.
Your arms came around him slowly, your hand absentmindedly scratching the base of his head.
He melted into you like a creature whose bones had forgotten how to hold shape without comfort. He sagged against you, arms around your waist, breath hitching softly. Not crying—he didn’t make a sound after that.
But you felt it in him.
The tension giving way.
The hunger easing—not the one for blood, but the other one.
The one deeper than anything physical.
The need to belong.
And you held him.
As long as he needed.
The bond deepened like rot in the walls—not sudden, not loud, not even visible at first. It wasn’t something you could name when it began, just a presence. A feeling.
Remmick began to exist nearer to you, in ways that weren’t quite deliberate but not accidental either. His hand brushing yours when you reached for the same mug. The way his shoulder sometimes bumped yours when you passed too close in the kitchen, and he didn’t recoil—didn’t apologise.
You stopped keeping physical distance like a boundary and started doing it like a dance. Testing where closeness didn’t overwhelm either of you. Letting moments bloom and soften instead of snapping them shut with polite withdrawal. You noticed how, when you curled into a blanket, he curled with you. How his head would sometimes tilt and rest lightly against your shoulder, and then stay there.
Months passed.
And also his appearance started to change. Slow, but unmistakable.
The vampire who had once been curled in your laundry room like a broken thing was growing into himself.
His hair, once matted and dull, now shone in the light. You caught him once in the hallway mirror, gently running his fingers through it, lips parted in faint disbelief. He hadn’t seen himself like that in years. Maybe ever.
His body had filled out, too. The sharp angles of his ribcage softened. There was muscle on his arms now, not from effort, but from consistency. From nourishment. From safety.
He still moved quietly, but no longer with the crouched, skittish gait of someone expecting to be punished for every step.
And his fangs—once a source of fear, of tension, of held breath and flinching instinct—now brushed your skin in moments of affection.
He’d lean in as you passed on the stairs, nose nudging your collarbone, his lips ghosting over your neck—not biting, never biting—just being there. You’d feel the faint scrape of fangs against your shoulder when he laid his head on you, and he always pulled back after, embarrassed, whispering, “Sorry,” even when it hadn’t hurt.
You stopped finding excuses for liking it.
Sometimes, in the quiet hours—when the lights were low and the world had gone still—he’d curl into your side and fall asleep like that, arm flung over your waist, breathing shallow but real. He didn’t make a sound. He just rested against you like someone who had finally found a warm place to die and realized, to his own confusion, that he was living instead.
Everything seemed to be going well.
Until something changed.
It was cold enough outside that your breath fogged the air. The city had quieted down to its late-night lull—stores closing, streetlamps flickering, the distant buzz of someone’s late dinner delivery echoing across the sidewalks. You walked side by side without touching, but close. Always close.
That evening, you felt like going for a walk after getting home from work, and it had been weeks since Remmick had set foot outside the house. He didn't seem to particularly enjoy going out (also because of the strange looks he got), but when you reached the old park, you could see his shoulders visibly relax. He loved nature and the solitude of the night.
You also liked it there. The wildness made it feel private.
Remmick’s eyes wandered like a child’s, curious and quiet. The moonlight caught his face in glints—his long lashes, the soft shine of a smile on his lips. He didn’t look like something anyone should be afraid of. Not like this.
You sat on a low stone, the surface cold beneath you, and leaned back slightly to look at the sky. He stood for a while, then crouched beside your knee. His fingers brushed the grass.
The trees were tall here. Older than the buildings that surrounded the block, their trunks thick and gnarled with time. At night, they cast deep, comforting shadows—like guardians rather than watchers. And when the wind moved through their leaves, it made a soft sound, like breathing.
And Remmick shared the same millennia-old age. Perhaps that was why he seemed to feel so at ease.
The lampposts barely worked—only one or two flickered on after dusk. They made the whole place feel like it lived just outside of time.
Then, he broke the silence.
“I used to sleep outside, before they took me back,” he said quietly, not looking at you.
You turned your head, unsure what thread of thought had led him there. But something in his voice made you pay more attention than you usually already do.
Remmick didn’t speak for another minute. Then, so softly it barely rose above the creek, he said, “I tried not to need folks.”
Your heart gave a small twist.
“I used to think… if I acted just right, maybe someone'd keep me.” He tilted his head back, exhaling. “Me first owner was an old woman. She was very… precise. Gentle, but distant. She fed me, trained me to sit proper, speak proper. She even let me read in the evenings. But I wasn’t meant to ask for more. When I started lingerin' too long by her chair, or… talkin' too much, she got cold. One night, I fell asleep by her bedroom door. Next day, she brought me back.”
You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
“She said I was exhaustin'.” His smile was faint, tired. “She said I was clingy. Said I needed too much.”
Your stomach knotted. You wanted to reach for him, but he kept speaking, and something about the way his voice emptied itself into the night stopped you.
“The next one was a man. He believed in structure. Obedience. He never hit me, but he never let me touch him either. Not even to help him with his coat. I remember once, after he had a nightmare, I went into his room without knockin' to see if he was alright. I tried to explain, but he said I was manipulat'n him. Called me creepy. He locked me out of the flat for the night, and the next, I was sent away again.”
You exhaled slowly. The moon was brighter now, painting the grass in pale silver. Remmick kept his eyes down.
“I stopped tryin' after that,” he said. “For a while, anyway. I tried to be the right kind of quiet. Didn’t know when it was alright to look at someone. Thought maybe if I watched closely enough, I’d learn when to speak. When to smile. When I was too much.”
You reached out then, slowly, and let your fingers rest against the curve of his hand.
“I tried,” he whispered. “I tried so hard to be what they wanted. Quiet, obedient, grateful. I didn’t even ask to be touched after a while—I just wanted to be in the same room. Thought that'd be enough.”
He turned to face you, finally. His eyes looked too big for his face, luminous in the dark.
“But I was always too much. Or too little. Too clingy. Too cold. Too hungry. Too strange, so I was.”
You swallowed against the tightness in your throat.
“They didn’t know what they wanted,” you said.
He smiled again, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “They didn’t want me. That was all.”
The wind shifted. A few dead leaves skittered across the path.
“You’re not too much,” you said, barely more than a whisper. “You’re human.”
“Not technically,” he said with a soft laugh.
“You know what I mean.”
You didn’t take your hand away. Neither did he.
You stayed in the woods for a while, talking about this and that. You told him the reasons why you had never wanted one of them — and the reason why you wanted him instead. The atmosphere, and his devoted attention, made you want to tell him everything. To get closer and open up in ways you couldn’t allow yourself.
You walked for a while, following the beaten paths, venturing into the small dense grove further ahead. Away from the city lights.
Remmick walked ahead for once.
You let him. Unclipping the leash from his harness. No one would see you, no one would report this improper behavior of yours.
He seemed to be looking for something with his gaze, shifting his head from side to side as you kept a respectful distance. Then, when he found it, his face lit up.
He turned toward you with a small, crooked smile. “Close yer eyes.”
There was no command in it. No expectation.
You obeyed before you knew you had decided to.
The darkness behind your eyelids was soft and strange. You felt vulnerable in a way that wasn’t frightening—like laying down trust in its purest, simplest form. You could hear him shift beside you, the gravel beneath his shoes crackling faintly as he turned toward you.
And then you felt it.
His hand, reaching out. His fingers hovered near yours.
Not grabbing.
Offering.
You opened your hand without hesitation.
When his palm finally met yours, the contact was almost nothing—just warmth, cool around the edges, a trembling stillness beneath the surface. But it was everything. Because it wasn’t just a touch.
It was pure and complete trust that you were giving him.
He led you a few steps deeper into the grass, toward the little clearing where the trees bowed back and let the sky in. You could hear the creek nearby. The night was full of quiet things—crickets, the rustle of leaves, Remmick’s breath.
“Alright,” he whispered. “Ye can look.”
You opened your eyes.
He’d led you to a place where the grass opened like a nest, and there—tucked into the curve of a mossy root—was a tiny cluster of white flowers. You recognized them immediately: moonblossoms. Fragile, delicate things that only opened at night.
He knelt beside them and picked one.
Carefully.
Like it was a sacred thing.
He stood again, approached, and without a word—tucked it behind your ear.
“There,” he said softly, fingers lingering near your cheek. “It matches the way ya glow.”
You laughed gently—because that was what you were supposed to do. That was how people responded to soft gestures, right?
But your throat was suddenly too tight.
His smile faltered. “Was that… weird? I just thought ye’d like it. I can take it off, I didn’t mean—”
You grabbed his wrist before he could pull away. Held it. Pressed your face in his open palm.
“Remmick,” you whispered. “You’re perfect.”
He blinked at you, startled. Blushed faintly.
And in that moment—his eyes glowing faintly under the moon, his mouth soft and uncertain, his hand brushed your cheek slightly—you felt it.
Like something cracked open in your chest.
The shift was subtle, but it roared through you: I’m falling in love with him.
Not kindness.
Not pity.
Not caretaking.
Love.
You were in love with the way he looked at you like you were the only safe place he’d ever known. With the way he was learning how to smile again. The way his fingers grazed yours when he thought you weren’t looking. The way he wanted to make you happy, even if he didn’t know how.
And gods, it terrified you.
You pulled back, turning your face away from his hand.
He frowned.
“…Did I do somethin' wrong?”
“No,” you said too quickly. “No, it’s not that.”
Then softer: “It’s me.”
He tilted his head, brows creased.
You stepped back another inch. Your skin ached where he had touched you. You could still feel the weight of that flower behind your ear.
You weren’t allowed to love him.
Not by law.
Not by society.
And not by the promise you’d made to yourself the day you first saw him, curled in that filthy cell like a broken thing. You had sworn you would never become one of them. You would never use him. Never blur the line.
But love… love had blurred everything.
“I can’t—” you whispered, mostly to yourself.
Remmick’s expression shifted—softened into something so heartbreakingly gentle.
“Ye don’t have to say nothin',” he murmured. “I know what we are.”
You looked at him.
Really looked.
And it shattered something else inside you. Because he meant it. He was trying to make it easier for you. Trying to protect you.
Even now.
Even when it hurt him.
You wanted to fall into his arms. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to take his hand and run as far from the world as you could until the only thing left was the feeling of him, safe and warm and yours.
But you couldn’t.
So instead, you nodded, barely holding back the tears. And whispered the only thing you could manage.
“Thank you… for the flower.”
He smiled faintly.
But it didn’t reach his eyes.
And neither of you said another word on the walk home.
Relationships between humans and nightcreatures weren’t just taboo.
They were illegal.
The law was clear: no intimacy, no romantic involvement, no crossing the line. Not even implied affection. Nightkind existed under conditional protection—leased, trained, collared. They could serve. Be owned. Be fed. But never loved.
Never wanted.
The consequences for violating that law weren’t a slap on the wrist. They were sharp, immediate, and permanent. And Remmick… he had already been marked once. A returned “asset.”
You knew better than anyone that if someone reported him for behavioral aggression—or worse, for unauthorized companionship—he’d be taken away in hours. No trial. No questions.
So you never crossed the line.
The days piled up quickly. You dedicated a lot of time to work and your deadlines — partly to push away that knot in your stomach, partly because you needed to bring order back into your life (the one you had set aside to help Remmick recover).
As busy as you were, you didn’t notice the vampire’s response to your behavior, but he had begun to withdraw again. Afraid he had made — or might make — another misstep.
When you came home, he always tried to have everything ready and in place for bedtime. He no longer sought your touch, but his fingers would tremble and claw at the fabric of his pants whenever you passed too close or brushed against him by accident.
But he said nothing. He remained respectfully silent — so you wouldn’t have the chance to start a conversation he’d already heard a million times.
One evening, however, you decided to take a step that might finally drive Remmick out of your heart for good — and everything would go back to the way it was before.
You told him you had a date.
You tried to say it casually, just a murmur as you passed through the living room. You were barely even out of sight before you heard the change in the air.
Remmick’s breath hitched. You turned. He was sitting hunched on the couch, blanket half-fallen off his shoulder, face pale, eyes wide and dim.
You forced a smile. “I won’t be long.”
“…oh,” he said.
That was all.
But you felt it. Like something inside him wilted.
You left anyway.
You had to.
Some part of you needed to prove—to yourself, to the law, to your own racing heart—that you could still live within the lines. That Remmick was a creature you had saved, not a man you were falling in love with.
The man you met at the bar was nice. Polite. Handsome in a polished, too-clean kind of way. He talked about his job. His apartment. His own registered nightkind—one of the elegant, docile ones, purchased for status.
You laughed in the right places. Smiled when he touched your hand.
But as you stood together at the curb, shoes scuffing concrete, something began to twist in your chest. A wrongness. Subtle. Creeping. Like a stone lodged just behind your ribs.
He stepped in close.
Too close.
His hand brushed yours, then settled at your side like he had every right to it, and your spine stiffened under your coat. His scent—cologne and something warm and unfamiliar—clung to your skin. Then his hand slid further around your waist. His voice dropped, a murmur meant to be sweet, intimate.
“I had a really great time.”
And before you could answer—before you could step back, laugh it off, say me too and mean it without meaning more—he leaned in.
For a kiss.
It wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t aggressive. It was gentle, even tentative. But the moment his face moved toward yours, the moment you felt his breath brush your cheek, your entire body tensed like an animal beneath a spotlight.
No.
Something cold snapped through your gut. Not because of him—not entirely. But because this wasn’t it. This wasn’t who you wanted this closeness from. The thought made your throat tighten, made the moment feel strange and unreal.
But just before his lips could touch yours, an arm wrapped around your neck from behind, and you were yanked away from your date in a sudden jerk.
You landed hard against a cold chest, your back pressed into something solid and trembling. Arms locked tight around you. An embrace—not tender, but possessive. Shielding. Terrified.
Remmick.
You knew it was him before your brain caught up to the moment. The chill of his body. The way he pulled you in, arms around your neck, one hand splayed flat across your stomach like a barrier.
He was shaking.
Not with fear.
With fury.
You could feel it rolling off him in waves—hot and icy at once, a storm under skin. His breath came fast, sharp through his nose. You turned your head just slightly and saw the way his eyes had narrowed —two bright red discs lit by something primal locked on the man in front of you.
Lips peeled back. Fangs bared.
Like a wolf guarding a mate.
“W-What the fuck—” your date staggered back. “Is that—is it yours?!”
You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. Your heart thundered in your chest, not from fear, but from the sheer violence of the moment. Not violent in action—Remmick hadn’t hurt anyone—but in presence. In the way he loomed behind you, wrapped around you like armor.
His fingers twitched against your side, and you realized then: he was waiting. Not for permission to attack—but for you. For your reaction. For confirmation that you were okay.
“…yes,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “He’s mine.”
Your voice shook.
Your date scoffed and took another step back, already shaking his head. “You should have him collared if he’s gonna act like that in public. I could call enforcement, you know—”
“There’s no need,” you interrupted, faster this time. “It’s my fault. I forgot to feed him before I left. He… he gets anxious. I’ll take him home now.”
You didn’t wait for more. You just turned, guiding Remmick with you, his body still taut and coiled around yours. You opened the car door with one hand, and he followed wordlessly, slipping into the passenger seat like a storm being ushered into a bottle.
The ride home was quiet.
Your hands shook on the wheel from the sheer weight of what had just happened.
And beside you, Remmick sat curled into himself. His posture hunched, head bowed, one hand gripping the hem of his hoodie like he might unravel it.
He looked broken.
Ashamed.
You pulled into the drive, turned the engine off, and turned to him—but before you could speak, he did.
“I’m sorry.”
His voice was barely a thread.
You stared at him, then the fury came.
“What the hell were you thinking?!”
Remmick flinched, taking a step back. His jaw clenched. His mouth opened. Closed.
You kept going. You couldn't stop. Your brain was spinning, your heart was pounding against your ribcage.
“If someone had called the police—you could’ve been taken—do you understand that?! You could’ve died! I wouldn’t have been able to stop it—you’d be gone, Remmick!”
His eyes widened. His shoulders curled inward. His voice came out small, quiet.
“I didn’t mean to… I wasn’t tryin' to be scary. I just… I saw him that close to yer face, and I—I didn’t think. I didn’t even know I was running until I had ya.”
You shook your head and got out of the car without looking back. You knew Remmick was following you back into the house.
“I'm sorry if I—I scared ya. Y'know I would never hurt ya!”
You kept walking. You didn’t want to listen to him. You needed to calm down. But before you could take another step out of the apartment hallway, his claws wrapped around your wrist, forcing you to stop your escape.
“Please… please don’t be angry with me.”
You stared at him. Breath caught in your chest.
You ran your free hand through your hair, letting out a loud sigh. You hadn’t meant to let the words slip out. They came out on a breath, caught in the thick silence of the room like an echo you immediately regretted.
“God,” you murmured, voice thin, “I don’t know what to do with you.”
You sighed. Loud. Tired. Overwhelmed—not by him, never by him.
But Remmick didn’t hear the fear in your voice. He didn’t hear the heartbreak. He only heard the sentence.
And it shattered him.
He flinched like you’d struck him.
His whole frame tensed, and then he dropped—just dropped—to his knees with a breathless panic, his hand came off your wrist like you burned it with your skin.
“No! No, please—don’t—don’t send me back!” he cried, eyes wide, face crumpling into desperation. “I can do it right this time, I swear, I swear I will—just don’t—don’t give up on me, please—”
Your eyes widened. Confused by his reaction. Your heart fractured.
“I’ll behave, I’ll stay quiet—I was bad, I know, I shouldn’t have gone out—I’m sorry, just punish me if ye have to, just don’t abandon me—please—”
He was trembling, folding in on himself, hands splayed on the floor like he was trying to ground himself in the floor of your apartment so that it couldn't be dragged away. He was breathing too fast. His shoulders shook with the effort of holding in tears, because he’d learned not to cry out loud. Even that had been trained out of him.
And you—
You dropped to your knees beside him, the motion swift and wordless, driven by instinct more than thought. One hand went to his cheek, guiding his face up to yours, the other curled gently over his shoulders. His skin was cold, but his panic was burning.
“Remmick,” you said, voice breaking around his name. “No. No, no, no, listen to me—baby, please, look at me.”
His eyes snapped to yours. Wide. Shining. Desperate. And it gutted you.
“I’m not angry,” you whispered. “I’m not sending you back. I’m never sending you back.”
His lips trembled. He didn’t believe you. Not yet.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” you said, brushing a tear from his cheek with your thumb. “I was scared. Not of you—but for you. I don’t know what I’d do if they took you away. That’s what I meant. That’s all I meant. I didn’t choose the right words and I’m so sorry.”
He was still shaking, still clinging to disbelief like it was the only thing that had protected him for years. He tried to apologize again, stammering, but you stopped him—gently, firmly—with your fractured words.
“I can’t lose you.”
That word hung in the air—thick and raw and real.
You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his, your breath soft between you.
“I’m the greedy one,” you whispered. “Because I want you. Because I keep thinking of you. Because I’ve fallen in love with you.”
His breath hitched.
“And it’s okay if you don’t feel the same,” you whispered, your voice threading between the silence and his heartbeat. “I’ll never force you to do anything you don’t want to. I’ll keep protecting you. I’ll keep caring for you, no matter what—”
You didn’t get the chance to finish.
Remmick’s lips found yours before the next breath could pass.
He kissed you—hard, desperate, like the truth between you had finally split open and neither of you could survive keeping it buried anymore.
His hands tightened gently against your back, and your body answered before your mind caught up, leaning into him like you’d been waiting for this touch your entire life.
You let him pull you against him, mouth devouring yours like he’d been starving for it since the first moment you’d touched him and not been afraid.
The world stopped narrowing to logic. It bloomed around sensation.
You had barely caught your breath from the kiss—your heart still fluttering wildly in your chest, your fingers still curled in the fabric of his shirt—when he pulled back just enough to look at you. Really look.
His eyes were wild with disbelief and something rawer, something almost wounded in its hope.
But then, slowly, his mouth softened into a smile—wide and crooked and so heartbreakingly sincere it made your chest ache.
And then he laughed.
Not loudly. Not mockingly. But stunned.
“For heaven’s sake, darlin',” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion, eyes shining as he leaned closer, “ye should’ve told me months ago.”
His hands cupped your jaw like you were something fragile and holy. His lips brushed against your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, then lower—trailing to the base of your jaw where he kissed you once, twice, then lingered, the warmth of his mouth sending a shiver down your spine.
“What the hell were ya waiting for?” he murmured against your skin, the words half-laughed, half-confessed.
You couldn’t speak. Your throat was too full. Your hands slid up his back hair, clutching at him with something between relief and disbelief, like now that you’d opened the floodgates, nothing would ever be the same again.
He pulled you on his lap—arms wrapping around your waist with the kind of desperate reverence that said I need you close or I’ll fall apart. And then, quieter, his lips still against your jaw:
“I love y'too,” he breathed. “So fuckin' much.”
It came out cracked, like he was afraid it would break if he said it too loud. But he said it anyway.
You touched his face with careful hands, your thumbs brushing the soft hollows beneath his eyes. His skin, always cool, seemed to flush beneath your fingertips—not with heat, but with something just as alive. You tilted your head, searching his expression, trying to decipher the look in his eyes.
There was too much of it—too much feeling. Too much need.
“Are you sure it’s not just gratitude?” you whispered. The question came out too small, too soft. Your heart bared itself in the silence that followed, every beat echoing like footsteps in a chapel.
His eyes darkened—not with sadness, but with something else entirely. They burned low and rich, like embers finding oxygen, igniting from within. The red hue bled through the pale blue of his irises like spilled ink in water. He blinked once. Slowly.
And then he moved.
You gasped as his hands gripped your hips—not rough, but firm, possessive, grounding. His fingers curled against you, claws barely grazing the fabric at your waist, not threatening, just present. He pushed you gently, deliberately, until your body hovers over his and your hips are perfectly aligned — pressed against each other. Your legs wrapped around his waist, his legs neatly positioned beneath him.
He held you down against him with one hand behind your neck and an arm wrapped around your waist, chest to chest, breath against breath.
His voice was a low growl in your ear, but it wasn’t angry—it was honest. A deep, raw vibration of restraint and need wrapped in reverence.
“Gratitude?” he repeated. “Y'think this is just gratitude?”
The space between your bodies was gone. You could feel him—every line of him—solid and real. The hard, undeniable form of his cock pressed against your thigh through clothes that suddenly felt like they barely existed. Your breath hitched again, this time from the sudden pulse of heat that spiraled low in your belly.
“Do ya have any idea what ye’ve done to me?” Remmick's mouth closed over the curve of your ear, making you shiver and clutch his hair tightly. His warm tongue licked and wetted your skin, and you’re sure that something else between your legs was slowly getting drenched too.
“I was a ghost before ya. Not just locked up in that place—they’d already buried me inside meself. No one ever saw me. They wanted obedience, silence, something that smiled when fed and vanished when ignored. And then ye—”
His nose brushed against your temple, and you could almost feel his lips trembling slightly against your cheek as he continued.
“Ye treated me like I was real. Touched me like I mattered. Ye let me want things. Feel things. Ye were gentle. I’d follow ya into sunlight if it meant one more second being yers.”
Your breath caught. Your heart raced.
His voice, laced with fierce devotion and vulnerability, reached into the deepest, quietest corners of your heart, lighting fires you didn’t know were waiting to be ignited.
He pulled his head back to look you in the eyes. He looked desperate, eager to make you understand.
“Please don’t call this gratitude. It’s love. For ya. All of it is for ya.”
And without waiting any longer, you lunged forward, your mind blinded by a sudden impulse you could no longer contain. You tilted Remmick’s neck, your fingers tangled in his soft hair, and pulled him toward you with a firm, almost possessive force to devour his lips.
You felt his body respond beneath your touch: a slight tremble, a muffled sigh that turned into a soft moan, almost a whisper of surrender. His lips, soft and warm, gave way to yours as he held you balanced against him, moving his hips in small, quick thrusts.
His lips parted slightly, silently inviting your tongue in. You felt his breath deepen and slow as his mouth closed around yours gently, as if wanting to suck away every thought and hesitation.
His words slipped against your lips like a whisper filled with devotion, each syllable soaked in an almost sacred sweetness.
“Me mistress is so sweet,” he murmured in a low, vibrating voice, his eyes shining with an intense light as he looked at you like you were the center of his universe. “So carin'. Think so much about me well-bein'.”
His breath grew deeper as he lifted you up so your feet were back on the ground and he was kneeling before you. The promise in his voice became palpable, almost tangible.
“Let me make ya feel good,” he continued, the determination to make you happy clear in every word. “I’ll be so good, darlin'.”
He grabbed the waistband of your elegant pants — the ones you had carefully chosen for someone else and that were clearly driving him crazy. You felt enveloped by a wave of emotions — tenderness, desire, and a warm, comforting certainty that only he could give you.
“Ask me. Like a good boy.”
You looked down at his lips parting into a dumbfounded, fucking smile, his sharp teeth on full display.
“Ride me face, love. Ya won’t regret it.”
You nodded slightly, letting Remmick pull down your clothes all at once with a tug. You were almost certain you heard a rip, but you didn’t want to think about it — not when Remmick’s face and tongue were desperately reaching for your center.
You pressed a palm against his hair and tilted his face enough to free yourself above his mouth, one leg straddling his shoulder to keep yourself steady.
His name rang on your lips like a sacred whisper, a spell lost between his cold breath and the racing beat of your heart. His tongue slid slowly and surely, drawing soft, delicate curves over your clit, exploring every millimeter with a precision as sweet as it was voracious. Every small movement was a caress that lit fires beneath your flesh, and when he lightly nibbled your thighs, an electric shiver ran through you, making you spread your legs just enough to let him turn, inviting him to discover new corners of your desire.
A cool hand rested on your ass, the contact featherlight, as the heat flowing between your legs grew, palpable and enveloping. His rough beard caressed your skin in perfect contrast, sending shivers down your spine. You felt his warm breath as you brought your hips closer to his mouth, as if his breath could merge with yours, warm and protect you. Your muscles tensed, your senses sharpened, and time seemed to slow around you.
Then, suddenly, his tongue invaded you with a sudden thrust, making your head spin and erasing all other thoughts. You felt yourself engulfed in waves of pleasure as he whispered words that intertwined with the heat enveloping you. “Ye’re incredible,” “So perfect,” “Let me lose meself in ya.” His other hand, the one not pressing you against his mouth, rose slowly, like a promise, and began to move over your body with sweet determination. His fingers traced light, bold lines on your clit, like an artist painting his most precious work, and each caress was an invitation to let go, to immerse yourself completely in that moment of intimacy and pleasure.
“Remmick…Remmick, God,” you murmured, your voice broken by desire, an echo that shattered your soul.
“Gimme everythin', darlin',” he begged you, his mouth hovering just to touch yours, “ye taste so good.”
His fingers curled and rubbed against your bundle of nerves and the orgasm hit you in waves, making you cling to his shoulders and head to keep from being dragged away.
The whorelike moan of pleasure that escaped your lips echoed through the hallway, but you didn't have the strength to be ashamed. Your legs trembled under your weight, but Remmick was already there, supporting you and sliding you back down, straddling his hips.
His lips covered you in soft kisses, scattered like rain across your face, while his fingers dug into your hips with gentle urgency, holding you close. You felt the cold of his skin against yours, his breath brushing over you in deep pants—a symphony of longing and intimacy.
Your thighs parted gently, embracing the sides of his body, as your hands tangled at the nape of Remmick’s neck, pulling him softly toward you for another slow kiss, heavy with promise.
His whimper, lost between your lips, vibrated like a whisper of deep pleasure, and he held you with a strength that felt like he wanted to fuse your souls into a single breath.
You could taste yourself on his lips, and it made you smile without even realizing it.
Your hands began to wander downward, fingers brushing along the waistband of his clothes, tentative but steady. But before you could go further, Remmick’s lips pulled away, just enough to speak, and a faint growl rumbled from deep in his chest.
“Ye don’t have to,” he murmured, breath catching. “I’m great. I don’t need—”
You tilted your head, meeting his gaze with a calm you didn’t quite feel, false sadness outlined all over your face. “You don’t want to fuck me, Remmick?”
His breath faltered, and he closed his eyes as if the weight of the question undid him.
“Jesus, darlin',” he whispered, almost broken, “there’s nothing I want more than this. Than ye.”
You leaned forward, brushing your nose against his. “Then shut up.”
Remmick became docile, remaining still as his hands gripped your hips tightly, anchoring you to him. You gently and confidently sank your hands between his legs, pushing apart the barrier of his jeans and firmly grasping his thick, throbbing cock. A muffled moan escaped him as he clamped his lower lip between his sharp teeth, his head tilting back slightly, his chest heaving in ragged breaths to contain his impatience.
“Fuck…”
You felt the thick, moist tip press against your entrance, and for a moment it felt like the world stopped.
Then, slowly, painfully, inch by inch, you let go, sinking into his length. The sensation was dizzying, a sweet and powerful relaxation that filled every corner of your body, as if every fiber craved that union. Your flesh welcomed him eagerly, sucking him in with an ancient and necessary intensity.
A low, muffled moan escaped his lips as you reached the bottom, the sensitive tip of his penis gently resting against the deepest part of you, a contact that sent both of you shivering.
“You feel so good, darlin',” he gasped, his words broken as he nuzzled his forehead into your shoulder. “So perfect around my cock.”
His tongue slowly slid down the side of your neck, leaving a trail of hot shivers that made every fiber of your body vibrate. Then, with malice and desire, his teeth barely grazed your artery, that light, dangerous touch that made your heart race, as a thrill of pleasure and tension mingled within you.
With a decisive movement, his legs spread further, forcing your thighs apart, granting him complete access. He sank into you with a new, profound depth, as if wanting to melt completely inside you, awakening every hidden corner of your desire.
His name escaped your lips spontaneously, a bold, shameless moan that was lost in the air, filling the room with that intimate, burning confession.
Before you could truly grasp the full force of his movement, his hips snapped upward with sudden, almost ferocious force, echoing the sound of his skin slapping against yours—a wild, primal rhythm that saturated every sense.
The pleasure that washed over you was so intense it dazzled you, igniting your nerves and vibrating every nerve beneath your skin. His thrusts were swift and precise, penetrating you with a consistency that made your heart race.
“All fuckin' mine...yes...No one else gets to see ye like this. Not that bloody prick...not any other loser. No one. Just me...”
Remmick's muffled moans and whimpers mingled with the incessant sound of skin against skin, overriding every other sensation, and his head rested close to your ear, his hot, labored breathing a whisper of need and adoration that made you feel desired like never before.
“R-Rem....Remmick—”
Your voice broke as he tilted his hips just enough to grind his pelvis against your swollen clit.
“Aye, just like that, sweetheart. Say me name. Tell me what a good boy I am for fuckin' ye so well.”
“My precious boy...” You lowered your head into his neck, hugging him tightly as you tried to follow his movements with the new orgasm slowly approaching. “I'm close...So close...you're doing so good...”
His muscles tensed beneath you as your walls gripped him tightly, his hands digging firmly into your hips as his body trembled with an almost painful intensity.
“Come on, love. I'm right here. I got ye. Let me feel ye come 'round me cock, please. I'm beggin' ye...”
Your body responded with a deep shiver, a wave of heat emanating from your core, expanding and enveloping you, making you gasp for breath. Your nails dug into his back as a strangled cry escaped your lips, your mind clouded only by the sensation of being completely possessed and loved.
His moans, now deeper and more vibrant, mingled with yours in a symphony of pleasure and abandon. Remmick trembled, his body tensing as he reached his climax, and you felt his cum invade you, a fire that united you in an indelible bond.
You remained like that, clinging to each other, your hearts beating in unison, your breathing wheezy and your bodies filled with a primal sweetness, leaving only the two of you, wrapped in that fragile, fierce intimacy.
Navigating through life as Remmick’s darling vampire wife—basically follows the events of Sinners
wc: 4096
warnings: toxic relationship (not reader and remmick), small mention of domestic violence (not reader and remmick), b*rt and j*an/klan mentions, small mention of infidelity, remmick is a bit of a freak ball (🤤) , reader is bratty but she lovesssss her husband
an: hey guys….😀 ik i’m supposed to be working on the stack fic but i got bored sooo here! i get random spurts of writing energy srry guys! the stack fic will 100% be done by the end of this month tho
divider credits: @/uzmacchiato
feedback is always appreciated and welcomed!
“…I thought I could trust them—and they’re trying to kill me,” Remmick fumbles with his words.
The man beyond the threshold tightens the grip he has on his gun, “Slow down,” he commands.
“Who’s trying to kill you?” The woman clad in a blue dress questions.
All Remmick replies with is, “Choctaw.”
“They took my wife—oh, God,” Remmick whimpers. “I’m a coward, ain’t I?”
You hear his desperate, faux cries from your spot behind the couple’s cabin. You look down at your ring finger and admire the band that adorns it.
Such a charming man, your husband Remmick is. Always doing the heavy lifting so that all you had to worry about was sinking your teeth into your newest victim.
You also faintly heard the not-so-friendly words they were using. If anything, it fueled your desire to turn them. Normally, you prefer to make the vampirization process as quick and painless for the individual on the other end of your bite, for you still have a sense of “humanity”, as Remmick calls it.
You think it’s just common decency, but to each their own!
‘These is Klan folk, angel’ Remmick speaks to you through your hive mind. Of course they were, you couldn’t even be surprised at the surplus of hatred in this world, especially here.
Your ears nearly perk up once you hear the sound of horse hooves clicking against the hot dirt.
‘Hurry on up, Rem. They’re comin’
‘I got it—I got it. Don’t worry yer pretty lil head, honey’
You roll your eyes, even though you know he can’t see it. ‘I ain’t worryin’, I’m hungry’
“Hey, I got gold,” Remmick abruptly says to the pair, who still wield their weapons. “They ain’t get all of it, you can have it,” Remmick holds out the gold coin, in need of some sort of truce. “Jus’ don’t let ‘em hurt me,” he murmurs weakly.
You peek from around the cabin–still making sure that your body resides fully under the roof’s shingles–and you’re just barely able to make out the frames of the Choctaw that we’re hunting you and your husband.
You still hear the woman’s voice, meaning the man is with Remmick. Exactly how you planned.
What transpires in the next 5 minutes is truly a blur to you. You’re famished, so much so, that your head starts to ache. But you eventually peer over the wall and you’re met with the distant sight of the Choctaw’s backs.
‘How’s it lookin’, honey?’ You question your husband, but you’re met with no answer.
It was done.
You quickly glide to the front of the house as the hot sun beats down on your large hat that you stole from the next town over, your heel-covered feet float over the ground. You don’t want to scuff them up any further–not until Remmick gets you another pair, that is. You take a seat on the rickety chair that rests on the porch, you cross your legs and lightly pick at your nails to cure your boredom.
A sharp, piercing scream resonates within the vicinity of the cabin, the loud intrusion breaks the peace that the birds once had as they now scatter through the wind. You smirk at the sound, you look up and devilishly grin at the only winged-body that remained perched on the edge of the roof.
Rapid footsteps bounce off the wooden floors, you assume Remmick’s chasing her, leading her out to you. You adjust your hat as soon as she slams open the front door. She pants and shuts the door, keeping her hands on it as Remmick yells threatening nonsense at her.
A tear slips down her now rosy cheeks, you can tell when her soul leaves her body once she caught a glimpse of you in her peripheral vision. You tilt your head at her and just blink slowly at her, “Hey there, sugar!” You chirp.
She screams yet again, her voice raw, as red claws up her flushed skin.
You then pounce on her with ease; you jump on her and her back meets the floor boards immediately. You hold both of her hands with just one of yours, and your tight grip has her hands losing circulation. You don’t bother teasing or toying with her, not with your undeniable thirst consuming your mind.
You sink your pointed teeth into her flesh. You groan as she yells for what seems like the hundredth time.
God, isn’t she tired of doing that?
The door creaks open, but you don’t shift your focus from the blood that pools down from the side of her bulging neck. You do pout, however. ‘Klan folk always taste weird’
Remmick pauses and sighs blissfully, seemingly disregarding your statement, "I ever tell you how beautiful you look while feedin’, angel?”
You lick your lips as you finally get your fill, you look at him, your pout turning into something more cheeky, “Once or twice, yes. Don’t mean I don’t like hearin’ it, though.” You jump up onto your feet, and your heels thunk on the planks next to the woman’s head.
You walk over to the Irish man, who watches you lovingly, with crimson dripping from his grinning mouth and staining his ripped undershirt.
Remmick takes your hand in his, and his other arm wraps around your waist. He holds you tenderly, before slowly turning the embrace into a waltz, “Well, you look divine, baby,” he says before spinning you. You yelp as he dips you, before laughing and smiling like a madwoman.
He presses his bloody lips to yours, and you hum into the kiss while lightly tugging at his gold chain. Remmick’s hand slips out of yours and moves down to cradle your cheek. Remmick’s slight stubble lightly scratches against your chin in the best way possible as he deepens the kiss. Unfortunately though, you’re forced to part from your husband once the woman who you bit moments prior now rises up to a stand.
“Oh! My apologies, am I interuptin’?” She exults with a smile. Remmick plants you back on your feet as you both look at her, which is when you realize that her husband is also gazing at you both.
“So are they both jus’ gonna stare at us all damn day?” You huff.
“Awwe, don’t be like that, baby!” Remmick coos, making you scrunch your face up. The couple also let out similar words of approval. Remmick grabs your chin and guides your beaming red eyes to his with his thumb and pointer finger, “Y’see, with them here, we can finally get what we always been dreamin’ for.”
All you can do is sigh, as you look between the pair, who nod at you vigorously. You grumble some more before stepping off of the porch and leaping into the air.
You look down at Remmick before speaking, “Don’t bring ‘em home ‘til you got ‘em straightened out, don’t need none of their foolishness in my house, y’hear me?”
Remmick beams at your brightly, “Yes ma’am! Anythin’ for you, darlin’!”
Your dog, Beau, whimpers next to you, you pet him before he hops up and begins barking at the front door. Somehow, it’s like he had a sixth sense for his vampiric father. You listen intently; you hear one set of footsteps.
…And then two more.
You sigh without looking up from your book initially when your front door eases open. The scent of your husband floods your nostrils.
“Honey, I’m home!” Remmick jokes, making you huff.
“Take them shoes off if ya wanna keep ‘em,” you chide half-heartedly as you turn the page of your book. “That goes for our guests as well.”
“Lovely home y’all got here!” The same feminine voice that had screeched in your ears earlier exclaimed. You look up at this; Remmick’s cooing and rubbing Beau’s fuzzy stomach, the woman wearing her blue dress smiles at you, as well as her husband, who stands behind her in the door frame awkwardly.
You don’t say anything, opting to give a look to Remmick instead, and that’s when you notice his new attire: the button-up he’s wearing is slightly oversized, as well as his pants, which are so large, they have to be pulled up and held with flimsy suspenders.
“What in the hell—are you wearing his clothes?” You exclaim incredulously.
Your husband looks at you sheepishly, obviously searching for the right choice of words. “We-well, we had t’go through town—‘cause Bert ‘n Joan here ain’t strong enough to fly yet, honey, will be soon though!”He mumbles as you squint at him with fire in your eyes.
“That’s us,” The man who you assume is Bert, says eagerly.
“Will be soon!” Joan cheers.
“Washed sum clothes ‘fore ya came in..Come ‘n take these off,” you gaze up at the Irish man lovingly as you slide the suspenders down his arms; the way you look at him while murmuring softly has him hypnotized. He hums in response and you turn away, trekking down the hall with a light sway in your hips, never looking back at him once.
Remmick finally realizes that you wanted him to follow you, so he quickly dashes to the bedroom. He has to remind himself that the two of you don’t have the house to yourselves right now when he makes it to the door, so when you wink at him, it takes everything in him to fight the urge to ravish you in ways only he knows how.
He looks out down the hall to Bert and Joan, “Please, try not to touch nun…The missus likes her organization.” He smiles tight-lipped. He steps into the bedroom and closes the door, where he’s met with you: bent over in your soft and clean house gown, rummaging through a basket filled with freshly-dried clothes.
If Remmick actually had a live, beating heart, he thinks it’d be leaping out of his chest.
His breath does skip a beat, though, and despite his cold skin, he feels his pale cheeks warm.
He thinks about sneaking up on you—rushing over to you with supernatural speed without a sound even ringing out against these four walls of your shared sanctuary, but he knows you’ll sense it.
You stand back up, hands full with a shirt and matching pants for Remmick. You turn around and smile at him, already knowing that he was standing there, watching you.
“Seo dhuit, mo ghrá,” your tone is sugary sweet as you peer up at him through your lashes, but Remmick knows that look is everything but sweet.
“Here you go, my love”
If only someone had told Remmick that emotional restraint wasn’t a skill acquired once you’ve turned, because God—did he wish he could refrain from chubbing up in his large slacks when he heard you speak Gaelic.
It wasn’t a new thing, no, you’d been learning bits and pieces as soon as you met Remmick, since you had been enchanted with how effortlessly the foreign words rolled off of his tongue. But Remmick swears he falls deeper and deeper in love with you every single time he hears the familiarity.
It makes him feel like he’s at home.
Actually, it makes him proud to have a home with you: someone who makes life feel easy, especially given the fact that you both weren’t the typical couple that you’d find in this day and age—for numerous reasons.
‘Done fantasizin’ ‘bout me, handsome? Mighty tired of seein’ ya in these rags’
You speak, yet your mouth remains shut, and your eyebrow raises at him expectantly. Remmick chooses not to speak, instead, he grabs the clothes out of your hands and places them on the bed before starting to strip. You huff out a chuckle at his sudden shyness.
Fuck—you’re so obsessed with your husband, it’s unreal.
You decide to give him some privacy, even though he looks as if you threatened him with an arms-worth of silverware as you walk away. When you shut the bedroom door behind you, you walk down the lengthy hallway and unfortunately Bert and Joan are sitting on your antique couch, hands folded in their laps, necks craned to look at you.
“Y’all ain’t no friends of mine, y’friends of Remmick, so don’t go expectin’ nun from me,” you speak firmly, leaving no room for discussion or debate. “‘N get the hell off my couch,” you scold, making them jump up as if they were popping corn kernels. Their squirming made you laugh.
“Darlin’…Hope we’re not scarin’ our new friends too much now,” Remmick teases as he places his cold hands upon your shoulders in a calming manner, and his head rests against yours.
You exhale, “Maybe your enhanced hearin’ ain’t so enhanced, ‘cause I just told these folks they ain’t gettin’ no welcome party from me—anytime soon.” Remmick feels you tensing, and it doesn’t hurt his heart, it hurts his soul.
“I-I know, I know—but it’s only temporary, baby, I swear it.” Remmick whispers sweetly to you; some of his words wrapped in desperation. He turns you around so that you’re facing him.
Your eyes are fixed on the floor as you pout without realizing, “‘N how long will that be?” You ask, your attitude never leaving your tone; you didn’t even bother to speak through your shared minds. Remmick shifts his hands from your shoulders up to your cheeks, holding you and guiding your face upwards so that he could get a clear glimpse of you.
‘Just ‘till mornin’, then y’wont have to worry ‘bout them ever again’
You’d be lying if you said that you didn’t think your husband was just telling you what you wanted to hear. You knew of his plans of getting his people back, using music as a connector—so you knew damn well these white folk wouldn’t be gone by morning.
You let out what seems like your hundredth sigh, and walk to the kitchen, where you grab a glass of blood that you had stored for times like these.
Remmick grins lopsidedly, “Try not to drink too much, darlin’! Still gotta visit that ‘ole juke joint!”
“Are we sure that this joint even exists, Rem?” You groan.
“‘Bout as sure as I am Irish!” Remmick chirps, nuzzling his chin into your shoulder.
Tonight was going to be a long night.
“Well I’ll be damned…Y’werent lyin’, honey!” You exclaim, grabbing onto Remmick with just as much enthusiasm. He wraps his arms around your waist.
“‘Course not! What kinda man do ya take me for?” Remmick beams from pointed-ear to pointed-ear.
“Oh I’m just delighted to be here!” Joan giggles, quickly souring your mood.
Remmick immediately takes notice of this, and redirects the conversation. “Alright, now you stay right here sweets, me, Joan, ‘n Bert got this all taken care of.” He squeezes your waist once last time as he pecks your lips; you hum against him.
Remmick secures his instrument that resides strapped against his back, and the three head to the entrance of Club Juke. The music is so loud it pours out the rickety building as if it were the ocean; the melodies meld with the air like a salty tide. You see Cornbread guarding the door, and you can’t believe you’re back here.
The last time you were here, you were living with a man that wasn’t Remmick—you were married to a man that wasn’t Remmick. That didn’t stop Remmick from visiting you every night for months after he met you, though. The ring on your finger especially didn’t deter him when he had found your husband mistreating you in ways he knew he wouldn’t.
Some nights, your husband wouldn’t let you leave the house, no matter how many times you tried to convince him that you just wanted to check-in on the animals on your farm. Remmick used to wait outside, becoming one with the shadows by the barn until you skipped on up to him. If you hadn’t been outside an hour after lights out, he’d walk back into the woods with his head hung low and a heavy weight on his heart.
On one particular night, one where your lights stayed on longer than usual, Remmick hadn’t left. In fact, he had approached your house—specifically the window that led into your bedroom.
It was wrong of him, he knows that, and he’s not afraid to admit it to this day—but he’ll never regret it, because he can still picture your face after your dead-beat husband had tried to lay his hands on you.
You had tip-toed out of your house after your husband had fallen asleep, and you knew that Remmick would be gone.
You had just wanted some air.
But you were wrong, because Remmick was still outside, waiting for you, but closer than he’d ever been before. You figured that he saw, or at least heard what happened, since his face showed both anger and a twinge of sadness.
That was the night you had been turned by Remmick.
And in that same night, you ripped your husband’s throat clean out, and watched as his life drained from his eyes.
You left without a word the morning after; you didn’t spare a single goodbye to anyone that you called family.
Not the Moore twins, not their little cousin who you looked after, not even Grace, Annie, or your best friend, Mary.
Hence why you opted out of going with Remmick to the door and seeing all of the familiar faces that could possibly hate you.
Even if they don’t hate you for leaving, you know good and well you’ll be hated for becoming what you are.
What you are is unknown by most, different, even—and different kills.
You’re so enthralled by your thoughts, you don’t notice your husband slowly walking back over to you with a sullen look on his face, similar to Bert and Joan.
“‘Fraid our plan didn’t work, darlin’,” Remmick trails off as he sits next to you on the log, still holding his most prized possession: his banjo.
“What’d they say?” You ask all too eagerly.
Remmick chuckles sadly, both for you and for him, “They ain’t interested in us comin’ in, though I don’t blame ‘em, I suppose.” You take your thumb and rub between his furrowed brows.
“…Do ya want me to go in?” You ask hesitantly, Remmick immediately grabs your hands and rubs his thumbs over your knuckles.
“No—no! ‘Course not, baby! W-we’ll figure sum out.” He smiles at you both sweetly and crookedly, calming your nerves almost instantly. “In fact, I already gotta new idea! Bert, Joan, get ready to play.”
You tilt your head and your eyebrows mimic Remmick’s a moment prior.
“Y’remember that song I taught ya, darlin’? ‘Cause y’might wanna start warmin’ up.”
Will ye go, lassie go?
Remmick sings, making a smile shine on your face. Seeing him so happy in his element makes you feel as if you’re over the moon.
And we’ll all go together
Out of the corner of your eye, you see none other than Mary walking over, wearing a pink dress and matching heels.
To pull wild mountain thyme
As she gets closer, Mary’s eyes light up in shock as she recognizes your features that she knows all too well.
All around the bloomin’ heather
Will ye go, lassie, go?
Mary looks as if she wants to speak, her mouth opens then closes several times as she gets closer to you. You look at her with love and sincerity in your eyes as you sing.
As Remmick plucks the last few notes, a tear trickles down Mary’s face.
“_______? Is that you?” Mary asks breathlessly, wiping the tears from her rosy cheeks.
“Hi, Mary,” you whisper. You know she wants to say so much more, but then she faces Remmick.
She has a motive for coming out here.
As much love as you have for her nestled within your soul, Remmick is your top priority. Which is why you quickly get your head on straight as she sits down and conversates with your husband.
Remmick offers her the gold you two acquired, and she looks in disbelief, her eyes shifting from you to Remmick.
You can’t help but roll your eyes as Bert and Joan randomly decided to put their two cents in by repeating what Remmick says. But, you hold your composure, because you all have a shared goal to accomplish at the end of the day.
“Loosing a mother’s a hurtin’ feelin’.” Bert murmurs, Remmick hums, agreeing with him.
“And I wish in my heart that we’d met sooner.” Remmick empathizes, and Mary can't help but turn her head to you.
Despite being apart for all these years, you can tell that Mary’s getting riled up due to Remmick’s advances.
“I would’ve liked to have saved your mother from her fate,” Remmick muses, “I can still save you from yours.”
“No, you must have me confused,” Mary says with cynicism. “I’m sad is all, but I don’t need no savin’.”
“Yes. Yes you do. You all do.” Remmick looks at her darkly, his glowing red eyes now on display, as well as his fangs.
Mary jumps up from the log, holding her gun with an iron grip as it points at your husband. You look between her and Remmick, then really taking in his appearance.
“Dammit, Rem—y’droolin’ honey.” You scold him, slowly lifting a finger to his chin and wiping the dripping saliva, making sure Mary doesn’t get intimidated by any rash movements. Though this doesn’t make Mary feel any better.
“Petal, what the fuck is all this?” Mary gestures between you and Remmick, making you put your hands up defensively. Hearing your old best friend call you by your old nickname almost brings tears to your eyes.
Everyone around the Delta called you Petal, since somehow, some way, you always had a flower planted delicately in your hair. Sometimes you’d even leave petals behind where you walked.
“It’s a lot, Mary, ‘n I wish I could explain it all to you. But you have to trust me when I say that this is for the best.” You tread carefully with your words, trying to ease the tension in the air.
“W-what? No—what’s that supposed to mean?” Mary exclaims, seemingly growing more wary by the second as she begins to step back.
You decide to get up gently from your spot on the log, and inch towards her faintly. “I know I got no business comin’ here makin’ demands—trust me Mar, I know that.” There's a slight tremble in your voice.
“But I want ya to join us—me ‘n my husband. We can be a big ‘ole family, Mar, just like the old days. Elias, Elijah, Annie, all of ‘em! Please jus-”
“No! I ain’t joinin’ whatever you and your—” Mary snarls with hesitance, “Husband, got goin’ on. ‘M sorry, Petal, ‘n I love ya, but it ain’t happenin’! Not now, not ever.” Mary’s breath picks up as you continue walking towards her, but then, you stop. Mary’s rapid heartbeat doesn't falter, though.
Your lip quivers as you look back at your husband, sending a message not even through your mind—but through your eyes.
Just as Remmick nods at you, Mary makes her biggest mistake: she turns her back.
You thought you taught her better than that.
Maybe it’s because in a way, you turned your back on her all these years ago.
And right now, you have to turn your back to her once again as Remmick leaps into the air in her direction.
You walk with your arm linked with Mary’s; the music inside the joint sounds both riveting and inviting.
“Cornbread,” Mary greets him at the door, making him look up.
“Mary what’chu doin’ out here?” Cornbread questions as he then notices you.
“Petal? W-Where you been all these years? What’chu doin’ back here girl?” Cornbread’s jaw might as well be on the dirt right now with the way he’s looking at the two of you.
“You gon let us in, or just sit there blockin’ the door?” Mary quickly interrupts with a twinge of sass.
Cornbread uncrosses his arms and moves aside after a beat, “No, come on—come on in.”
You smile at him sweetly as Mary eyes him and guides you into the building.
‘Careful in there, darlin’ let me know if ya need me’ Remmick’s voice echos through your mind. Normally, you wouldn’t admit that his soothing tone grounds you in ways nobody else has been able to, but there’s no use in hiding it since he already hears everything.
✦ summary: Remmick has lost you more times than he can count. You reincarnate across centuries—across countries, wars, oceans, and entire lifetimes—while he remains immortal, cursed to remember every version of you he’s ever loved. Sometimes you get years together. Sometimes only moments. Sometimes he finds you too late. Every life ends the same way: with the world taking you from him again.
But no matter how many times the universe rewrites your story, he always finds his way back to you.
✦ wc: 20.5k
✦ a/n: I absolutely flew through writing this fic. Apparently making a man suffer for centuries is exactly the kind of inspiration my brain was waiting for. I genuinely haven’t written something this fast since my 1D shipping days when I was 15 and stayed up for 48 hours straight just to crank out a 15k fic lmao. The title comes from the song “rewrite the stars” which felt very fitting for this story. And a huge thank you to the talented Abhi @scannainscanrula for another banger fic banner, I love you pal!!
✦ warnings: reincarnation, immortal x reincarnating reader, vampire remmick, soulmates, tragic romance, angst, yearning, immortal suffering, repeated loss, character death (multiple lifetimes) violence, village massacre, shipwreck, plane crash, non-linear narrative, bittersweet ending, hopeful ending, explicit sexual content, tender smut
✦ likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!
✦ Masterlist
In every century, in every country, in every lifetime, he finds you—and still the world takes you away.
Remmick doesn’t know what the room smells like when a life leaves it. Not in the way a human would, anyway—not in the clean, singular way grief gets described by people who can afford to be linear about it. Not in the way they talk about lilies and candles and rain and the soft, holy hush of a last breath. It’s messier than that.
It’s antiseptic and old dust and warm cotton and the faint metallic tang that always rides the air when the body’s done fighting. It’s the ghost of your shampoo clinging stubbornly to the pillowcase. It’s the salt of your skin, the trace of your perfume on the collar of his shirt where you’d pressed your face earlier—today, today—like it was just another day.
Like you weren’t already slipping away from him.
He kneels beside the bed anyway, because he doesn’t know how to be anywhere else when this happens. He’s been standing and staring and pacing and stalking the edges of rooms for centuries, but when the moment finally arrives—when the universe comes to collect what it’s owed—his body always finds the same position: down on the floor, close to you, close enough to feel the last of your warmth trying to linger.
His hand is on the sheet near your hip. Not on you. Not yet. He’s learned—learned the hard way—that there’s a point where touching you feels like a lie. Like he’s pretending there’s still something to hold onto.
The bedside lamp throws a shallow pool of light across your face, and the rest of the room falls away into softened shadow. Outside the window, the night presses its forehead to the glass. City sounds drift up from the street in dull, indifferent pulses—distant tires hissing over wet pavement, a muffled laugh, a siren far enough away to be someone else’s problem.
His problem is here. His problem is you. Your chest doesn’t rise.
The silence doesn’t come all at once. It arrives in increments, the way winter does. First the pauses between breaths get longer. Then the air in the room starts to feel heavier, like it’s losing oxygen even though the world outside is still full of it. Then the quiet settles—soft, final, complete—and he realizes his ears are straining for a sound that isn’t coming.
He stares at your mouth, stupidly, as if it could be persuaded into movement if he watches hard enough.
He’s seen mouths do terrible things across lifetimes. Pray. Curse. Beg. Laugh. Lie. Sing. He’s watched lips split under fists, watched teeth scatter across cobblestones like spilled dice. He’s watched men die with their jaws clenched shut in pride and women die with their mouths open in shock. But yours—yours always looked like the beginning of a joke.
Even now, there’s a softness there, a gentleness he wants to believe means you’re only sleeping. Like if he leans in and presses his forehead to yours, you’ll scrunch your nose the way you do when you’re half-awake and annoyed at being disturbed, and you’ll murmur something mouthy and sweet, and then you’ll steal his breath with a laugh.
His throat tightens. He doesn’t need to breathe. That’s the cruel part. He doesn’t need air, but he still feels the ache of it when it’s gone—like his body remembers the old rules and refuses to stop punishing him for breaking them.
This life had lasted three years. Three years of morning light spilling across your hair as you stood at the sink, humming while you brushed your teeth. Three years of your fingers tapping absent little rhythms against his wrist when you held his hand in public, like you couldn’t help making music out of being alive. Three years of your laugh—bright, unguarded, infuriatingly trusting—filling spaces that had been empty for too long.
Three years of him learning your routines the way he’d once learned battlefields. Three years of him swallowing every instinct that told him to wrap you in iron and never let the world touch you.
Because the world always finds a way. It always does. Remmick doesn’t count the lives anymore. Not the years, not the months, not the days. He used to. When it first began, when the pattern was still new enough to be shocking, he’d kept track with something like reverence, as if numbers might help him understand the universe’s intent. One, two, three—another chance, another chance, another—
He’d thought it meant something. He’d thought if he watched closely enough, he’d spot the thread tying them together, the rule he was missing, the reason he could never seem to hold onto you.
Now the only constant he trusts is the one that hurts: it happens again.
He leans forward until his shoulders hunch, and the movement makes the floorboards creak beneath him. The sound is too loud. It’s obscene, somehow, that wood should complain when you’ve gone so silent.
His gaze drifts to the window. It always does. As if the sky is the one thing he can accuse. There are stars out tonight, pinpricks scattered thinly behind the city’s haze. The light pollution tries to drown them, but they persist in stubborn little clusters, shining like they’ve never known loss. Like they aren’t ancient witnesses to every betrayal that’s ever happened beneath them.
He remembers the first time you pointed at them. Not this you—though you’d done it too, in a different way, standing on the balcony in a borrowed hoodie, tipping your head back and squinting like the stars had offended you by being faint.
“No way,” you’d said, breath puffing pale in the cold. “Is that Orion? Or am I just making that up?”
He’d watched your face instead of the sky. He always watched your face. He’d wanted to tell you that you’d been looking up at stars long before Orion had a name. Long before anyone carved constellations into myth to pretend the universe was kind. But he hadn’t.
He’d learned not to burden you with the weight of his knowing, not until he had to. Not until the world cornered him and forced his hand, forced his teeth, forced the red in his eyes to show when he couldn’t pretend anymore. His fingers curl into the sheet.
“Stay with me,” he says, and he hates himself for it because it’s ridiculous. It’s always ridiculous. It’s the same useless prayer he’s said in a hundred tongues, under a hundred skies, beside a hundred bodies that all belonged to you in different forms.
Stay with me.
As if the universe cares what he wants. As if he hasn’t been bargaining with it for centuries. There’s no answer. Of course there isn’t.
A draft sneaks under the window frame and slides across the room like a living thing, lifting the fine hairs on the back of his neck. The air shifts, and for a heartbeat he thinks—stupidly, viciously—that it’s you. That it’s some last little motion of your spirit, some final tease before you leave him with nothing but memories. But it’s only the night.
He swallows hard, and the sound of it is the only movement he hears from himself. His eyes don’t sting. He doesn’t cry—not the way humans cry. The tears don’t come the way they used to when he still had a pulse and a throat that burned with honest grief.
He can still feel it, though. He can feel it as a pressure behind his ribs, as if his chest is full of water and he’s trying not to drown in it. And somewhere beneath the grief, the bitterness stirs. A familiar, ugly companion. It crawls up through him like smoke. He’d tried. God, he’d tried.
He’d moved you away from the busiest streets. He’d memorized your schedule, your doctors, your routes. He’d listened for the shifts in your voice when you were too tired, too quiet, too brave. He’d kept you out of sunlight when he could, which had been easier to explain than it should’ve been—people loved romanticizing “old-school” devotion. They loved men who were intense, who were possessive in a way that sounded like poetry. You’d laughed at him for it sometimes.
“You’re clingy,” you’d said, smiling, tugging him closer by his shirt like you could treat his fear like a joke. “You act like you’re running out of time.”
And he hadn’t answered, because how could he? How could he tell you that holding onto you had always felt like trying to grab at water? That no matter how tight his fingers closed, you slipped between them—every time—leaving only the cold, wet proof that he’d tried.
His jaw clenches. The bedside clock glows an indifferent blue. The seconds keep moving. They always do. Time never pauses for love. Time never pauses for death. It simply continues, as if it’s above all of it, as if it doesn’t owe anyone anything. Remmick looks down at you again, and the sight of your stillness knocks something loose in him. A memory hits—sharp, bright, sudden—like a match struck in darkness.
Not this room. Not this bed. Not these soft sheets and electric light and the muted city beyond the window. Heat. Smoke. Flour dust hanging in the air like snow, catching firelight in soft, shimmering clouds. Your laugh, quick and surprised, because you’d stolen something off a tray and he’d caught you with powdered sugar smeared on your mouth. You’d lifted your chin at him like you were daring him to scold you.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you’d said. “I’m starving.”
He’d been closer to the door then, half in shadow, because he’d learned even back then to keep himself where he could vanish quickly. He’d been pretending to be normal. Pretending to be a man who belonged in a warm bakery on a winter evening.
He’d watched you lick sugar from your thumb and felt the old, hungry ache in his mouth—not for blood, not then, but for you. For the simplicity of wanting.
The world had smelled like bread. It had smelled like yeast and butter and cinnamon. And then—a shout outside. A crack that wasn’t thunder. The sudden, panicked motion of bodies. Someone knocked a lantern over. Flame licked up the hem of a curtain like it was eager. You’d spun, startled, eyes wide.
“Remmick—” you’d started, because you’d learned his name quickly, like you’d always learned him quickly, like your soul recognized him even when your mind didn’t. And the fire—
The fire had moved too fast.
He’d been faster than any human. Faster than the men screaming. Faster than the flame should’ve been able to outpace. But it had still been too fast. He’d reached for you. He’d grabbed your wrist. He’d felt your fingers tighten around his for half a second—
And then the ceiling had given way, a brutal collapse of beams and heat and ash, and the world had turned into a roaring mouth.
He remembers the sound you made when the smoke stole the air from your lungs. He remembers the way your hand slipped from his, slick with sweat and panic and flour dust turned to paste. He remembers the taste of ash on his tongue as he clawed through burning debris. He remembers finding you too late.
You hadn’t even had time to say goodbye.
Boston, he thinks, and the word tastes wrong in his head, because it wasn’t the place that mattered. It was you. It had always been you. He’d stood in the street afterward, staring up at the night sky through a veil of smoke, and the stars had been there too—faint points of light behind the soot, indifferent witnesses yet again.
In every century. In every country. In every lifetime.
He flinches back into the present like he’s been struck. The room is still. The lamp hums softly. The air conditioner clicks, a small mechanical sigh. You're still gone. He presses the heel of his hand to his mouth, because if he doesn’t, he thinks he might make a sound that isn’t human, a sound he hasn’t made in a long time—something raw and feral and starving with grief.
His eyes lift again to the window. Stars. Always stars. He can’t tell anymore if the universe is cruel or simply careless. Maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s neither. Maybe this is what love looks like when it’s stretched across too much time—beautiful, repeated, and doomed by default.
He thinks of the gold ring tucked away where he keeps things that hurt. He thinks of how he’s carried it for centuries like a wound he refuses to let scar over. He thinks of how many times he’d almost placed it in your palm, almost dared to believe you’d keep it. Not this time, he thinks, and it isn’t hope. It’s defiance. It’s the same stubbornness he’s watched you wear in every lifetime, the same fire that makes you mouthy and sweet and too trusting.
He leans in and finally, carefully, lays his hand against your cheek. Your skin is cooling. Not cold yet. But on its way. The last warmth slips away like water through fingers. His thumb strokes once, slow, reverent, a gesture that feels like a prayer even though he doesn’t believe in prayers anymore.
“Stay with me,” he whispers again, softer, like if he says it gently enough, the universe won’t hear.
But the universe never listens. It only takes. And still—still he finds you. Still he will.
Outside, the stars keep shining like they’ve never watched anything burn.
In the first life, there are no monitors, no humming machines, no thin blue glow of a digital clock counting down the seconds you have left. There’s only wind and firelight and the sound of the sea breathing somewhere beyond the hills.
Remmick remembers the way the grass felt on his back that night—damp from an earlier rain, flattened under his shoulders as he stared up at a sky so dark and clear it looked like someone had thrown a handful of salt across black velvet. The stars were so bright they almost hurt to look at, each one a hard, clean pinprick of white. No city haze, no smoke, no roofs to block them. Just the sky. Just the world before it realized how cruel it could be.
“You’re not listening,” you’d said, leaning over him so your hair fell in a curtain and blocked half his view.
He’d been listening. He always listened to you. But his gaze had been caught on the familiar cluster of lights just above your shoulder, the one the old men in the village said was an elk—or a boat or a god’s belt, depending on who you asked and how much they’d had to drink. He’d lifted a hand and pointed past you.
“I am,” he’d said. “You were talking about how Brannán forgot to tie his goats and they ended up in Maebh’s vegetable patch again.”
You’d narrowed your eyes at him, suspicious. “What else was I saying?”
He’d tilted his head, pretending to think. “Something about how you were going to steal my apples.”
Your mouth had twitched, betrayed by the impulse to smile. You’d tried to fight it. That was another thing that never changed, no matter where the universe threw you: your stubbornness sat right next to your delight. They bumped shoulders constantly.
“Your apples?” you’d scoffed. “They’re not your apples. They’re your father’s. You’ve never planted a thing in your life.”
“Someone had to climb the trees,” he’d protested, rolling onto his side to look at you properly. “Someone had to keep you from breaking your neck when you tried.”
“I didn’t ask you to catch me.”
“You screamed my name like you did.”
“That’s because if I died in your orchard,” you’d said primly, settling back beside him with a dramatic sigh, “your father would’ve made my mother pay for the burial.”
You’d both fallen quiet after that, the way people did when death slipped into the conversation too casually and sat down beside them. But in those days, it was never far from anyone’s mind. A turned ankle, a bad harvest, a fever that moved through the village like a shadow—it didn’t take much. It should’ve made you cautious. It never did.
You’d lain there with him in the hilltop field, just beyond the last line of stones that marked the boundary of his father’s land, your arm pressed against his in the grass. The air had carried the smell of peat smoke from distant hearths, of salt from the sea, of damp earth still cooling after the heat of the day.
He’d listened to you breathe. Even then, he’d liked the sound more than he could say. There was something steadying about it. Something that smoothed the sharp edges off the world.
“Which one do you like best?” you’d asked suddenly.
“The apples?”
“The stars, you eejit.”
He’d turned his head, following the line of your pointing finger. You’d always pointed the same way, in every life—arm outstretched, wrist loose, like you weren’t quite sure you had the right to name something so far away. A little shy, a little bold. A contradiction he loved even before he knew he loved it.
“That one,” you’d decided for him when he took too long, tapping a fingertip against the air. “The one that looks like it’s trying the hardest.”
He’d frowned faintly. “They’re all trying the same amount.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong.” You’d rolled onto your side again, propping your head up on your fist so you could study his face instead of the sky. “Some of them are lazy. You can’t tell me that fat one near the tree line isn’t coasting.”
He’d followed your gaze, squinting, then huffed out a laugh. “Maybe it’s older than the others.”
“So? It doesn’t get to slack off just because it’s tired.”
“You don’t slow down for anything,” he’d said, the fondness slipping into his voice before he could stop it.
You’d heard it. You always heard it, even when you pretended you didn’t.
“That’s because I’m not old,” you’d said. Then, after a pause, your mouth had curved in a way that made his heart misstep. “You, though…”
He’d arched a brow. “Me what?”
You’d studied him for a moment, eyes tracing his face like you were cataloguing it. The line of his nose, the sweep of his cheekbones, the dark smudge of stubble along his jaw—the features he’d carry with him long after the rest of him had died.
“You look like you’ve been alive too long,” you’d said finally, with a small, decisive nod. “Like you’ve seen everything twice and still don’t trust it.”
He’d gone still in the grass, some part of him reacting to the words with a strange, deep shiver. He hadn’t had centuries then. He hadn’t had the weight of history pressed into his bones. He’d only had this hill, this village, this small patch of earth his father insisted would always be theirs. But you’d looked at him like you could already see what he’d become.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he’d managed.
“Just that you frown too much,” you’d said lightly, teasing away the heaviness like you always did. You’d reached over and pressed your fingers between his brows, smoothing the line there. “You’re going to end up with wrinkles that make you look like a dried apple. And then no one will want to kiss you.”
“I thought no one wanted to kiss me now,” he’d shot back, but the words came out softer than he’d intended, caught on the warmth pooling in his chest.
You’d made a thoughtful sound, humming under your breath. It was the same little noise you’d make in a modern kitchen while deciding which mug to use, or in a laundromat while sorting colours from whites. A tiny, private music of concentration.
“I didn’t say that,” you’d murmured.
The stars had seemed to press closer then, crowding around the two of you like they were eavesdropping. He remembers every detail with painful clarity now—the way your hand had felt on his forehead, the roughness of your fingertips from work, the faint scent of apples on your breath because you’d stolen one on the way up the hill. He remembers wanting to kiss you so badly his teeth had ached with it.
He’d done nothing. He’d been his father’s son, back then. Bound by duty and caution, by lines drawn in land and blood. Your family worked his father’s fields. You’d grown up with mud on your boots and laughter on your tongue, always on the wrong side of the threshold when the men talked business. But Remmick had never cared about thresholds when it came to you.
Later, much later, when the sky had clouded over and the chill had begun to bite through his clothes, you’d sat up and hugged your knees to your chest, looking down at the cluster of stone houses huddled around the hearth smoke below.
“Do you think we’ll ever leave?” you’d asked.
He’d pushed himself upright beside you, following your gaze.
“Leave where?”
“Here.” You’d flicked your fingers toward the village, the fields, the sea, the hills. “This place. This life.”
He’d frowned. “Why would we? This is our land.”
“It’s your land,” you’d corrected automatically. Then, softer, “Your father’s land, I mean.”
“It’ll be mine someday.”
“Will it?”
You’d said it without malice, but the question had lodged in him like a splinter. He’d watched his father fight neighbors over boundary stones and grazing rights, watched him count sacks of grain like they were rosary beads that could keep misfortune at bay. He’d heard him spit curses about the men who moved through the country wearing foreign crosses, who talked about one god and one book and one way to live.
“They can’t take what’s ours,” his father had said, more than once, more to himself than to his son. “This is our land. We bled for it before they knew it existed.”
Looking back, Remmick knows that was the moment he started to doubt the certainty of that claim. Not because his father was wrong about the blood, but because you’d looked at the world and seen how easily it could shift beneath you.
“Nothing stays,” you’d said that night, staring at the scattered lights of the village. “Not the weather, not the harvest, not the people. Why would the land be different?”
He’d wanted to tell you you were wrong. That you could plant something and trust it to grow in the same soil year after year. That if you looked after things properly, they stayed. But the hill wind had shifted just then, carrying a faint sound on it—a snatch of song from someone’s hearth, the rough bark of a dog, the distant crash of a wave against the rocks—and he’d felt, for just an instant, how small they all were under the watching sky. He hadn’t answered.
You’d bumped your shoulder against his, light and deliberate, breaking the tension.
“Anyway,” you’d said. “If I ever do leave, you’re coming with me. Someone has to keep me from falling out of trees in foreign lands.”
He’d laughed despite himself. “Someone has to keep you from stealing their apples.”
“Well, obviously.”
You’d said it like a promise. Like it was that simple. It should’ve been that simple.
The days after that had been full in the way early autumn always was—harvest, repairs, preparations for colder months. Remmick had spent his time between the fields and the stone-walled yard where they stored grain, his hands blistered from the rough wooden handles of tools, his shoulders aching pleasantly by the time the sun dropped behind the hills.
He didn’t mind the work. It made his muscles hum and pulled his thoughts down into his body, away from the restless worry that always threatened to pool in his gut. Worry about the men with crosses moving slowly toward them from the east. Worry about rumors of burned groves and toppled stones. Worry about you.
You were everywhere. In the orchard, stealing the fruit you pretended was worthless until you bit into it and closed your eyes with a small sound of pleasure. In the lane, carrying a basket almost as big as your torso, muttering curses at the handle when it dug into your fingers. In the doorway of your mother’s cottage, hair messy from the wind, hands dusted with flour from kneading bread.
He started finding excuses to walk past your house at odd hours. Started timing his trips to the well so they lined up with yours. Started lingering in the field where the boundary stones separated his father’s land from the patch your family worked, pretending to inspect the soil while he watched you work with your sleeves rolled up and your jaw set in determination.
You always caught him. You’d wave him over when you thought his father wasn’t looking, or call out something that made nearby heads turn.
“Careful, Remmick,” you’d say loudly as he approached with a bundle of tools. “You look like you’ve been alive too long again. You might sprain something.”
He’d ignore the jibe and help you anyway, even when it meant his father’s disapproving gaze burning into the back of his neck from a distance. At night, he’d lie in the cramped loft of his family’s house, listening to the murmur of his parents’ voices below, and think of your fingers smoothing the frown from his brow.
Someday, he thought, he’d give you something that proved there was a place where you did stay. Even if nothing else did. It was a stupid hope. He can admit that now. But back then, hope was just another kind of faith. And he still had some of that left.
His father had the ring made in the late days of the harvest. Not for you. Not at first.
“You’re of age,” his father had said gruffly, setting a small linen-wrapped bundle on the table between them. The firelight had carved deep lines into the man’s face, every crease a record of worry, laughter, hard seasons. “It’s past time you started thinking about a family of your own.”
Remmick had unwrapped the bundle with careful fingers. Inside lay a simple band of gold, softly polished, its edges smoothed and warmed by the metalworker’s hands. No stones, no engraving, just a circle of light catching the flame. Something in his chest had tightened.
“You’ll need to choose someone,” his father had continued, leaning back with a tired sigh. “Or I’ll choose for you. We need alliances. More hands on the land. I won’t have our name disappear because you can’t decide who to put in your bed.”
Remmick had closed his fingers around the ring, feeling the cool weight of it press into his palm. He could picture you too easily. Your hands, your laugh, the way your eyes crinkled when you argued. The way you’d looked up at the stars and promised, half teasing, that if you ever left, he’d be coming with you.
He’d thought of how your family had worked his father’s fields for as long as anyone could remember, of the way the old women in the village talked about blood and class and who belonged with whom. He’d thought of the men with crosses who were moving closer every season. He’d thought of the land under his feet, and how you’d said nothing stayed. When he spoke, his voice had come out hoarse around the decision shaping itself in his throat.
“I’ve already chosen,” he’d said.
His father had stared at him for a long time, face unreadable.
“You’re a fool,” the older man had said at last. “You’ll make your life harder than it needs to be.”
Remmick hadn’t disagreed. But he’d kept the ring. He just didn’t get a chance to give it to you.
The men with crosses came with winter.
They weren’t many—not at first. A handful of hard-eyed strangers on tired horses, cloaks heavy with road dust and rain, a wooden emblem hanging from each neck. They spoke in a clipped, foreign version of his language, their words flattened around the names of their god. They asked questions. About land. About faith. About loyalty.
Remmick’s father answered with his jaw clenched and his hands fisted at his sides. He said all the right things and none of them with the right tone. Remmick watched the men’s eyes move over the fields, over the boundary stones, over the apple trees. Over you, when you walked past with a basket, chin tilted defiantly.
He didn’t like the way their gazes lingered. He didn’t like the way one of them spat on the ground near the old shrine stone at the edge of the village, the one people still touched in passing without thinking.
That night, the fire in his family’s house burned low and mean. His father paced, muttering curses under his breath. His mother sat with her hands in her lap, fingers worrying the edge of her skirt.
“They’ll take what they want,” his father said. “Land. Tithes. Names.” He’d looked at Remmick, eyes dark. “We have to be clever. Choose our fights.”
Remmick remembered your voice on the hill, telling him nothing stayed. He’d thought he understood then. He didn’t. Not yet. Understanding came with smoke.
They came back at dawn. More of them this time.
Remmick woke to shouting, to the thud of boots in the yard, to the harsh bark of orders. He stumbled out into the cold morning, breath steaming, the gold ring heavy in his pocket. The men with crosses were already in the field, their horses stamping and snorting clouds into the air. They’d driven stakes into the earth, marking lines that cut through his father’s land like scars.
“This isn’t yours,” his father was saying, voice rough and loud. “You don’t get to walk in and decide where our boundaries fall.”
One of the strangers smiled thinly, his fingers playing with the cross at his throat.
“Your god’s stone is old,” he said in that flattened accent, nodding toward the shrine rock standing sentinel at the field’s edge. “Ours is new. The new always replaces the old. That’s the way of things.”
The villagers had gathered in a small, frightened cluster nearby. You stood near the front, basket forgotten at your feet, hands clenched at your sides. Your jaw was set. Your eyes were bright. Remmick could see you biting back words. He wanted to tell you not to. He didn’t get the chance.
The first blow landed faster than anyone expected. A soldier’s fist connecting with his father’s face, the sound a sickening crack in the cold air. Then there was movement everywhere—men grappling, shouts, the dull thud of boots against ribs. Someone screamed. Someone else shouted about blasphemy, about defiance, about punishment.
Remmick moved without thinking. He’d always been quick, even before the change. Quick to climb, quick to dodge, quick to get between you and whatever threatened to knock you down. He reached you just as one of the soldiers shoved you aside, sending you sprawling into the mud. Your head snapped back against a stone, and the sight of blood at your temple stole his breath.
“Hey!” he shouted, grabbing the man’s arm. “Leave her—”
The soldier turned, eyes flat and cold.
“You should teach your women to hold their tongues,” he said.
Remmick hit him. It was messy and stupid and utterly human. No technique, no strategy, just his fist connecting with bone and the shock of pain up his arm. The man reeled back, more surprised than hurt, and then everything went sideways. Hands were on him, dragging him down. Boots drove into his ribs. The world narrowed to impact and breath and the copper taste of his own blood on his tongue.
He heard you shout his name. He heard his father bellow something wordless and furious. He heard the sharp, unmistakable whoosh of a torch being swung too close to something dry.
Fire had always been part of life there. Fire for warmth, for cooking, for comfort. A controlled thing. This was not controlled.
The torch caught on a thatched roof. The dry straw went up like tinder. Flames leapt from one house to the next in a greedy rush, feeding on wind and wood and fear. Smoke poured into the morning sky, turning it a mottled grey. People scattered, torn between fighting and fleeing, between saving what they could and saving themselves.
Remmick struggled under the weight of the men holding him, vision swimming. Somewhere in the chaos, he saw you lunge toward him, only to be shoved back again, stumbling dangerously close to a knot of men wrestling near a growing wall of flame.
“Remmick!” you shouted, voice raw. “Remmick—”
He’d never forgive himself for not reaching you then. For being pinned, for being human, for being breakable. He twisted, kicked, bit, did everything his body would allow, but there were too many hands, too many boots, too much smoke. His lungs burned. His eyes watered. The world became a smear of heat and sound and the thunder of his own heartbeat in his ears.
When he finally broke free, coughing and staggering, the village was half on fire. He spun, searching for you. He saw your dress first, a flash of familiar fabric near the fallen shrine stone. Your body lay twisted at its base, as if you’d been thrown there. The men with crosses were moving away, already re-forming their lines, their work done. He stumbled toward you, nearly falling when his knees hit the ground beside your head.
Your eyes were open. The blood at your temple had dried in a thick, dark streak. Your chest didn’t move.
“Stay with me,” he said, hoarse, grabbing for your hand—for your wrist—for anything that might prove this wasn’t real. “Please,” he choked, voice breaking on the word like it was glass in his throat. “Please, my love, stay—”
He pulled you closer without thinking, dragging you half into his lap like his body could shield you from what had already happened. His fingers skimmed your cheek, your jaw, your throat, frantic and shaking, searching for warmth, for breath, for the smallest flutter beneath skin.
“Look at me,” he whispered, and then louder, ragged, as if volume could change the laws of the world. “Look at me. You can’t—don’t you dare—”
Your head lolled against his forearm. Your fingers were limp in his, slack with a weight that made his stomach lurch. He squeezed until his knuckles went white, until pain shot up his arm, willing your hand to squeeze back. He tried to rub warmth into you like friction could re-light what had gone out. Nothing.
Smoke rolled over them in choking waves, carrying the stench of burning thatch, of scorched wood, of cooked meat. It coated his tongue, stuck to the back of his throat, turned every breath into punishment. Familiar faces sprinted past in panic, their features smeared by heat and terror, their mouths open in screams that blurred together into one long, animal sound.
But all he heard—truly heard—was the silence inside you.
The shrine stone loomed behind you, old carvings disappearing under soot, the familiar grooves blackening as if the gods themselves were being erased in real time. The world was changing shape around them, boundaries and beliefs and histories turning to ash, and Remmick couldn’t drag his eyes away from yours—those open, glassy eyes fixed on nothing.
He pressed his forehead to your knuckles. He breathed against your skin as if he could share his air, as if he could force life back into you through sheer stubbornness. No answering squeeze. No pulse. No soft exhale he could pretend to miss. Just the cooling flesh of someone the world had decided to take.
A sound left him then—raw, ugly, nothing like the controlled way he carried himself. It ripped out of his chest without permission, a broken noise that didn’t have words in it, only loss. He hunched over you like a man trying to fold himself around grief, like if he made himself small enough the universe would overlook him. His hands shook so hard he could barely hold your face.
“I was right here,” he whispered, and the accusation in it was aimed everywhere—at the men with crosses, at the sky, at the earth beneath them, at himself most of all. “I was right here.” His mouth brushed your forehead, your temple, reverent kisses that felt like apologies. “You promised,” he said, voice cracking. “You promised you’d leave and I’d come with you. You promised.”
It wasn’t fair, the way his mind reached for that hilltop under stars—how quickly it dragged him back to a night full of laughter, to your shoulder bumping his, to your voice easy and bright as if forever was something you could joke about. Nothing stayed. Not laughter. Not land. Not you.
Something cracked open in him then—not a clean break, not the kind that healed sharp and simple. A slow, grinding fracture that started at his heart and radiated outward, splitting him down to the bone. It felt like the world had reached inside his chest and twisted, like grief had hands and it meant to wring him dry. He tried again—because he didn’t know how not to.
“Stay with me,” he begged, quieter now, like a child pleading with something too big to understand. “Please. Please. I’ll—” His breath hitched. He didn’t even know what he was offering. He would’ve offered anything. He would’ve offered his name, his blood, his bones, his future, his god. “I’ll give you anything. Don’t leave me.”
Smoke blurred the sky, but beyond it the stars were still there—faint, stubborn points of light, indifferent witnesses. They didn’t blink. They didn’t soften. They didn’t turn away. The land wasn’t safe. The gods weren’t watching. And Remmick—small and shaking in the mud with your hand clutched to his mouth like a sacrament—understood for the first time what it meant to have nothing left to bargain with.
Nothing stayed.
He buried you at the edge of the field that night, under the tree that had given you so many stolen apples. His hands were raw and bleeding by the time he finished, fingers numb from clawing at the cold earth. He slid the gold ring back into his pocket instead of placing it in your grave. He couldn’t bring himself to let it go.
Days blurred after that. The men with crosses claimed half the land and promised to take more. They marked boundaries with their own symbols, toppled stones, muttered words about sin and obedience. His father’s shoulders bent under the weight of loss and humiliation. Remmick felt nothing but a cold, hollow hunger.
So when the stranger came—a figure who wasn’t quite man, whose eyes held too many winters, whose presence made the air around him ripple strangely—Remmick didn’t flinch.
“You’ve lost everything,” the stranger said, voice low and amused, as if he were commenting on the weather.
Remmick’s hands were still dirty from your grave.
“Yes,” he answered.
“Your land,” the man went on. “Your woman. Your god. Your future.”
Remmick stared at him. “Is this where you tell me to pray?”
The stranger laughed softly. “No. This is where I ask if you want to stop losing.”
He spoke of power then, of strength that didn’t bend under boots or burn in fires or choke on smoke. He spoke of walking through centuries untouched by age, of watching empires rise and fall like tides.
He spoke of making the men with crosses regret their arrogance. Remmick listened. It wasn’t the promise of revenge that hooked him. Not really. That came later, in other places, under other skies. What caught him was the thought of never being at the mercy of time again. Of never having to watch you grow still while he remained, powerless.
He didn’t yet understand the cruelty in that. He didn’t yet understand that immortality without you would be a curse carved deeper than any wound. All he knew was that he was tired of watching things be taken from him.
“What’s the cost?” he asked.
The stranger’s smile flashed sharp in the dark.
“Only your life,” he said. “And what you are now. You’ll leave this behind.”
Remmick thought of the burned village, of his father’s bent shoulders, of the shrine stone blackened and broken. He thought of your body in the earth, of apples rotting on the ground above you, of the ring in his pocket pressing against his thigh. He thought of the stars overhead, cold and distant and endless.
“Fine,” he said, jaw set. “Take it.”
The pain came later. The hunger came after. The understanding came last, slow and brutal. Because he didn’t stop losing you. He never has. But in that first life, on that first night, with the smoke still clinging to his clothes and your name a fresh wound in his mouth, becoming something else had felt like the only way to keep from breaking apart entirely.
He closed his hand around the gold ring as the change took him, metal cutting into his palm, anchoring him to a promise he hadn’t been able to keep. Someday, he thought. Someday, he’d give it to you. Someday, he’d keep you.
Under the watching stars, the universe said nothing.
He doesn’t see you again for a long time. Not in any way that makes sense. There are faces, of course. There are always faces. Men shouting in languages he doesn’t know yet. Women crying in doorways. Children laughing with gaps in their teeth, chasing dogs through mud and dust and waste. Time swallows one village and spits out a city. Roads lengthen. Ships get stranger. Crosses spread like rot across the map.
He moves through it all like a shadow with hunger in its bones. He learns to feed. He learns to hide. He learns what he is now—what he’s capable of, what he has to avoid, how to walk the edge between being a story people whisper and a thing they hunt. The nights feel longer. The stars seem sharper, somehow, like they’re watching more closely.
He tells himself it was a one-time cruelty. You, in the earth under the apple tree. You, gone. The universe owed him nothing. He knows that now. But the human part of him, the part that hasn’t been scoured entirely clean by blood and time, still curls around the memory of you like a hand around a coal. He keeps the ring. He doesn’t go back to the village. He tells himself he’s moving forward. And for a century, maybe two, that’s enough.
When he finds you again, it’s in a place that smells of candle wax and cold stone and damp wool, not earth and smoke and apple trees.
The monastery sits on a hill much like the one where you once lay in the grass counting stars, but there’s no wildness here, no sense that the land still belongs to itself. Every inch is ordered. Walled. Claimed. A ring of grey stone surrounds the complex like a clenched fist, and inside that circle everything is arranged around a central courtyard: chapel, dormitory, refectory, library, storage.
He stands outside the walls at first, watching. Habit now. He doesn’t step over boundaries without thinking about what it’ll cost him.
The night is thin and cold. He can smell the salt of the distant sea, the faint animal musk of sheep on the slopes below, the sharp iron tang of the nails hammered into the heavy wooden gate. Above it, someone’s carved a symbol he recognizes from a lifetime ago: a cross, straighter and more official now, sanctioned by men who wear it like armor. No shrine stones here. No old gods.
He can hear them inside, though. Not gods—monks. Voices rising and falling in a language that carries the bones of his own in it but feels heavier, weighted with syllables that weren’t meant to be forced into mouths like his. Latin, he’ll learn to call it later. For now it’s just sound. He’s about to walk away. He has no interest in men who whisper to a sky that never answers.
Then the bell rings, and the doors to the chapel open, and you step out into the courtyard with a cluster of other women in veils.
The world narrows.
You don’t look like a ghost. You don’t look like an apparition sent to torment him. You look like yourself, made over in neat linen and obedience—same eyes, same mouth, same stubborn tilt to your chin. Your hair is hidden under a coif and veil, but he knows the shape of your head, the slope of your neck, the way your shoulders sit straight even when you’re tired.
You walk across the cloister in careful, measured steps, holding your candle just as carefully, and the light paints your face in gold and shadow. It hits him like an arrow. His body doesn’t need to breathe, but his chest still stutters like he’s forgotten how.
For a moment, he thinks it’s a trick. A hallucination conjured by hunger or guilt or the sheer weight of all the faces he’s seen and forgotten. It would be easy to believe his mind had simply taken one it hadn’t wanted to let go and stamped it onto someone else.
Then you stop beneath the archway that leads into the garden and look up. At the stars. It’s a habit. A small, thoughtless one. Your head tips back, your eyes find the sky through the stone frame, and your lips part on a quiet exhale. He can’t hear you from outside the walls, but he knows exactly the kind of sound you’re making: the soft, involuntary one you make when something catches you off guard with its beauty.
Something in him tears.
You’re not the same. You can’t be. This girl has never stolen apples from his father’s trees or argued with him about boundaries and gods and the land staying under their feet. This girl has never touched the frown between his eyebrows and laughed, never told him he looks like he’s been alive too long. And yet—
You stand in the cold cloister in your novice’s habit and stare up at the stars like they’re old friends you’re determined to memorize before someone tells you not to look. It’s you. It’s you. For the first time since he died, he feels dizzy.
He doesn’t approach you that night. He can’t. He spends it pressed against the outer wall of the monastery instead, palms flat on the stone, listening. He listens to the rhythm of the place: the bells, the whispered prayers, the soft shuffle of bare feet in hallways. The world inside the walls is a clockwork of devotion. Wake. Pray. Work. Eat. Pray. Work. Sleep. Repeat. It should bore him. It doesn’t. Because under it all, woven into the pattern, are the sounds specific to you.
Your voice, pitched a little lower than the other women’s when you chant, like you’re trying not to stand out and failing. Your cough when the incense gets too strong. Your muttered curses in the garden when a root refuses to come up cleanly from the earth.
He revisits the question he never had time to fully examine at your grave: What kind of universe kills you and then gives you back?
He’s seen men reborn in stories, in songs. Heroes, saints, monsters with their heads cut off and bodies stitched back together in legends meant to scare children. But this isn’t that. This isn’t his own resurrection, a twisted bargain made in blood and desperation. This is you, existing again after you stopped.
This is impossible.
And yet there you are, carefully pruning herbs under a pale winter sun the next day, your breath puffing in front of your face, your fingers stiff from the cold. You mutter under your breath as you work, words he can’t quite catch, and when one of the older nuns calls your name sharply from across the hedged garden, you straighten with a guilty start, hand flying to your chest.
He hears your name and feels it land in him like a seed on familiar ground. Different mouth, same sound. Of course. Of course the universe would give it back too. The nun scolds you for something—working too slowly, wasting time, not focusing—and you bow your head, murmuring an apology that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
He recognizes the flicker there. The little flare of defiance. The same one you’d had when you stole apples, when you argued about land and gods and staying. He feels something split open in his understanding of time. It’s not just that you exist again. It’s that you exist with the same inclinations, the same small rebellions, the same way of inhabiting space like you belong there even when people tell you you don’t.
He waits until the next morning to test it.
He can’t enter without invitation. That’s one of the rules he’d learned early and bitterly, after slamming face-first into an invisible barrier at the entrance of a farmhouse and ending up on his back in the mud while the family inside stared at the closed door, shivering, understanding some part of what had just tried to get in. It’s not that he bounces off, exactly. It’s more like the air thickens into stone and refuses to acknowledge his existence.
The monastery is worse. The wall, the gates, the consecrated ground—they’re layers of no wrapped around each other, old as the foundations themselves. He can circle the perimeter. He can press his hand to the stones. He can slip in where the wall meets the hill and the builders were lazy.
He can’t step over the threshold into the cloister. Not unless someone asks him to. So he waits by the garden wall when you come out alone the next day, following the path that leads to a small, half-forgotten side gate. You’re humming under your breath, the same tuneless, wandering little melody you’d once used to fill silences in an Irish orchard. You’ve got a basket hooked over your arm and dirt under your nails.
You’re close enough that he can count the tiny lines at the corners of your eyes from squinting against the winter sun. He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until you stop. You freeze mid-step, head tilting slightly like you’ve heard something—or felt something, some ripple in the air beyond the wall.
He stays very still. If you scream, the place will swarm with black robes and solemn faces and men used to fighting off more than just temptation. Instead, you take a cautious step closer to the wall, peering at the empty space beyond the narrow gate as if you expect a creature from whatever hell the brothers preach about to be waiting. You’re not entirely wrong.
“Is someone there?” you call.
Your voice is different now—accent shifted by time and place, softened by the rules of this house—but it vibrates with the same thread that always cuts straight through him.
He hesitates. He shouldn’t speak. He shouldn’t draw you into this. He is what he is now because he couldn’t bear losing you. Dragging you into the orbit of his curse again is madness.
But you’re already there, aren’t you? The universe put you there without asking him.
He steps closer to the narrow slit in the wall, keeping his distance from the gate’s actual threshold. Cold air snakes through the gap, carrying with it the scents of crushed rosemary, damp soil, your skin.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, pitching his voice low and even.
You flinch anyway, shoulders tightening under the wool of your habit.
“Who are you?” There’s a quaver in it, but your chin lifts. You don’t sound like someone used to being obeyed, but you sound like someone who knows how to bite when cornered. “You shouldn’t be here. This is holy ground.”
Holy ground. The words sit sour on his tongue. “I’m just passing,” he lies.
“Then keep passing,” you say. “They don’t like strangers near the walls.”
“You don’t sound like you like them much either,” he says before he can stop himself.
It’s reckless. Familiar. Too familiar. The kind of thing he’d say to you in a field, trying to make you roll your eyes instead of worry. There’s a pause. Then he hears it: the soft huff of almost-laughter you’re trying to smother.
“I didn’t say that,” you answer. “Are you a thief?”
It’s so close to another question, another time—are you going to scold me for the apples?—that his hand tightens involuntarily on the edge of the stone.
“I’m no one,” he says. “Just a man on the road.”
Another lie. Another half-truth. He’s not sure which part of himself he’s lying to anymore.
You’re quiet for a moment. He can picture you on the other side of the wall, weighing your options. You’ve always been like that: impulse first, then ethics. Leap, then decide if you should’ve.
“You shouldn’t be so near,” you say at last, softer. “They…they don’t trust people. Anyone. They say the devil can wear any face and slip through any crack.”
One of the brothers must’ve said that to you; he can hear the echo of a sermon in the cadences. The thought of them filling your head with fear makes his teeth ache.
“Do you believe that?” he asks.
You let out a breath that curls white in the cold.
“I believe men like to blame devils for the things other men do,” you mutter. “It makes them feel less guilty.”
He almost laughs. It’s wrong to feel this familiar with you when you’ve never seen him before. When you have, but not like this. Not in this life. The memories stack in his chest like poorly aligned stones: you in linen, you in wool, you with apples, you with a rosary.
“You sound like you cause trouble,” he says.
“You sound like you want to be on the wrong side of this wall,” you shoot back.
He can’t help it. “Maybe I do.”
You make a small, disbelieving sound that isn’t quite a scoff. He imagines you shifting the basket on your arm, fingers flexing on the handle.
“Why?” you ask.
Because you’re here, he doesn’t say. Instead: “You sound like you could use someone to argue with.”
“God’s quite enough, thank you.”
He leans his forehead against the cold stone, the rough grit grounding him. It’s absurd, this—his undead heart tripping over itself because you’re being clever at him through a wall.
“What did you do,” he asks, “to end up in there?”
The silence that follows is longer. He wonders if he’s pushed too far. Then you sigh, the sound soft and bitter.
“I was born,” you say. “Wrong place, wrong family, wrong…everything. This is where I belong now.”
“You don’t sound like you believe that.”
“I don’t sound like a lot of things I’m supposed to be,” you reply.
He can hear shouts from somewhere deeper in the cloister now, the faint thud of footsteps.
“They’ll be looking for me,” you add. “You should go.”
He doesn’t move.
“Will you be here again?” The question escapes before he can catch it.
You hesitate. He can almost feel your eyes on the narrow gap, on the shadow of him just beyond.
“You shouldn’t come back,” you say.
“That’s not an answer.”
“How do I know you’re not the devil?” you ask, a thread of humor finally sneaking into your voice, bright and quick as a matchstrike.
He thinks about it.
“You don’t,” he says. “You’ll just have to decide if you’re curious enough to risk it.”
There it is—the soft, involuntary laugh he’d been waiting for.
It’s quieter than it used to be. More contained. Like you’re afraid of being heard even by the air.
“You sound like you’ve been alive too long,” you murmur, almost to yourself.
The words hit him so hard he has to brace a hand against the stone.
You can’t know. You don’t know. This you has never watched a village burn for refusing new gods, never died under a falling ceiling, never felt smoke claw its way into your lungs. But some part of you still looks for the age in his voice, the weight in his pauses. Some part of you always sees him.
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he says roughly.
“You shouldn’t,” you repeat, but there’s no heat in it now. Only a strange, reluctant interest.
He takes a step back from the wall.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he says.
He hears you huff, exasperated, fond, and then the quick patter of your feet as you retreat into the safety of stone and ritual. He waits until the side gate creaks shut and the faint shimmer of the threshold settles again before he turns away. The stars are out when he looks up. They’re different from the ones over his burned village, but only in placement. They’re still there. Still watching.
“For what it’s worth,” he mutters to them, “I didn’t ask for this.”
They don’t answer. They never do.
He comes back the next day. And the next. And the next.
He learns quickly that your schedule is as rigid as the stone around you. Morning prayers at dawn, work in the garden, meals in silence, lessons in the afternoon, more prayers, more silence, bed. The hours will shave down your edges if you let them. You don’t. You steal them back where you can.
You linger in the garden a little longer than you should. You get “lost” on the way back from the well. You volunteer to tend the herbs near the side gate because the older nuns complain their joints ache on the uneven ground.
He waits in the blind spot of the wall where the hill rises and the builders got lazy. He keeps to the shadow of a leaning cypress. The smell of sap and damp earth clings to him, masking some of the sharper edges of what he is.
You come. You talk. At first it’s nothing that would damn you even in the harshest confessional. Complaints about chores. Observations about the weather. Little jokes about which brother snores loudest during vigils. You complain about being hungry, about cold toes, about the way the wool of your habit scratches at your neck. He drinks it in like blood.
He offers very little about himself. He can’t tell you what he is. Not yet. Maybe not ever. He can’t tell you he’s older than the monastery’s foundations, that he watched the men who built it arrive with their own tired, fervent eyes and their own fear of the dark.
“You don’t talk much,” you say once, squinting at the narrow shadow his body makes through the gap. “It’s suspicious.”
“I talk enough,” he says. “You do the rest for both of us.”
“That’s rude.”
“True, though.”
You make a face—he can hear it in your voice. “And what if I decide I don’t want to talk to you anymore?”
“Then I’ll listen to you not talking,” he says simply. “I’m very patient.”
You snort. “You sound like you’ve been alive too long again.”
The second time you say it, it’s almost worse. He finds himself imagining what the brothers would say if they knew one of their novices was spending her free moments flirting with a stranger through the walls. They’d talk of temptation, of sin, of wolves disguised as ordinary men. They’d never guess the wolf doesn’t need disguises. He watches you argue theology with them under the cloister arches on a windy afternoon, your voice respectful but sure.
“If your God loves everyone,” you say, “why do you speak of Him like He’s waiting for us to fail?”
“So we remember to be humble,” one of the older brothers says.
“So we remember to be afraid, you mean,” you mutter once they’ve walked away.
Later, when you’re alone by the side gate, you tell Remmick, “If God wanted me to be humble, He shouldn’t have given me a brain that sees through nonsense.”
“You think you know better than your priests?” he asks, amused and aching all at once.
“I think I know when men enjoy power too much,” you shoot back.
Stars, he thinks, not for the first time. You’re going to get yourself killed again. You don’t, this time. That’s almost harder to bear.
He sees you age. Not in the way he saw his father age—hard and fast, ground down by worry and work—but slowly, gently, like the world has decided to take its time with you for once. Lines crease at the corners of your eyes from squinting in the sun, from laughing when you forget to act as solemn as you’re supposed to. Your hands roughen, but they remain sure. Your back stoops slightly, but you still walk the garden paths with the same straightforward stride.
You rise through the monastery’s quiet ranks. Novice to fully professed sister to something like leadership among the women, your competence too obvious for even the most stubborn of the brothers to ignore. He stays as he is. He watches from the boundary. He never steps through the threshold. He can’t.
Some nights, when you’ve finished your tasks and slipped out to the side gate under the pretense of checking the herb beds, you lean against the wall and close your eyes.
“Are you still there?” you ask.
“I’m here,” he says.
“You always are,” you murmur. There’s no fear in it anymore. Only a strange kind of trust.
He wonders, more than once, if he should tell you. If you have the right to know why his voice hasn’t changed in all the years you’ve been talking. Why he never meets you under the open sky in the village. Why he never crosses the threshold, never lets you open the gate.
He imagines your face if he said the words: I died once. I die and don’t stay dead. I drink blood. I watched you burn under a winter sun. He imagines the way your faith would recoil, the way the brothers would swarm, the way the threshold that already presses against him like a warning would harden into something impenetrable. He does what he’s always done when faced with choices he doesn’t like: he waits. You fill the silence for both of you.
“I had a dream,” you tell him once, voice hushed. “That this wasn’t the only life.”
His hand tightens on the stone. “No?”
You shake your head. He hears the faint rustle of your veil.
“I dreamt I was lying on my back in the grass,” you say slowly, as if unspooling the images as you speak. “And there were apples. And stars. And someone was beside me. I don’t remember their face, but I remember their laugh. And the way my chest hurt from wanting to…”
You trail off, embarrassed. Even now you’re careful with certain words. He closes his eyes.
“What did you want to do?” he asks, knowing the answer, needing to hear it anyway.
You huff out a breath. “Everything I’m not supposed to.”
The wind moves through the cypress branches above him, making a soft shushing sound.
“Maybe it was just something I overheard as a child,” you say quickly, backpedaling. “A story. A dream is just thoughts knocking around, the brothers say. It doesn’t mean anything.”
He has always hated the way men try to strip meaning from things that threaten their tidy worlds.
“It meant something to you,” he says.
You go quiet.
“Yes,” you admit after a moment. “It did.”
He doesn’t tell you that he remembers the exact hill you’re describing. That he remembers the way the grass felt, the way the apples tasted, the way your fingers curled into his sleeve. He doesn’t tell you that what you’re calling a dream is memory bleeding through the thin, stubborn veil between different versions of yourself. He doesn’t tell you that he’s lived enough now to know nothing is only anything. Instead, he listens to you breathe and looks up at the strip of sky he can see from his place beyond the wall. The stars are there. They’re always there.
You die in your sleep, decades later.
He’s across the hill when it happens, crouched in the branches of the cypress, watching the windows for any sign of trouble. There’s no sudden shout, no smoke, no fire. No boots, no crosses, no blood. Just a soft shift in the rhythm of the place. One candle going out among many.
The next morning, there’s a different cadence to the chants. Lower, a little slower. Grief woven into the words. He sees the nuns move through the courtyard with their heads bowed, the line of their shoulders a touch more hunched, the steps of some of the younger ones hesitant as they pass the spot in the garden where you used to sit and pluck leaves from stems with quick, sure fingers.
He knows before they carry the shrouded body into the little graveyard beyond the chapel walls. He knows, and still, when he sees the shape of you under the cloth, his hands curl into fists so tight his nails pierce his own palms.
There’s no way for him to be closer. No boundary to cross, no invitation they’d ever offer a stranger for a burial. He watches from the line of trees at the edge of the consecrated ground, the invisible barrier pressing against his skin like cold glass. They lower you into the earth. The brothers speak words meant to comfort the living and commend the dead.
You’ve spent your life arguing quietly with their god, and still they insist on handing you back to Him like they have any say in it. He can’t hear what you would say about that, and that may be the worst part.
There are no flames this time. No smoke. No splintering beams or collapsing ceilings. Your hair isn’t singed. Your skin isn’t blackened. Your life simply…stops. Gently, like a candle burning down to the wick. People would call it a good death. It doesn’t feel good to him.
He stands there long after the mourners have drifted away, long after the last clod of earth has thudded onto the freshly filled grave.
The stars aren’t out yet. The sky is a flat, washed-out blue. He stares up at it anyway.
“You stayed,” he says, quietly, to the ground.
You did. This time. You stayed in one place, in one life, following one set of rules until your body ran out. It didn’t save you. He doesn’t say stay with me. There’s no point. You’re too far beyond his reach now, tucked into soil he can’t thread his fingers through without stepping onto the ground that rejects him.
But later, when night comes, he’s still there. Leaning against the cypress, watching the stars emerge one by one over the monastery roof. He feels the start of an answer start to form in his chest.
You died again. But you came back once already. Why not again? Why not again, and again, and again, until the universe gets bored of taking you away and finally lets you stay? The thought is wild. Blasphemous, maybe, by any religion’s standards. It settles in him like a new kind of faith. He rolls the gold ring between his fingers, the metal warmed by his palm.
“Fine,” he murmurs to the sky. “If this is how you want to play it.”
The stars blink. The earth spins. Somewhere, someday, a child will be born who looks at him with eyes that have seen him before, even if they don’t yet know why their chest hurts when he smiles. He’ll find you. He always does.
It takes a long time to realize that finding you has never been the problem.
Years pass before the world gives him another version of you.
Remmick learns patience in those years. He learns it the way stone learns the shape of wind—slowly, grudgingly, with the understanding that resisting the current only grinds you down faster.
The centuries move differently now. He measures them by the rise and fall of places rather than by the ticking of days. Roads widen. Ships grow taller. Languages twist and remold themselves until the words he once spoke sound ancient even to his own ears. He feeds. He travels. He listens. And beneath it all, like a quiet, stubborn pulse, he waits.
He waits for the moment the world bends again and you step back into it.
He hears your laugh before he sees you. The desert night carries sound strangely. It lifts voices and stretches them thin across the sand, so a laugh can travel farther than it should, floating through the dark like a small, bright thing that refuses to die. Remmick stops walking.
The caravan has made camp in a shallow valley, fires burning low against the cold wind. Camels groan and kneel in the sand, traders move between tents wrapped in wool and dust, and above them the sky opens wide and merciless.
Stars everywhere. Sharp as glass. The same sky that hung over Ireland. The same sky that watched a monastery courtyard where a woman in a veil once tilted her face upward and whispered arguments to a god she wasn’t sure she believed in. And now—your laugh.
Remmick turns slowly. You’re crouched beside a blanket spread across the sand, surrounded by men who look halfway between entertained and furious. Dice rattle between your fingers.
“You’re cheating,” you announce.
The man across from you slams his palm against his knee. “I am not!”
“You absolutely are.”
Your grin flashes white in the firelight. The sight of it hits Remmick like a blade sliding between his ribs. Ireland had been your wildness. The monastery had been your restraint. This life—this life has your fire again. You toss the dice. They land. The circle erupts in groans. You sweep the coins toward yourself with a victorious flourish.
Remmick watches the movement of your hands, the easy confidence in the way you lean back on your heels. Alive. Alive again.
The realization doesn’t bring relief. It brings dread. Because he knows what comes next. He’d buried you once beneath an apple tree. He’d watched the earth swallow you again inside consecrated ground while monks whispered prayers. And now the universe has placed you here, in a desert full of strangers and knives and roads that swallow travelers whole. Not again. But it is. You notice him staring. Your gaze locks onto his across the fire.
“You playing,” you call, “or just watching?”
Remmick steps closer before he can stop himself. Up close you look younger than the monastery version of you. Sun-weathered. Dusty. A small scar runs across your knuckle like you earned it honestly.
“You look suspicious,” you say.
“Do I?”
You study him for a long moment.
“You look like you’ve been alive too long.”
The words land with the weight of prophecy. Remmick almost laughs. Ireland. The monastery. And now this.
“Maybe I have,” he murmurs.
You grin. “Good. Then you should know better than to gamble with me.”
The desert wind drags cool air across the fire. You play for hours. The caravan slowly drifts to sleep around you, until only the two of you remain beside the dying flames. The night deepens, and the stars grow brighter. You lean back, propping yourself on your hands.
“They’re brighter out here,” you say.
“They are.”
You lift your arm and point. “That one’s my favorite.”
The same gesture. The same star. Remmick feels something inside him tighten painfully. He reaches out without thinking and brushes a strand of windblown hair away from your face. Your breath catches. The moment stretches. Your hand comes up, almost unconsciously, resting against his chest.
“You’re strange,” you whisper.
“You’ve said that before.”
“When?”
“A long time ago.”
Your fingers curl slightly into his shirt. You don’t understand the weight of the moment, the centuries pressing into that single touch. You lean closer. Your mouth brushes his. The kiss is soft. Tentative. But it carries a warmth Remmick hasn’t allowed himself to feel since Ireland burned. When you pull back, you smile against his mouth.
“You kiss like someone who’s been waiting a very long time,” you murmur.
He has. God, he has.
For three weeks you travel together. You share fires and stories and quiet moments beneath endless desert stars. You steal his drink more than once, grinning when he glares. You hum when you’re thinking, that same wandering little tune he remembers from the hills of Ireland and a monastery garden.
Every time he touches you, it feels like holding something fragile and impossible. Every time you laugh, dread coils tighter in his chest. Because he knows. He always knows.
The bandits come before dawn.
Steel flashes. Men scream. Remmick moves like a storm. When it’s over, the sand is soaked dark. You lie beside an overturned wagon. An arrow through your chest. The stars fade slowly as dawn begins to bleed into the sky. Remmick kneels beside you. Your hand is still warm when he takes it.
“Stay with me,” he whispers.
You don’t. You never do.
In 1348, the world smells like rot. Towns empty themselves into mass graves while church bells toll endlessly for the dead. Smoke drifts through narrow streets as families burn their own houses trying to cleanse the sickness. Remmick finds you in a village infirmary. You’re kneeling beside a feverish child, wiping sweat from his forehead with a damp cloth.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you tell Remmick when you notice him watching.
“You shouldn’t either.”
You smile.
“Someone has to stay.”
You kiss him once in the doorway that night. Your lips are warm. Alive. Three days later he holds your hand while you cough blood into a linen cloth. Your breathing grows shallower. Your fingers tighten weakly around his.
“Don’t look so serious,” you whisper.
He presses his forehead to yours. “Stay with me.”
You smile faintly. “I wish I could.”
You die before dawn. Remmick burns the infirmary afterward so no one touches your body.
In Rome you become a nun and refuse to see him again.
In Florence, this time you paint him.
Your studio smells like oil and turpentine and sunlight warming old wood.
“Hold still,” you scold, dragging charcoal across canvas.
“You’re frowning.”
“I always frown.”
“You do look like you’ve been alive too long,” you say thoughtfully.
Remmick watches you work. Paint stains your fingers. Your sleeves are rolled up. You hum under your breath when you concentrate.
“Why do you stare at me like that?” you ask eventually.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m going to disappear.”
His chest tightens. “Habit.”
You step closer to adjust the angle of his jaw. Your fingers linger. Your thumb brushes his lower lip.
“You’re beautiful when you’re quiet,” you murmur.
Remmick pulls you into a kiss before he can stop himself. This one is different. Slow. Deep. Your hands slide into his hair. Your body presses against his like you’ve been waiting for this moment your entire life. Maybe you have. You fall asleep tangled together on the studio floor that night, paint-stained sheets twisted around your legs.
For a few fragile months, Remmick almost believes this life might last.
You die of fever in winter. He buries you beneath the studio window. Snow falls while he digs.
By the time the next century begins, Remmick understands something terrible. Finding you has never been the problem. The universe always gives you back. The problem—
The problem is that it never lets you stay.
The village is small. Too small for the way Remmick loves you.
He sees you for the first time in this life on a snow-bright morning, your hands pruned from scrubbing linens in ice water, your breath fogging the air. When you look at him, really look, something in your expression shifts—recognition without memory, longing without logic. And he knows. The way he always knows. You approach him slowly, the hem of your dress brushing snow.
“You look tired,” you say softly.
“I’m not,” he lies.
“You look like you’ve been alive too long,” you whisper, almost like a confession.
His heart—whatever’s left of it—shakes. Later, you tell him:
“I don’t think I’ve ever met you…but I think I’ve missed you.”
He falls. Hard.
You know he’s a vampire before you kiss him. There’s no fear in your voice when you say: “Your eyes change in firelight. I’ve seen the way animals flee from you. You don’t breathe when you’re thinking.”
You stand before him in the frozen dark behind the church, snow falling in soft flakes that land in your hair and melt against your cheeks.
“Are you gonna run?” he asks, voice rough.
“No,” you whisper. “I’m gonna choose you.”
You step into him, hands sliding into his hair, and Remmick feels centuries collapse beneath the warmth of your skin. He kisses you like he’s dying of dehydration and only your lips can quench his thirst. You kiss him like you’ve been waiting a lifetime to breathe.
You marry him that spring. It’s small. Quiet. In the same church that will later condemn you. But when you lift your veil and smile at him, Remmick feels something he hasn’t felt since he was human:
Hope.
“I don’t care what you are,” you whisper as he slides the ring he's kept just for you onto your finger. “I don’t care if the world hates us. For the first time, I want my life.”
“You have it,” he murmurs. “You have all of me.”
He means it. He shouldn’t. He can’t help himself. On your wedding night, while you sit together on the edge of the bed, firelight flickering over your joined hands, you ask him what would happen if he bit you. If he let you drink his blood. If he let you stay. Remmick stiffens. His voice is quiet.
“You wouldn’t become like me.”
“Then what would I become?”
“Empty,” he whispers. “Frozen. A shell that still breathes but doesn’t feel. Turning someone only works if death isn’t meant to claim them.”
You touch his cheek.
“And you think death wants me?”
“Oh,” he breathes, “it always wants you. Every life you’ve had, death has reached for you. It’s not a curse. It’s just the pattern.”
You hold his face between both hands.
“Then I’d rather live one life with you than a hundred without myself.”
And he kisses you, devastated and grateful and so fucking in love. You kiss him like he’s your home. He undresses you like he’s praying. Your clothes fall to the floor with soft thumps, the firelight turning your skin gold, warming the air between your bodies. When he lays you back on the blankets, you gasp quietly, your fingers pulling him into you.
“Tell me what you want,” he whispers against your throat.
“You,” you breathe. “I want you to love me. I want to feel you everywhere.”
And God, he gives you everything. He slides into you slowly at first, worshiping every shiver, every gasp, every arch of your back. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him deeper, moaning into his mouth as he thrusts with a tenderness he’s never given anyone else.
“Look at me,” you whisper. “I want to see you when I come.”
He does. You fall apart beneath him—crying out his name, shaking, clinging to him as though your body remembers every life he’s held you through. And then—afterwards, when you’re breathless and warm and curled against his chest—you do it. You break him. You run your fingers through his hair, your voice trembling:
“You don’t have to keep finding me.”
He goes still.
“You don’t have to keep loving me,” you continue, voice cracking. “I’ve watched the way you look at me. Like you’re terrified. Like you’re already grieving me. Like you’re tired. So tired, Remmick.”
His breath shudders. You whisper: “I’m hurting you. Every life I have hurts you.”
Remmick lifts his head. His eyes are molten red.
“You think loving you is the wound?” he whispers. “Loving you is how I survive the wound.”
Your eyes fill with tears. He kisses them away.
“I don’t find you because I have to,” he breathes. “I find you because the world is unbearable without you in it.”
You choke on a sob. You pull him back down to you. You fuck him again—desperate and emotional, your nails digging into his shoulders, your moans turning broken at the edges. You ride him until you can barely breathe, until he holds you tight enough to bruise, until you fall apart on his cock whispering his name like a prayer.
You fall asleep in his arms. Still warm. Still alive. And then—your screams wake him. The villagers break the door.
“Witch!”
“Demon whore!”
“Burn her before he takes us all!”
They club him with silver before he can rise. It weakens him. Slows him. Just long enough. They drag you outside barefoot, still in your wedding slip, your hair tangled, your cheeks streaked with tears. You scream for him. He hears you as if underwater. The silver burns into his skin. He can’t stand. He can’t breathe. He can’t reach you.
“Remmick—! REMMICK—!”
Your voice is pure terror.
He crawls toward the door, fingers bleeding, muscles spasming. He reaches the threshold—and the church bell rings. They tie you to the stake. You’re crying. Begging. Calling for him. He forces himself up. The silver strips crack inside his flesh as he tears them free. His body is barely holding together, but he doesn’t care.
He’s running before he realizes he can move. Snow whips up behind him. Smoke fills the air. Your screams—God—your screams. The fire catches instantly. The villagers cheer. The flames reach your legs first. Your skin bursts open in blisters. Your hair ignites. Your slip melts into your flesh. Remmick tears through three men, ripping out their throats with his teeth, blood spraying hot across the snow. But he’s too late. He’s always too late. When he reaches you, your throat is raw from screaming, your flesh splitting as fire devours you.
“Rem—” you choke, smoke pouring from your mouth, blood from your lips. “Rem—I’m scared—”
He grabs the burning stake with both hands. It sears his skin. He doesn’t care. He tries to pull it apart. He tries to tear you free. He tries to save you. The flames roar. Your eyes roll back.Your chest rises once—twice—stops.
“NO—NO—NO—NO—”
The fire consumes you. He holds your burning body until the flesh slips from bone. He collapses with you, sobbing into the charred remains of your hair.
“Stay with me,” he begs.
But you don’t. You can’t. You never do.
He slaughters every man, woman, child. He tears the priest in half. He rips open bellies and throws intestines across the snow. He snaps necks like twigs. He sucks marrow from bones. He paints the church walls with their blood. He drags screaming villagers into the fire that killed you. He holds them there while they burn. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t stop. Not until the entire village is still. Not until he has nothing left to kill. Not until your ashes cool enough that he can gather them in his hands.
He kneels in the snow, cradling what’s left of you, pressing his forehead to your charred skull.
“Every life,” he whispers, shaking. “Every lifetime, I will find you. You can’t ask me not to. You can’t ask me to let you go. I don’t live for eternity. I live for you.”
And this—this is the life he never recovers from. This is the wound the universe never lets him close. And from this night on—
He stops believing the world is allowed to take you from him ever again.
The ocean is the only thing in the world that feels as old as Remmick.
It stretches endlessly in every direction, dark and breathing beneath the weight of the sky. pulled low across your brow—none of it fools him. He knows you the moment you step onto the deck, arguing with the captain while clutching a compass.
“I can navigate better than the fool you lost in Havana,” you insist.
“You look about sixteen,” the captain scoffs.
“Then imagine how embarrassing it’ll be when I’m right.”
Remmick leans against the railing watching you with quiet amusement. You notice him after a moment, your gaze lingering just a little too long. Something flickers there—recognition without memory. You’ve always done that. He thinks, with a quiet ache:
There you are.
You sail together for two years. The sea becomes your world. Endless blue days and endless black nights, the ship rocking gently beneath your feet as you chart the stars across worn maps. Remmick watches you lean over the captain’s table one night, tracing constellations with the end of a quill.
“That one’s my favorite,” you say, pointing upward through the window toward the sky.
It’s the same star you always choose. It makes his chest tighten every time.
“You stare a lot,” you tell him.
“I’ve had practice.”
“With what?”
“Finding you.”
You snort softly. “I’m right here.”
If only you knew.
You become friends first. It always starts that way. Some nights you sit together on the edge of the deck sharing rum while the crew sleeps below. Your shoulders touch as the ship drifts through moonlit water.
“You ever think about where you’ll end up?” you ask.
“I’ve been a lot of places.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He watches the endless dark sea. “Wherever you are.”
You laugh, bumping his shoulder. “Careful. That almost sounded romantic.”
“Almost.”
Your hand stays on his arm longer than necessary.
You kiss him during a storm. Rain lashes the deck, wind tearing through the rigging while the ship pitches violently against the waves. You grab his coat to steady yourself, breathless and soaked through.
“I think we’re going to die,” you say.
“Not tonight.”
“You sound very sure.”
He is. If you died tonight, he’d feel it. Your fingers clutch his coat. Your breath warms his mouth.
“You look like you’ve been alive too long,” you whisper.
Then you kiss him. Hard. Desperate. Like the storm itself is pushing you together. When you break away you whisper, almost confused, “I knew it was you.”
Remmick freezes.
“I don’t remember why,” you say quickly, pressing your forehead to his. “But when I saw you…it felt like everything finally made sense.”
He kisses you again before he can stop himself. And this time there’s no restraint.
You’re lovers after that. The crew never discovers your secret. By day you remain the quiet navigator boy charting stars and currents. By night—you belong to each other. Sometimes it’s the captain’s empty quarters. Sometimes the storage hold that smells like rope and tar. Once it’s right there on the deck beneath a sky full of stars while the ocean rolls gently around the ship.
You straddle his lap, moving slowly, breath catching as you whisper his name. “Remmick…”
His hands tighten on your hips.
“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs.
“Why?”
“Because I keep forgetting the world takes you away.”
Your expression softens. You brush your fingers through his hair. “Then maybe you should stop loving me so much.”
He laughs quietly against your mouth.
“I can’t.”
The storm that kills you comes without warning. One moment the sea is calm. The next it’s roaring. Wind howls through the rigging. Waves crash over the deck while sailors scream orders that vanish into thunder. You’re at the helm fighting the wheel when Remmick reaches you.
“Get below!” someone shouts.
You shake your head. “If we lose the rudder we’ll capsize!”
Another wave slams into the ship. Wood splinters. The mast cracks like a gunshot. Remmick reaches for you—but the sea takes the ship first. The world explodes into freezing black water.
Remmick doesn’t drown. He sinks. Cold darkness closes around him, wreckage drifting like broken bones through the water. But he doesn’t need air. He doesn’t need breath. He only needs you.
He searches the ocean for three days. Diving again and again into the wreckage, tearing apart shattered planks, dragging bodies toward the surface only to cast them aside when they aren’t yours. The sea floor becomes a graveyard of splintered wood and drowned sailors. Still he searches. Still he hopes. Because the universe always takes you. But it never tells him when.
On the fourth day—he finds you. Your body is tangled in the broken mast, hair drifting in the current like seaweed. Your hand is still wrapped around the compass you carried everywhere. Remmick pulls you gently free. You’re cold. Silent. Gone. He presses his forehead to yours as the waves rise and fall around them.
“Stay with me,” he whispers hoarsely.
But the ocean has already claimed you. And once again—
Remmick is left alone with eternity.
By now Remmick understands the rules of it. You always come back. And the universe always takes you again. The centuries stretch like a long road beneath his feet, and every time he sees your face in a new crowd, in a new country, beneath a new sky—hope blooms.
And dread follows.
Because loving you has never been the hard part. Losing you is.
Next he finds you at the edge of the world.
The Arctic doesn’t feel like a place meant for living things. It’s endless white and blinding wind, ice grinding against ice with the low thunder of glaciers shifting beneath the sea. The expedition ship cuts slowly through frozen water, its hull groaning like an animal in pain.
You’re the ship surgeon. The first time you meet him you’re elbow-deep in a sailor’s torn shoulder, sleeves rolled up, jaw tight with concentration.
“You’re in the way,” you snap without looking up.
Remmick raises a brow. “I was invited.”
“Then whoever invited you is a fool.” You glance up. Your eyes catch his.
Something sparks. Recognition without memory. You scowl. “You look like you’ve been alive too long.”
He almost laughs.
You argue constantly. About medicine. About navigation. About whether the crew should push deeper into the ice.
“You’re reckless,” you tell him one night, standing beside the rail while the frozen sea groans around the ship.
“And you’re stubborn.”
“Someone has to be.”
The wind rips your words away. You shiver. Without thinking he drapes his coat around your shoulders. You glare at him. Then you keep it.
You kiss him the night the aurora appears. Green light spills across the sky like something alive, dancing over the frozen sea while the ship drifts in silent water. You’re staring upward when he joins you.
“Beautiful,” you whisper.
He isn’t looking at the sky. He’s looking at you. You turn. Your breath fogs between you. “You stare too much.”
“I’ve missed you.”
You frown. “What?”
He kisses you before he can explain. The cold steals your breath as your mouth opens against his, hands clutching his coat while the sky burns with color above you.
“You’re impossible,” you whisper when you break apart.
“I know.”
You kiss him again. Harder this time.
The storm comes three weeks later.
The ice shifts beneath the hull like a breaking bone. The ship splinters. Men scream as the vessel tears open against the frozen sea. Remmick fights through the wreckage searching for you. He finds you half-buried in snow, blood soaking through your coat.
“Remmick,” you breathe weakly.
He gathers you in his arms. Your pulse is already fading.
“I told you,” you whisper faintly. “You’ve been alive too long.”
“Stay with me.”
You smile. Then your exhale your last breath.
Remmick buries you in ice. He digs through frozen ground with bare hands until his fingers split open. He lays your body beneath the snow with careful reverence, brushing frost from your hair one last time. Above him—the stars blaze across the black Arctic sky. They look the same as they did in Ireland. They look the same as they will centuries from now.
They watch him lose you again.
The American West smells like dust and gunpowder.
You’re a schoolteacher in a tiny frontier town, chalk dust clinging to your sleeves as you scold children for spelling mistakes. Remmick leans against the doorway one afternoon watching you teach.
“You’re distracting the class,” you tell him sharply.
“Am I?”
“You look like trouble.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
You pause. Then you say it again.
“You look like you’ve been alive too long.”
It happens fast. A man bursts into the schoolhouse waving a pistol, shouting for money. The children scream. You pull the revolver from your desk drawer and fire before Remmick can move.
The robber drops. But he fires once in return. The bullet hits your ribs. You bleed out slowly on the wooden classroom floor while Remmick holds you. Your hand grips his shirt weakly. “Did I get him?”
“You did.”
“Good.”
Your eyes soften. “You look sad.”
“I always do.”
You smile faintly. “You’ve been alive too long.”
Then you die in his arms.
The airfield smells like gasoline and hot metal.
You’re laughing when he sees you this time. Leather flight jacket. Wind-tangled hair. Eyes bright with reckless joy.
“You fly?” he asks.
“Better than anyone here.”
You grin. “Race you down the runway.”
You’re fearless. You’ve always been fearless. The plane roars down the strip beside his. For a moment the sky feels infinite. Then your engine sputters. Your aircraft dips. Spins. Crashes into the ocean beyond the cliffs.
Remmick stands frozen at the edge of the runway watching smoke rise from the water. He doesn’t move. He already knows.
The sea swallows the wreckage. And you with it.
He finds you in a library. 1954. Small town. Dusty sunlight filtering through tall windows while you sort returned books behind a wooden desk.
“You’re late returning this,” you say, holding up a novel.
Remmick stares at you.
“You look tired. Like you’ve been alive too long,” you add thoughtfully.
He laughs softly.
You fall in love slowly. Quiet dinners. Long walks. Late nights reading together on the couch. When you discover he doesn’t age, you don’t scream. You just take his hands.
“So that’s why you look so tired,” you say gently.
“Yes.”
You kiss him.
“Good thing I’m stubborn.”
You marry him anyway.
This life is the happiest. You grow old beside him. Your hair turns silver. Your hands wrinkle. But you laugh every day. And when the cancer finally takes you—it happens peacefully. You’re lying in bed with his hand in yours.
“Remmick,” you whisper.
“Yes?”
“You’ve been alive too long.”
He smiles sadly.
“I know.”
You squeeze his hand.
“Find me again.”
Your breathing slows. Your eyes close. And for the first time in centuries—your death isn’t violent. But it still breaks him. Because peaceful or not—the universe has taken you again.
By now Remmick knows better than to believe the universe will be gentle. It never is. Sometimes it gives him years with you. Sometimes it gives him hours. But every time he finds you again, hope still flares inside him like something stubborn and foolish that refuses to die.
And every time the world takes you—that hope dies with you.
This time you’re loud. Brilliant. A university student in Bristol with a motorbike and a sharp tongue that never lets him take himself too seriously.
“You’re a miserable old bastard,” you tell him the first night you meet.
Remmick almost laughs. “You’ve known me five minutes.”
“Five minutes is plenty.”
You steal his cigarette and take a drag. The city lights glow across the river while music thumps from the pub behind you.
“You brood too much,” you add.
“I’ve had practice.”
“You should try living a little.”
You toss him a spare helmet.
“Come on.”
The motorcycle roars down empty streets with you pressed against his back, laughing into the wind while the city blurs past in streaks of neon and rain. For the first time in a long time—
Remmick forgets to be afraid.
The crash happens on a wet road outside the city.
Headlights. Screeching tires. Metal folding inward with a scream of twisting steel. When Remmick crawls from the wreckage the car has already crushed the motorcycle beneath it. Your body lies tangled in the shattered frame.
He drags the vehicle away with inhuman strength, the metal shrieking as it bends beneath his hands.
“Come on,” he begs. “Come on—”
Your blood stains the pavement. Your eyes flutter open briefly.
“Guess…I drove too fast,” you whisper.
Remmick presses his forehead against yours. “You didn’t.”
Your lips twitch faintly.
“Still a miserable bastard,” you murmur.
Then your breath leaves you.
Remmick roars. The sound echoes across the empty road as he crushes the car’s frame with his bare hands until the metal folds like paper. But it doesn’t bring you back. It never does.
After enough centuries, grief stops feeling sharp. It becomes something quieter. Heavier. Like a stone placed carefully inside your chest. Remmick carries that stone for a long time. Long enough that the edges wear smooth. Long enough that the world begins to feel dull around it.
He’s loved you across deserts and oceans, through plagues and wars and quiet rooms that smelled like old books and rain. He’s buried you in ice. He’s held you while you bled out on wooden floors. He’s watched you burn. He’s watched you drown. He’s felt your heart stop in his arms more times than he can count anymore.
Every life ends the same. Every century. Every country. Every lifetime. He finds you. And the world rips you away. Eventually something inside him breaks in a quieter way than before. Not violently. Not like the night the village burned. Just…slowly. Like a candle running out of wax.
He realizes one evening—standing alone in a city he doesn’t care about anymore—that loving you isn’t the thing destroying him. Losing you is. And it'll never stop.
So he decides something he should’ve decided centuries ago. He'll stop looking. No more wandering streets searching every crowd for your face. No more chasing rumors of women who laugh the same way you do. No more falling in love with a soul that the universe refuses to let him keep. He’s immortal. He can endure the loneliness. He tells himself that enough times it almost sounds believable. So he stops.
Decades pass. Remmick moves through them like a ghost. He travels when he has to. Feeds when hunger becomes unbearable. Sleeps in places that never mean anything to him—empty houses, quiet forests, forgotten towns. He avoids people. Avoids cities. Avoids anywhere the sound of laughter might reach him. Because laughter still reminds him of you.
Sometimes he wonders if you’re out there somewhere in the world during those years. If another version of you is walking through crowded streets, falling in love with someone who isn’t him. The thought hurts. But not as much as watching you die again would. So he keeps walking. Keeps drifting. Keeps pretending that eternity is easier this way.
Eventually the years start to blur together. The world changes around him. Cities grow. New music fills the air. Languages shift. The sky stays the same. He stops noticing most of it. Immortality becomes quiet. Lonely. Endless. And Remmick begins to believe he’s finally done it. He’s finally escaped you.
It happens by accident. He isn’t searching. He isn’t thinking about you at all. He’s just passing through a city one night—somewhere bright and loud and alive in a way that makes him uncomfortable. Music drifts from open doors. Outside lights twinkle like artificial stars. People spill out onto sidewalks laughing with drinks in their hands.
Remmick keeps his head down as he walks. He’s good at moving through crowds without touching anyone. He almost passes you. Almost. Then he hears it. Your laugh. It’s soft at first. Just another voice in the noise of the street. But it cuts through him like lightning. Remmick stops. His entire body goes rigid. The sound comes again—clearer this time. Bright. Warm. Familiar in a way that makes his chest feel like it’s caving in. Slowly, almost afraid to move, he turns toward the sound.
You’re standing on the rooftop of a nearby restaurant, leaning against the railing with a group of friends. Someone has dragged a speaker outside, and quiet music hums beneath the chatter of voices. The city stretches behind you in glowing windows and moving headlights.
Above you—the stars. Not as bright as they were in deserts or frozen seas. City lights dull them. But they’re still there, scattered across the night like something stubborn and eternal. You’re looking up at them. Laughing at something someone said. Your head tips back the same way it always has. Your hair catches the light.
And Remmick—Remmick forgets how to move. It hits him all at once. The centuries. The graves. The bodies he’s held. The way you always looked at him like he was something worth loving, even when he knew better. He’s spent decades convincing himself he could live without you. That he could outrun fate. That he could simply… stop. But standing there in the street, watching you laugh beneath the stars like the universe has never hurt you before—
Remmick finally understands something he should’ve known all along. He never had a choice. He could walk away a thousand times. He could cross oceans and centuries and entire continents trying to escape the pull of your soul. It wouldn’t matter. Because the moment he sees you—It’s already over. He’s already in love. Again.
Remmick exhales slowly. For a moment he considers leaving. Turning around. Disappearing into the crowd before you notice him. He almost does it. Almost. Then you glance down from the rooftop. Your eyes find his. And something shifts in your expression. Confusion. Recognition. The faintest flicker of something you can’t quite explain.
You tilt your head slightly. Remmick feels the old, familiar ache bloom in his chest. The same one that’s followed him across centuries. The same one he tried to bury. The same one that refuses to die. He closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again—
You’re still there. Still laughing. Still alive. And Remmick realizes with devastating clarity that he could spend a thousand years trying to escape this moment—and he’d still end up here. Looking at you. Loving you. Waiting to see how the universe will break his heart this time.
The city glows like a circuit board at night. Headlights crawl along wet streets, neon signs buzz above late-night diners, distant sirens cut through the hum. Clouds hang low enough to smother the stars. Maybe that’s why he goes to the planetarium. It’s the closest thing he has now to the sky he remembers—dark and clean and full of light. He doesn’t expect you to be there.
He’s just trying to kill an evening that feels too long, hands stuffed in his pockets as he slips into the dim auditorium with a scattering of tourists and bored couples. The ceiling is a smooth black dome. The lights go down. And your voice fills the room.
“Welcome to tonight’s live sky show.”
Remmick goes very, very still. You’re standing at the front, next to the projector console, a faint blue glow outlining you. Your features are soft in the half-light, but your voice—your voice is the same across centuries. Warm. Wry. A little too alive for a world that keeps trying to snuff you out. He grips the armrests so hard the plastic creaks.
You’re talking about constellations. About light-years and star death and how everything up there is already gone by the time we see it.
“Which is kind of romantic, if you think about it,” you say lightly. “We’re all just looking at ghosts.”
The projector throws a spray of stars across the dome, pale and perfect. You tilt your head back to look at them. He’s seen you do that in so many lives he’s lost count. It hits him like a blow. The monastery courtyard. The frozen Arctic sky. The desert night. The rooftop. You, again, under stars. His hands start to shake. He doesn’t bother stopping it this time. He just stares.
You walk up the aisle during a segment, passing close, the faint scent of your perfume cutting through stale air and popcorn. You ask trivia questions, joke with the audience, never notice the way one man in the third row looks like he’s seeing a ghost. At the end of the show, you flip the lights back on.
“Thanks for coming,” you say, smiling. “Go outside, look up—there’s still a sky under all those city lights, I promise.”
People stand. Stretch. Shuffle toward the exit. He doesn’t move. You glance toward him as the auditorium empties, eyes skimming the rows. Your gaze catches on his. You hesitate. There it is. That flicker. The one he’s hunted for lifetimes. Not recognition exactly. But something that lives underneath it. A pull. A question. You give him a polite, uncertain smile. Then you look away and start tidying up.
Remmick sits there until the room is empty. You don’t remember him. Of course you don’t. That part has never been yours to carry. It’s always been his.
You meet properly a week later.
He keeps coming back. Of course he does. He tells himself it’s because the shows are a good way to pass time, because he’s always liked the stars, because he has nowhere else to be. It’s a lie so flimsy even he doesn’t bother believing it. The third time, you catch him loitering in the small lobby gift shop after everyone else has gone.
“You’re back,” you say, sounding half-amused, half-suspicious.
“You’re very good,” he says simply.
“At star pushing?”
“At making dead light sound like something worth staying for.”
You huff a laugh. There’s a beat.
“Do you…like astronomy?” you ask, a little awkwardly.
“I like the sky.”
You study him for a second like you’re trying to slot him into a memory that doesn’t exist.
“Do you wanna grab a coffee?” you blurt.
He hadn’t planned for that. He hadn’t planned for you at all.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that.”
You fall into each other slower this time.
Coffee in the museum café turns into late-night takeout and shared documentaries on your couch. You text him pictures of weird sky phenomena, ugly meme versions of constellations, blurry photos of the moon through your phone. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t have to. He just… stays. You start letting him.
The first time he sleeps over, you wake up halfway through the night to find him propped on one elbow, just…looking at you.
“Creepy,” you mumble, face half-smashed into the pillow.
“Sorry.”
He doesn’t look away.
“Are you actually watching me sleep?” you ask, eyes still closed.
“Yes.”
You snort. “Why?”
He hesitates. “I like seeing you breathe.”
Something in his voice makes your heart stutter. You crack an eye open.“Pretty intense for a guy I’ve known…what, a month?”
His hand lifts like he’s about to touch your face, then changes course and brushes your hair back instead.
“It’s been longer than that,” he says quietly.
You don’t understand what he means. Not yet. But you feel the weight in it. He memorizes you. You don’t know that part. Not really. You don’t see the way he watches your profile when you’re talking, cataloging every line as if he’s afraid the world might erase you at any second. You don’t see how his fingers trace your features in the dark when you’re already asleep, as if he’s trying to etch you into his bones.
You do feel his hands on you all the time, though. Fingers pressed to your wrist as you cross streets. Palm at the small of your back in crowds. His thigh always touching yours on the couch, body angled toward you like he can’t stand the idea of even an inch of distance.
“You act like you’re running out of time,” you tease one evening when he pulls you into his lap just to keep you closer while you’re both doing absolutely nothing.
His arms tighten around you almost imperceptibly. He smiles against your shoulder.
“I am,” he says.
You laugh. You think he’s being dramatic. He isn’t.
You invite him over for dinner on a rainy Friday. Cheap wine. A movie you barely watch. You’re proud of the pasta even though you almost spill it everywhere, laughing as you plate it.
“I even made garlic bread,” you announce, triumphant, setting the tray down between you on the coffee table.
He goes rigid. You don’t notice at first, too busy tearing a piece off.
“Here,” you say, holding it up to his mouth. “Say ah, ancient one.”
He flinches back so fast you blink.
“What, do you not eat carbs?” you joke, trying to cover the tiny sting.
“I—no. I just…don’t like garlic.”
You stare. “You don’t—like garlic.”
“No.”
“Like, at all?”
“No.”
You squint at him. “That’s suspicious.”
He tries to smile, but it looks wrong. “I’m complicated.”
You bump his knee with yours.
“Fine, more for me,” you say, but you file it away. Later—much later—you’ll remember that moment and feel everything in your life tilt.
For now, you just eat his share.
It happens on an ordinary night.
You’re both leaving your apartment after a lazy day inside, half-dressed, half-laughing, intending to run to the corner store for snacks. Your building’s stairs are old. The hallway light flickers. You misjudge a step. Your foot slips. You fall forward, instinctively throwing your hands out, and hit the edge of the stair hard enough that pain lances up your arm. You hear the crack. You scream. Time fractures around the sound. Remmick is there in less than a second, faster than any human should be able to move.
You don’t register it at first, too busy gasping, vision swimming, clutching your wrist that’s already swelling and wrong-angled.
“Hey, hey, look at me,” he says, voice sharp with panic.
You do. And that’s when you see. His eyes aren’t their usual blue. They’re glowing—an unnatural, molten red in the dim hallway. His teeth are wrong too, longer, sharp enough to cut the air. His fingers, braced on the stair beside you, are stretched and clawed, nails elongated into something that isn’t remotely human. He’s shaking. Not with hunger. With terror.
“Fuck,” he whispers, pulling back like he’s afraid of himself. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean—”
You should run. Any normal person would. There's a monster crouched in front of you, eyes blazing, mouth full of razors, body coiled like a predator cornered by its own fear. Your heart is pounding. Your wrist is throbbing. You don't move. Because under the horror, he’s still him. Your him. The one who watches you sleep like you’re the only real thing in the world.
“Remmick,” you say quietly.
He flinches.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve been more careful. I scared you. I always—”
“Hey.” You reach out with your good hand.
You touch his face. He freezes like you’ve turned him to stone.
“You’re shaking,” you murmur.
“I could hurt you.”
“You’re not.”
His eyes burn.
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it,” you say. “Because all I see right now is the same guy who makes me coffee and hogs my blankets and pretends not to cry at sad movies.”
A strangled laugh escapes him. His teeth recede slowly as he forces himself to calm down. The claws shorten. The red dims back into blue, still bright with something raw and old. He takes a careful breath he doesn’t need.
“I’m not human,” he says. “I haven’t been…for a very long time.”
You swallow.
“Vampire?” you say, half-joking, half-not.
He nods. You stare at him for a long moment.
“Okay,” you say.
He blinks.
“Okay?”
“I mean, I’m not ecstatic about the wrist situation,” you nod toward your fractured arm, “but…you’re still you. You didn’t eat me. That’s a good sign.”
“Why aren’t you running?”
“Do you want me to?”
“No.”
“Then I’m staying.”
It’s that simple for you. It’s never been simple for him. His face crumples in a way you’ve never seen. Like someone just slid a knife between centuries of armor.
“Would you still have chosen me,” he asks hoarsely, “if you’d known from the start?”
You look at him like the question almost offends you.
“I did choose you,” you say. “Whatever you are.”
You’re green with pain. Your wrist is broken. You’re sitting on shitty hallway stairs in mismatched socks and an oversized hoodie, looking at a man whose eyes just glowed red, and you still sound utterly sure. Something in his chest splits open. Again. He helps you up, voice shaking, careful hands gentle around your injury.
“Hospital or urgent care,” you ask through a hiss of pain.
“I can fix it,” he says, then stops himself. “No. That’s a bad idea. We do this the human way. I’ve taken enough from you.”
You don’t understand what he means. Not yet. But you let him guide you down the stairs, fingers curled tight in his shirt. He’s never been more terrified of losing you than in that moment—not because of death, but because now you’ve seen the thing he’s spent centuries trying to hide. And you stayed.
It happens after your wrist is set, after painkillers, after a quiet taxi ride home where you fall asleep with your forehead against his shoulder. It happens when you’re back in your bed, cast awkwardly propped on pillows, the city a low murmur behind the windows. You look small and drowsy and very, very breakable in this moment. He sits on the edge of the bed like he’s afraid to touch you.
“You still here?” you mumble.
“I’m right here,” he answers.
“You look like someone died,” you say.
“Someone always does.”
You open your eyes at that. He looks wrecked. Not bruised or bloodied. Just… ruined in a quieter way. Like the inside of him has been sanded down by grief so many times there’s barely anything left.
“Come here,” you say.
He hesitates.
“Please.”
He lies beside you like he’s approaching an altar. You kiss him. Not playful. Not casual.
You kiss him like you understand on some deep, buried level that this man has watched you die a hundred times and is still here anyway. He makes a broken sound against your mouth, hands framing your face like he’s praying, like he’s desperate, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold you hard enough.
He undresses you like he’s afraid of startling you, fingers brushing your skin as if he’s learning you for the first time and remembering you from a hundred lives at once. Every button, every inch of fabric he moves aside is handled like he’s unwrapping something holy. When you lean in to kiss him—slow, coaxing—he exhales shakily, not with lust but relief. Like he didn’t dare believe you’d actually want him like this. You lift your good hand to his chest, sliding it under his shirt, and he takes the hint, pulling it off himself with a quiet, trembling breath as your fingers skim his skin.
“You’re trembling,” you whisper.
“I always do,” he answers, cupping your cheek with one hand while his other carefully avoids your cast. “When I finally get to touch you again.”
Your breath catches. You pull him down into a deeper kiss, his mouth soft against yours, his thumb tracing your lower lip like he’s memorizing its shape. He kisses you like he’s starving, but trying not to bite. You guide him gently until he lies back, and he follows the pressure instantly, desperate for any direction you give. You climb into his lap carefully, your cast protected, bracing your weight through your legs and your other arm. His hands fly to your hips as though he’s terrified you’ll disappear between blinks.
“Is this okay?” you murmur.
Remmick nods too fast. “Yes. God, yes.”
You guide his hands beneath your shirt, lifting it with your good arm while he helps slide the fabric up and over your head, careful not to jostle your wrist. He groans softly when he feels your bare skin. His thumbs sweep under your breasts, reverent, almost shaking.
“Fuck…” he whispers. “You’re warm. You’re always warm.”
You kiss along his jaw, down his throat, and he tilts his head helplessly, giving you everything. When you lower yourself enough for his cock to press against you through your underwear, his breath stutters like he’s breaking apart.
“Tell me you want me,” he whispers, voice cracked with vulnerability.
“I do,” you breathe. “I want you.”
He makes a sound you’ve never heard from him—somewhere between a moan and a sob—and he kisses you again, deeper this time, needier, like centuries of loneliness are clawing their way into the present. You ease your underwear aside with your good hand. You guide him in. His cock slides into you slowly, stretching you open, your body taking him inch by inch. He groans against your mouth, hands gripping your waist tight enough to bruise, then loosening instantly when he realizes.
“Too much?” he asks, panicked.
“No,” you gasp. “Not too much. I want all of you.”
His eyes flutter shut like the words physically hurt him. You sink fully onto him, your bodies meeting flush, and he shudders violently—a man who just got something he’s wanted for five lifetimes.
“Fuck,” he whispers into your neck. “You feel…you feel like home.”
You start moving slowly, rolling your hips, letting him feel you around him. He clings to you, arms locked around your back, one hand sliding behind your shoulders to support you so you don’t have to use your broken wrist. Every thrust he gives is gentle at first, careful, almost fearful.
“Remmick,” you breathe, kissing along his ear. “You’re not gonna break me.”
“That’s not what I’m afraid of,” he whispers, voice thick.
You lift his face with your good hand, thumb brushing his cheek.
“I’m here,” you tell him softly. “I’m choosing you.”
Something inside him splits open. He thrusts up into you, still gentle but needier, his cock sliding deeper, his breath hitching every time your bodies meet. His hands roam your back, your hips, your thighs—not greedy, just desperate to reassure himself you’re really here. Your lips meet between gasps, sloppy and sweet, your moans swallowed against his mouth, his name falling against his tongue like something sacred. You ride him slowly, rhythm steady, your warmth squeezing around him until he’s shaking beneath you. He breaks the kiss to bury his face in your shoulder.
“I don’t… I don’t want this to end,” he whispers against your skin. “Not this life. Not this moment. Not you.”
You guide his mouth back to yours with your good hand.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you breathe.
His thrusts grow uneven. His voice breaks on a moan. “Please…please don’t disappear on me.”
“I’m right here,” you whisper again, rocking against him. “I’m right here, Remmick.”
He kisses you like the words save him. Pleasure builds slow and warm through your core, spreading in waves until you’re clinging to him, thighs trembling around his hips. He feels you tightening and groans, deep and broken.
“Come for me,” he begs softly. “Please…let me feel you.”
You gasp his name as release hits you, your body shaking around him, clenching tight, and he thrusts deep, holding you down onto him as if he can fuse your body with his. His own climax tears through him a breath later—not loud, but devastating. A strangled gasp, a shudder that rocks his entire body, his cock pulsing inside you with long, helpless spurts.
He holds you there through it, forehead pressed to yours, breath trembling, one hand on your back, the other bracing your casted arm against his chest so you don’t bear your own weight. When his hips finally still, he doesn’t let you move. He kisses your cheek. Your eyelids. Your temple. Slow. Tender. Grateful.
“I’ve waited lifetimes for you,” he whispers into your hair.
You stroke his jaw gently with your good hand. “And I’m here now.”
Outside, the city glows. Inside, you drift toward sleep in his arms, unaware that you’ve met over and over and over again, in monasteries, on ships, under Arctic skies, in schoolhouses and airfields and small-town libraries. Unaware that for him, this moment is both brand-new and older than anything else he remembers.
For a long time he just listens to you breathe, the slow rise and fall of your chest against his, committing the rhythm to memory the way he always does—like he’s trying to steal a little time from the universe while it isn’t looking. His voice is barely more than a whisper when he finally speaks, meant only for the quiet room and the centuries that came before it.
“If the universe insists on taking you from me…” he murmurs into your hair, cinching his arms around you as though he could anchor you to the world by sheer will alone. “…then I’ll simply keep finding you.”
Hope hurts. He knows how this story usually goes. Still, he let's himself believe. Because this time…for the first time in a long time—
A/N: It's been a while since I posted for this story, part 4 has been kicking my butt! Lots of angst and drama as usual, but the happy ending is on the horizon! I'd love to know what you think 💌
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
After thoroughly scouring the house and filling his saddlebag with every vial he could find in the basement, the Ghoul was adamant that you both leave immediately and put as much distance as possible between yourselves and the grim scene. You offered no resistance; despite the crushing fatigue that weighed heavily on your body and muddled your thoughts, you were eager to escape the horrors of that place. The pervasive stench of blood and decay had seeped into your clothing, becoming nearly suffocating, making it difficult to breathe and causing a deep ache in your chest.
As you left, you couldn't resist the urge to glance back at the lifeless forms of Mags and her family. The scene struck you deeply, like a blow to the gut that stole your breath away. In her final moments, Mags had dragged herself to her son, her fingers interlocking with his as she drew her last breath. That image seared itself into your mind, intensifying your desperation to leave until you were nearly sprinting out of the door.
The house now loomed as a grim testament to the violence that had transpired within its walls. Shadows gathered thickly in the corners, murmuring unsettling recollections you wished to erase from your mind. Each groan of the floorboards and whisper of the wind through shattered windows seemed to echo with ghostly reminders of the atrocities you had witnessed—and narrowly escaped. This sinister ambiance was compounded by a deeper regret: your inability to rescue the Ghoul, resulting in your needing to be rescued by him once again.
The Ghoul moved with a newfound intensity and focus that left your nerves frayed. Normally cautious, almost paranoid about traveling after dark with you in tow, his demeanour had shifted dramatically. Driven by a sense of urgency, he hurriedly led the way outside. "We can't stay here," he growled under his breath, more to himself than to you, his voice a tense murmur. "It's not safe. The next town isn't far; we can make it if we hurry." His words were laced with determination, pushing both of you forward into the encroaching darkness.
His usual paranoia had transformed into a fierce resolve. The normally measured pace was replaced by swift, almost frantic strides, and you struggled to keep up. Each step was a battle against the pain and exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm you, but the Ghoul's insistence was infectious, propelling you forward despite the fatigue weighing down your limbs.
"We're close," he assured, though it was unclear whether he was speaking to you or trying to convince himself. The path ahead was cloaked in shadows, the only light coming from the dim glow of the moon partially hidden by clouds. The noises of the night—distant howls, rustling amongst the dunes, the occasional whistle of the wind—kept your nerves on edge, but the Ghoul's presence offered a small measure of comfort despite your earlier confrontation.
You remained silent, too afraid to question why he was so determined to leave the house in such a hurry. You had your own reasons to comply—each step a painful reminder as your shirt rubbed against the scratch on your pregnant belly—but his urgency unnerved you. He was usually the epitome of calm under pressure, but now he appeared almost desperate, causing your own anxiety to simmer just below the surface.
You cast a wary glance at the Ghoul, observing the tension etched into his features. His jaw was clenched tight, and his eyes flicked restlessly from side to side, meticulously scanning the surroundings for any potential threats. The silence stretched taut between you, a palpable tension hanging in the air. As you approached the edge of the property line, the urge to speak became overwhelming. Unable to suppress your curiosity and growing unease, you finally broke the silence.
"What's chasing us?" you whispered, the question escaping your lips before you could rein it in. His head snapped towards you, eyes narrowing for a moment before he responded, his voice low and gravelly.
"You don't need to worry about that," he murmured. The edge in his tone cut through the night air, sending a chill down your spine. "Just hurry up," he said louder this time, his voice firm. As the faint outline of the town emerged, he quickened his pace, and you struggled to keep up, your backpack bouncing painfully against your spine with each hurried step.
Your breaths came in ragged gasps, the icy air searing your lungs as a sudden, sharp pang shot through your abdomen. Clutching your stomach, you recoiled in horror when your hand came away slick with thick, crimson blood. Lifting your shirt, the dim light revealed the alarming state of your wound. What had started as a mere surface scratch had transformed into a grotesque display of infected tissue, marked by unsettling shades of green and purple. Yellowish pus oozed from the lesion, trickling down your trembling thigh, each drop intensifying your dread.
The sight alone was enough to send waves of panic through you, but it was the accompanying symptoms—the feverish chills, the throbbing pain, and the overwhelming weakness—that truly underscored the gravity of your situation. Your heart pounded in your chest, a frantic rhythm that mirrored the escalating fear gripping your mind as you realized just how dire your circumstances had become.
Dizziness overwhelmed you, a disorienting fog clouding your thoughts as a wave of nausea surged, making your mouth water uncontrollably. The chilling night air felt like icy tendrils wrapping around you, adding to the disorientation. You fought to steady your breathing and quell the nausea, each breath a struggle against the rising panic that threatened to consume you. Your vision blurred, and the ground beneath your feet seemed to sway.
You knew you should tell him about your worsening condition, but you were reluctant to add to his worry. The Ghoul had enough on his mind without your complications, you rationalized, though a niggling part of you wanted to keep it secret just to spite him. Despite his presence and support, the unresolved tension between you lingered, feeding your stubbornness.
"We're almost there," you muttered to yourself, a mantra to keep your legs moving. The Ghoul glanced back at you, his eyes narrowing as he noticed your distress.
"Everything okay?" he asked, his voice tinged with concern.
You forced a weak smile, nodding slightly. "I'm fine," you lied, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. The effort to appear composed was draining, and the dizziness intensified, making it harder to focus on the path ahead.
The town's lights shimmered in the distance, their soft glow promising relief and safety. Each step felt heavier, your legs trembling with the effort to keep moving. The Ghoul eyed you warily, noting the beads of sweat that dripped from your brow despite the harsh coolness of the evening. His hand reached out suddenly, gripping your arm and stopping you in your tracks. You swayed on unsteady feet, his firm hold the only thing keeping you upright. His eyes, filled with concern, searched your face for an explanation you weren't ready to give.
"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice low and demanding.
You took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. "It's nothing," you mumbled, but your body betrayed you, another wave of dizziness making you clutch at his side for support.
"Don't lie to me," he said, his grip tightening. "You're not fine. Tell me what's going on."
Your vision blurred again, dark spots dancing at the edges, and you stumbled, the infection's toll on your body becoming undeniable. Each pulse of pain radiating from the wound sapped your strength, making it increasingly difficult to stay upright. Despite this, a stubborn part of you resisted admitting the severity of your condition, not wanting to appear weak or vulnerable.
The Ghoul tightened his grip on your arm as he shook you gently but firmly, trying to snap you out of your daze. "Tell me. Now." He urged, his voice low but intense. He dipped his head to meet your eyes, which wandered aimlessly, struggling to focus.
"I... I'm not feeling well," you stammered to the Ghoul, your voice quivering as you struggled to focus on him through the growing haze of discomfort. His eyes widened as he pulled your hand away from your stomach, revealing the crimson stain seeping through your wet shirt. He lifted the hem, his teeth clenching at the sight of the grievous wound.
His gloved hands moved with a mixture of desperation and gentleness as he examined the area around the infected wound. He was careful not to press too hard, yet his touch was thorough, probing the extent of the damage. The seriousness of the situation was unmistakable in his expression—the furrowed brow, the tight set of his jaw, and the flicker of panic in his eyes. You could see him mentally calculating the next steps, his mind racing to figure out how best to manage the injury in the desolate surroundings.
The cold air bit at your exposed skin, adding to your discomfort, while the distant lights of the town seemed both tantalizingly close and frustratingly far. The Ghoul's demeanour was a blend of determination and fear as he quickly formulated a plan in his mind.
"Is it bad?" you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper, thin with fear. You weren't sure if you truly wanted to know the answer, and even less sure that he would tell you. His eyes flickered with something unreadable and he hesitated for a moment, as if weighing how much to reveal.
He grasped your wrist and began rapidly tapping on the screen of your Pip-Boy, his eyes scanning the information with growing alarm. The glow from the screen illuminated the deep lines around his sunken eyes, and in your hazy state, you thought about how handsome he looked. When he finally looked up, you felt unsteady under his worried gaze.
"We need to go—now," he declared, his voice leaving no room for hesitation. His grip tightened around your forearm, the pressure both reassuring and insistent, as he tried to pull you up. The intensity in his eyes and the firmness of his hold made it clear that there was no time to waste, and your mind struggling to keep pace with the rapid escalation of the situation.
Despite his urgency, your legs betrayed you. They faltered, stumbling and ultimately failing as you collapsed onto the sandy ground with a soft thud. The Ghoul's voice echoed as if from a distance, his words urging you to get up, but your body felt disconnected, heavy, and unresponsive. A visceral wave of panic surged through you, tightening its grip around your chest, making it hard to breathe. The edges of your vision began to blur, darkness creeping in, threatening to engulf your senses like a spreading shadow.
As you lay sprawled on the cold, sandy ground, the Ghoul quickly bent down to your level, his face etched with unease. He searched your eyes, looking for any flicker of awareness, but your responses were slow, your eyelids heavy and fluttering, making his movements appear surreal and drawn out, as if you were both submerged underwater.
Despite the chill that pervaded the air, beads of sweat continued to form on your forehead, streaming down your face as a fever raged within you. In a feeble attempt to find solace, you reached out blindly, seeking the familiar touch of your companion, only to grasp at the empty, chilling air.
Then, a profound dizziness overwhelmed you, like being pulled into a deep, dark chasm. You lost all sense of direction, no longer aware of what was up or down, past or present. The world around you faded to nothingness as you slipped further away, drifting into an inescapable void that swallowed all consciousness.
A faint voice, soft yet persistent, gently coaxed you back from the void's embrace. Wrapped in a dense fog, your mind meandered through scattered memories, teetering on the edge of consciousness. Slowly, sensations began to return as if awakening from a deep slumber; nerves tingled and flickered back to life under your tentative command. The first movement was a mere twitch of a finger, but it felt monumental, the brush of thin cotton against your skin amplifying the moment.
What happened? Where were you? These questions nudged at the corners of your slowly clearing mind. With effort, you drew a deep breath, marshalling the strength to pry your eyes open. They fluttered initially, rebelling against the harshness of light and the strain of waking. Gradually, your vision steadied, focusing upward at a ceiling marred by stains and the passage of time. You lay still for a moment, taking in your surroundings, trying to piece together how you had arrived at this unfamiliar place.
"Thought I'd lost you again," the voice spoke, its timbre resonating with relief and lingering anxiety. You turned your head slowly, your neck stiff and uncooperative, to see the Ghoul sitting in a dusty armchair nestled in the corner of the room. He had one leg crossed over the other, and his hands were clenched into tight fists resting in his lap. His posture betrayed the tension that had not yet left him.
"You seem to have a nasty habit of getting away from me," he added, a faint, wry smile playing at the edges of his lips, softening the sternness that had settled over his features. The combination of relief and reproach in his eyes alluded to the worry he had endured. The dusty armchair creaked slightly as he shifted, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward, his gaze never leaving you.
Your lips parted to respond, but the pain and dryness in your throat silenced you, leaving only a strained whisper. The effort made your vision blur momentarily, and you felt a wave of dizziness threaten to pull you back under.
The Ghoul jumped from his seat, closing the distance between you in two swift strides. He grabbed a glass of water from the side table and held it to your lips. His hand gently rested underneath your chin, helping you tilt your head back into the pillow as you swallowed painfully. The cool water soothed your raw throat, each gulp easing the burning sensation and bringing a momentary relief from the discomfort. His gloved touch was surprisingly tender, his eyes filled with concern as he looked down at you.
"Easy now," he murmured, his voice softer than you had ever heard it. The rough exterior he usually presented was momentarily stripped away, revealing a depth of care you hadn't fully realized before. As you finished the water, he set the glass aside, his hand lingering on your chin before carefully adjusting the pillow behind your head, ensuring you were comfortable.
"Thanks," you managed to whisper, your voice still hoarse but filled with gratitude. "Guess you can't get rid of me, can you?" You joked, your voice light despite the underlying exhaustion.
A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Wouldn't want to," he replied, his tone gruff but softened by a note of sincerity. A flutter rose in your stomach at his words, and you felt an ache at the growing distance between you as he returned to his seat. Your fingers flexed against the bedsheet, wanting to reach out to him, but the memory of his words in the house still lingered.
The room seemed colder without his proximity, the silence stretching out once more. You watched him, noting the tension still evident in his posture, the way his hands clenched and unclenched restlessly in his lap. His gaze was fixed on some distant point, lost in thoughts you couldn't decipher.
As your eyes adjusted and began to focus, you took in more of the surroundings. You were in a bedroom, worn and slightly dishevelled. The vanity mirror across from the bed was cracked, its spiderweb fractures distorting the reflections it caught. A large, old wardrobe stood partially open, its doors unable to fully close, with clothes spilling out like colourful waterfalls onto the dusty floor.
The walls were faded, peeling wallpaper hinting at a time long past, while the floorboards creaked softly under any movement. A small nightstand next to the bed held your Pip-Boy and the empty glass. The bed you lay in had a wrought iron frame, rusted and showing signs of age, with a thin, threadbare quilt covering you. A faint scent of dust and age hung in the air, mingling with a lingering hint of antiseptic from recent efforts to clean and treat your injuries.
Despite its state, the room had a certain charm, a sense of having been lived in and cared for, even if that care had become sporadic over the years. The small details—a chipped teacup on the vanity, a child's drawing pinned to the wall—made it feel almost homely.
Your eyes widened in a flash of panic as you turned back to the Ghoul, but he cut you off before you could speak. "We aren't back there," he quickly interjected, his voice firm but reassuring, keen to alleviate your fears even momentarily. "We're safe."
His words settled some of the immediate panic, and you took a deep breath, trying to ground yourself in the present. Of course he hadn't taken you back to Mags' house, he'd wanted to get away from there almost as much as you had. Maybe more.
"Where are we?" you croaked, trying to make sense of your surroundings. Your gaze shifted to the window, where thin curtains let slivers of daylight filter through, casting faint patterns on the floor. The sounds of street vendors calling out their wares and distant bird calls drifted in, mingling with the occasional clatter of footsteps and murmured conversations from passers-by.
He shifted slightly in his seat, the gentle sunlight casting a warm glow on his worn features. "A makeshift clinic, managed by an old friend," he explained, his voice calm but laced with a hint of unease. "It's safe, for now." His eyes flickered towards the window, as if to reassure himself of the safety he promised, before returning to you with a determined expression.
He paused, his face reflecting deep thought as he carefully considered his next words. "You've been unconscious for almost two days," he disclosed, his voice heavy with the weight of the vigilance he had maintained while watching over you. His eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, the lines on his face more pronounced from the sleepless nights.
"You should have told me," he said, his voice a mix of frustration and concern. "How could you be so reckless to keep this to yourself?" His eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made it impossible to look away, the weight of his stare drilling into your conscience. The guilt welled up inside you, sharp and consuming, making your chest tighten with regret.
"I didn't want to bother you," you said softly.
He scoffed in response, rolling his eyes. "That's ridiculous," he muttered.
Narrowing your eyes in determination, you pushed yourself up to rest against the pillow, wincing slightly from the effort. The fabric rustled as you settled into a more upright position, your gaze locked onto his, the resolve in your eyes challenging the storm of emotions swirling in his.
"I'm tired of being a burden," you continued, your voice steadier now. The weight of your words hung in the air, the unspoken resentment evident in your tone. The room felt still, the sounds from outside momentarily fading as the intensity of the moment drew both of your focuses inward.
He shook his head, a sneer playing on his lips as he looked at you. "That's not your choice to make," he said, his tone carrying a cold edge. His eyes shifted away from you, staring out the window as if searching for answers in the distance.
The room seemed to grow colder, the sunlight no longer providing its gentle warmth but instead highlighting the tension between you. Each breath you took felt heavier than the last, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on both of you. The air was thick with emotions, and the distance between you felt insurmountable.
A chill ran through you, his words settling like a heavy weight in the space between you. "Seems I don't get much choice over anything nowadays," your voice wavered slightly, but you held his gaze when it snapped back to you, determined to confront him. You could see his jaw tighten, his eyes flickering with a mixture of frustration and something you couldn't quite identify. Each second stretched out painfully as you waited for his response.
"If you've got a death wish, that's between you and that baby," he growled through clenched teeth, pointing at your pregnant belly. "But don't drag me into it. I'm not hauling my ass across the desert just for you to throw your life away at every turn," he spat, his words sharp and biting.
Your breath caught in your throat as his words sunk in. "Glad to see where your priorities truly lie," you said, tears welling in your eyes. Anger surged through you at his insinuation. You didn't have a death wish—far from it. Since the bombings, you had fought tooth and nail to survive and to keep your baby safe, and he knew that.
His words felt like a betrayal. Whether he was trying to push you further away to save face or make it clear that he really did feel nothing for you, his harshness cut deep. The tears spilled over, tracing hot paths down your cheeks. "You know I've done everything to keep us alive," you continued, voice trembling with emotion. "I can't believe you'd think otherwise."
His eyes flickered with a brief moment of regret, but it was quickly masked by the anger that still lingered. "I'm just trying to keep you safe," he muttered, but the words felt hollow against the backdrop of your pain.
"I never wanted this!" you shouted, your voice cracking. "You captured me. I didn't ask for any of this!"
The anger and fear boiled over, and your desperate cries filled the room, making the air between you almost suffocating. The walls seemed to echo your words, amplifying the magnitude of the moment. His expression remained hard, but you could see a flicker of something cross them.
"You think I wanted this?" he shot back, his voice rising. "None of this was supposed to happen!"
"You should have just left me out there!" You cried, voice breaking under the weight of your anguish.
"I wish I did!" The raw emotion in his voice startling you as he stood up, his figure towering over you. The intensity of his words cut through your anger, slicing deep into your heart and leaving you both teetering on the brink of something irreversible. His face was flushed with a mixture of regret and pure fury, and the raw vulnerability in his eyes was a stark contrast to the harshness of his words.
The silence that followed was thick with unspoken words and unresolved pain. Each of you grappled with the complex web of emotions that bound you together, the weight of your shared past and uncertain future pressing down heavily.
You wrapped your arms protectively around your belly, your gaze dropping to the intricately patterned bedsheets. The delicate floral design blurred as tears welled up in your eyes. "Get out," you whispered, your voice barely audible, but the sharp flinch of his jaw from the corner of your eye told you that he had heard you clearly.
The words felt like lead on your tongue, heavy and final, as you struggled to maintain your composure. The room, once a refuge, now felt like a battleground. You could sense his presence still looming over you, his conflicting emotions almost tangible in the air between you. The moment stretched, every second amplifying the tension.
Tears streamed down your cheeks as you thought back to the memories you'd shared together. Each recollection felt like a dagger to the heart—the lingering gazes, the fleeting moments when you sought solace in his arms, the fragile bond you believed was forming between you. Perhaps it had all been a figment of your imagination, a desperate illusion in the midst of chaos.
The realization struck you like a punch to the gut, leaving you breathless and reeling. The weight of it pressed down on you, squeezing the air from your lungs and making your chest ache. You remembered the way his eyes would soften, the rare, fleeting smiles that had given you hope, the comforting warmth of his embrace. But now, those memories felt like cruel jokes, mocking your naïve belief in a connection that perhaps never truly existed.
The Ghoul sighed, running his tongue over his teeth as his gaze briefly flickered to the ground before locking back onto you. "What are you gonna do?" he asked, his tone softer but still edged with irritation. "Don't be so foolish; you wouldn't last a second out there alone."
"Maybe not, but that's no concern of yours," you retorted, refusing to meet his gaze. "If you don't want us, then we don't want you either." You placed a firm hand on the swell of your belly, feeling the life growing inside you.
A small flurry of movement, a determined kick from within, gave you a momentary pause. The sensation was both a reminder and a source of strength. You sniffed, drawing in a shaky breath, and willed your voice to work as you finally looked up at him through bleary eyes, the tears making everything a blur. "Leave," you commanded, your voice trembling but resolute.
He sighed again and moved toward you with an outstretched hand, but you stopped him mid-step. "Go! Get out!" you shouted, your voice echoing off the walls.
The Ghoul looked at you exasperatedly. "There's nothing for you here with me, do you understand? Dispel any romantic notions you have about me, darlin'. I am not a good man," he said, his eyes pleading with you. "But it doesn't mean I want you in harms way—far from it. Just listen to me, dammit."
His words cut through the air like a knife, sharp and final. "I said get out!" You shouted again, your hand gripped the Pip-Boy on the nightstand, and with a surge of adrenaline, you hurled it towards him. He ducked just in time, the metal device shattering against the wall behind him. Shards of glass and metal scattered across the floor, the sharp sound punctuating the tension in the room.
He straightened up, his eyes wide with shock. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by your heavy breathing. You sat there, chest heaving, eyes blazing with a mix of fury and desperation. The broken pieces of the Pip-Boy lay on the floor, a stark reminder of the irreparable rift between you.
"Just leave," you said, your voice now a raw whisper. "We don't need you." The determination in your eyes left no room for argument. He hesitated for a moment, his gaze lingering on you, before turning and walking out of the room, the door closing behind him with a finality that echoed through the stillness.
A few hours later, a knock on the door startled you from your sobs. The door creaked open, and an elderly man entered. His features bore the unmistakable signs of ghoulification: mottled, decaying skin and sunken eyes. Despite his unsettling appearance, his expression was warm and kind, a gentle smile softening the harsh lines of his face.
You eyed him warily as he stepped into the room, each movement slow and deliberate, as if he was conscious of not alarming you further. The contrast between his ghastly visage and the kindness in his eyes created a strange, almost disorienting juxtaposition, leaving you uncertain but cautiously hopeful.
"Good to see you awake," he greeted with a gentle smile, his voice carrying a soothing, raspy tone. He moved toward your bedside with a practiced ease that spoke of long experience and familiarity with such situations. His steps were steady and confident, his presence oddly comforting in the wake of the Ghoul's absence.
He stopped next to you, his eyes briefly scanning the room before focusing on the IV bag connected to your arm. With expert hands, he adjusted the flow, his touch slow and precise. "Your friend said you were feeling better," he remarked, glancing back at you with a reassuring nod. "Looks like the RadAway is working," he commented, his tone imbued with calm confidence.
The mention of 'your friend' had your eyes darting to the door, replaying the memory of him walking out of it hours before. A sudden dread gripped you as the realization struck: perhaps it really would be the last time you saw him. Why wouldn't it be? You'd told him to leave, said you didn't want him, which was only partially true.
The truth was more complicated. You wanted him. You undeniably craved his affection and needed his approval, but your stubbornness—almost a mirror of his own—kept you from admitting it. He had made it clear that he didn't want you, or at least that's what his words said. Yet, his actions often told a different story, leaving you confused and frustrated.
You weren't going to beg. Pride and self-respect wouldn't allow it, no matter how much your heart ached for him to come back. The conflicting emotions swirled within you, a storm of longing, pride, and hurt. You drew a shaky breath, pushing the thoughts aside as you refocused on the present, determined not to let your vulnerability show.
"Dry your eyes, pet," the doctor said softly, offering you a handkerchief from his pocket. You took it with a grateful smile, dabbed at your wet cheeks until you felt the tears ebb.
"Thank you," you whispered, watching as the yellow liquid filled the tube attached to your arm. "What is RadAway?" you queried, your eyes narrowing slightly with caution as the elderly ghoul continued his examination, his fingers pressing against your wrist to check your pulse.
"It's a medical treatment used to flush radiation from the body," he explained, his voice steady and informative. "It speeds up recovery, especially with injuries like yours." He paused, then gave you a concerned look. "It's essential out here. I'm surprised you don't know about it."
His eyes held a hint of curiosity, perhaps even worry, as he studied your reaction. The weight of his gaze made you acutely aware of your vulnerability and the gaps in your survival skills, but his tone remained kind, without a trace of judgment.
You sniffed and feigned a smile. "I'm still getting my bearings on the surface," you said, your voice small.
His eyes flickered with an unspoken understanding, a subtle nod acknowledging the enormity of adjusting to life above ground. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly in a sympathetic smile, and he placed a reassuring hand on your arm.
"That makes sense," he replied softly, his voice full of understanding. "It's a lot to take in, but you're lucky your friend got you here when he did. He almost woke the whole town with his hollering. I was in the middle of a quiet evening when the commotion started. I looked out the window and saw him rushing through the streets, carrying you in his arms. Poor feller, the colour drained straight from his face with all the worry—well, as much as it can drain from us irradiated folk."
He paused, shaking his head slightly with a wry smile. "He was frantic, you know, practically bursting through the door, demanding help. I've seen people in desperate situations before, but the way he looked at you... It was clear you mean a lot to him."
The doctor's words painted a vivid picture, but you shook your head, dispelling the hopeful image he conjured. The Ghoul's actions came about as a result of you flaking out on him during his urgency to get away from that house. Despite wanting to believe otherwise, you reminded yourself that you didn't mean anything to him.
"He was just trying to get away," you murmured, more to yourself than to the doctor. "I collapsed, and he didn't have a choice."
The doctor studied you for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "Maybe," he conceded gently, "but actions speak louder than words. Sometimes, people show they care in ways they can't admit to themselves."
You didn't respond, letting his words linger in the air as he pulled a rusted stethoscope from his coat, preparing to listen to your heart. The cold metal pressed against your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of your conflicting thoughts.
As the doctor listened intently, you couldn't help but replay the moments of the Ghoul's protectiveness in your mind. The anguish on his face when he found you at the house, the curl of his finger beckoning you closer, his arms wrapping tightly around you as you lost yourself in his touch. Had you really imagined those moments? The ones before those? They felt as real as the beat of your heart pounding against your chest at the thought of them.
The tenderness in his eyes, the security of his embrace—it all seemed too genuine to be mere figments of your imagination. Yet, his harsh words and actions contradicted those fleeting instances of connection, leaving you in a state of confusion and doubt.
But sometimes, kind words did slip through. You remembered what he had said hours ago, before the shouting: you had told him that he couldn't get rid of you, and his response had been a soft admission, almost lost in the tension of the moment. "Wouldn't want to," he'd said.
You were so hurt by his past rejection, by his constant pushing you away rather than addressing any feelings he may harbour, that you didn't stop to consider, in the heat of the moment, that perhaps you were doing the exact same thing when you told him to leave.
The doctor finished his examination and removed the stethoscope, his eyes meeting yours with a mixture of concern and curiosity. "Your heart sounds strong," he said, his tone reassuring. "Physically, you're doing better. But don't ignore what's happening inside here," he added, gently tapping his temple.
You nodded absently, his advice barely registering as you continued to grapple with your emotions. The lines between reality and wishful thinking blurred, and you found yourself longing for clarity in the midst of the turmoil.
"Would you like me to check?" he asked, gesturing to your stomach that you still hugged protectively. You blinked, slow to understand until he mouthed 'the baby.' He was a genuine doctor, or as close to one as you could find in the wastelands. The individuals who had held you captive in the vault were more torturers disguised as scientists than actual healers. However, the risk of revealing your pregnancy was not lost on you, especially after recent events.
His hands stilled as he met your gaze with an understanding that seemed to stretch beyond the typical patient-doctor exchange. It was evident he had a wealth of experience dealing with the unique challenges of the wasteland, a far cry from the so-called doctors of your past who had hidden cruelty behind their clinical masks.
"Yes please," you replied, your voice tinged with apprehension. You hesitated, weighing the risk of revealing too much against the need to know your child's fate. "Is my baby okay? Can you tell me?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, yet laden with the weight of your worries and hopes.
The elderly ghoul's expression softened further, and he nodded slowly, placing a reassuring hand on your arm. "Let's take a look," he said gently, reaching for a small, somewhat battered handheld device from his bag. He moved the device slowly over your abdomen, his eyes focused intently on the faint screen.
After a moment, he looked up, a small smile breaking through his weathered features. "From what I can see, your baby seems to be doing just fine," he announced softly. "The heartbeat is strong and steady. You're both fighters, that's clear."
Relief washed over you upon hearing the doctor's reassuring words, easing some of the persistent tension that had gripped you since you regained consciousness. Your eyes instinctively sought the Ghoul's, and your heart dropped at the sight of the empty chair.
"A few more days of rest and you should be back on your feet," the doctor said, gently covering your stomach with the thin sheet. He reached into his bag and pulled out a small bottle of pills. "Take one a day with food, and if you come into contact with any large bouts of radiation, double the dose until you can get some RadAway," he instructed, handing you the bottle.
The torn label read Rad-X, and you turned it in your hand, trying to decipher the rest of the words. The doctor watched you with a patient expression, his gaunt features softening as he spoke. "Rad-X is used to increase your resistance to radiation," he explained, his voice steady. "It’s different from RadAway, but just as important, especially with your...relations," he finished, and your cheeks burned at his insinuation.
You thanked the doctor when he promised to check on you again soon before leaving the room. As the door closed behind him, you sighed and settled back into your pillow. Relief washed over you knowing your baby was healthy, but the sense of being on your own left your heart heavy. The room felt both too big and too small, the deafening silence pressing in on you as you stared at the Rad-X label, contemplating the uncertain future that lay ahead.
You didn't see the Ghoul after that, but a supply of RadAway and bullets appeared on your bedside table. The sight of the neatly arranged supplies made you pause, a mix of surprise and gratitude washing over you. You assumed it was his doing, imagining him sneaking in during the night amidst the few hours you'd managed to sleep. The thought of him moving silently through the darkened room, leaving behind the essentials you needed, brought a bittersweet pang to your heart.
A woman named Ada, who you had come to learn was the owner of the establishment, dropped in regularly to bring you warm meals. They were hearty and nourishing, intended to build your strength, but your appetite was often suppressed by the weight of your thoughts and the loneliness that settled in your heart. Ada's gentle encouragement and understanding smile were small comforts in the otherwise stark and quiet room.
She chatted with you during her visits, sharing stories about the settlement and its inhabitants, giving you a glimpse of the life that awaited you once you were well enough to leave the confines of your room, if you were to stay in town. Her tales painted a picture of a tight-knit community, resilient and resourceful, each person playing a vital role in their collective survival.
"The Ghoul, he's gone," she informed you on morning, her voice gentle but firm. "I do hope you'll consider staying. He's covered your keep for more than enough time." She rested her hand on your shoulder, her touch warm and reassuring. "It's not safe out there alone."
Her words hit you like a wave, the reality of his absence sinking in. The weight of his generosity and care pressed heavily on your heart. Her eyes were filled with concern, reflecting the danger that awaited beyond the safety of this town, and her kindness was a small comfort in the midst of your turmoil, a reminder that you still had allies even in his absence.
"Thank you, Ada," you said, offering her a smile despite the worry inside of you. "But I have to go."
The morning sun cast a gentle glow on her face, highlighting the kindness in her eyes. She nodded, her own smile reflecting a mixture of pride and concern. "Where will you go?"
You eyed the map in your hands, the one you had taken from the Ghoul the day you left to find the vials. Your eyes traced the path that led to the haven, a route marked with careful notations and warnings. The map had become a lifeline, a tangible connection to him and his meticulous planning.
During the last few days of your bedrest, you had spent hours poring over it, mapping out your journey, and planning stops for resting and loading up on supplies. The intricate details on the map showed the effort he had put into ensuring your safety on your journey to the haven, each mark a testament to his care.
It wasn't until that morning, as you packed your bag and ran your hand over the tattered paper, that your resolve solidified. The realization that he had crafted this map specifically for you, considering every possible danger and refuge along the way, filled you with a bittersweet determination.
"I'm going to find him," you told her, your eyes steely with persistence as you adjusted your backpack over your shoulder. "There are some things I left unsaid," you finished, your voice resolute.
You hugged her goodbye and thanked the doctor for his car on your way out. When you left the clinic, your gun felt heavier on your hip, the burden of not having the Ghoul there for your protection weighing it down.
Navigating through the bustling streets, you kept a firm grip on the map, each step taking you further from the comfort of Ada and the doctor's care and deeper into the unknown. Vendors continued to call out, their voices blending into a distant hum as you made your way toward the town's edge.
As you reached the outskirts of the town, the lively sounds of the marketplace faded behind you, replaced by the vast silence of the open desert. You paused for a moment, breathing deeply, taking in the endless expanse of sand and scrub stretching out before you. The horizon shimmered with heat, the sun high and relentless in the sky.
You questioned whether you were making the right choice in attempting to find the Ghoul. The vast, treacherous wasteland stretched out in every direction, offering countless places for him to disappear. He could have gone anywhere, but deep down, you felt certain that he wouldn't retrace his steps. He would likely stay as far away from Mags' home as possible, avoiding any place with too many memories or potential danger.
Then, the hairs on your arm stood to attention at the familiar sound of spurs jingling on the ground behind you. The distinct, rhythmic clinking sent a surge of recognition through you, and a hopeful smile began to tug at your lips. However, before you could turn around, the cold, unyielding metal of a gun barrel pressed firmly against your temple, sending a chill down your spine and freezing you in place.
Your breath caught in your throat, and your heart pounded in your chest, the sudden shift from hope to fear almost too much to process. The coolness of the barrel contrasted starkly with the warmth of the sun on your skin.
"I'll ask you this just once," a rough voice growled from behind, the command filled with menace. "Where is Cooper Howard?"
Sum: The Princess is invited to take a walk around the fair by Lady Gwin. She decides to wear a dress far too tight, causing her to faint. But not to worry, her Sweet Hedge Knight comes to her Rescue.
TW: The Reader has Targaryen features (Patch of Silver Hair/Violet eyes), Fainting, Men looking where they are not supposed to, a bit of Protective! Dunk, and Angry! Reader(Not towards Dunk!), Clothes Ripping in Public! Mentions of Aerion.
Do lmk if there's anything I missed!
WC: 5,397K
The Princess hissed as her brother, Valarr, pretended to stab her at her waist with a wooden blade. "Dead" he deadpanned. A playful smile painted on his lips.
They would always pretend to play the Princess and the Assassin when they were younger. Him always having the advantage against her by saying she could not fight back because he was, as he said, "stronger and bigger than you"
"Leave me be, Valarr" She shoved him away from her. Continuing to make her way out of Ashford Castle.
He laughed as he rightened himself next to her again, "Haven't seen you around lately, sister"
"I've been busy" She kept her face calm. Rid of any type of emotion. She would never tell him about Duncan. Not because she did not trust him, but because he would tease her to no end.
She heard him snicker, and she knew he was rolling his eyes.
Saying anything more than that will have him asking questions. Questions she would not answer.
As they got to the castle steps, he walked a bit forward to hold her hand, making sure she did not trip. He was always a gentleman, no matter if it were her or another lady.
"Is father allowing you to attend the joust in the morrow?"
Her face contorted in disgust, "Gods no, why would I go see Aerion”
He was cruel to her from the day she was born. Pulling her hair, shoving her, and even going as far as holding her head underwater. And while those days were long gone, she still held the threats he made in the back of her mind. Reminding her that he was no true family of hers.
Since her complaints about Aerion hurting her, Baelor made strict rules about how much she could interact with Aerion. She could never be alone with him in a room, always locked her door before bed, and could never dance with him in public or private family events.
“Thought you might want to support your favorite cousin” he teased her and she lightly slapped his hand away as he reached to poke her.
“Don’t you have something else to do than bother me?” She wined, seriously contemplating if she should turn around back into the castle and complain to her father. Knowing just from the sound of her steps running towards him, he would bend the world to her will.
But too keen on seeing Duncan, she kept her feet moving. Every step closer to seeing her tall and handsome man.
Valarr was silent after her comment, the thought that she might have hurt his feelings made her chest ache with guilt
While Valarr was not one to make friends, he always knew everyone who was around. Which was something their father always made him study, the people of the realm. Made him watch with a focused eye to his surrounding and the people that conversed with each other.
One of his many Princely duties.
“Figured I could walk with you for a while; I am in need of a distraction”
Her eyebrows furrowed as she turned to look at him. It was odd to see him so worried. He was always composed and never complained about any of his duties.
“I’m sorry, brother. I... I did not know the tourney was weighing so heavy on you” she lightly rubbed his shoulder with sisterly love. Sending him a warm and comforting smile.
“Thank you, sister. But it’s not the tourney that worries me…” he turned to look at her, his eyes showing that he was concerned for her…?
Now she was confused.
“You’ve been quiet, as of late. It is odd for you not to at least come visit me and talk of your explorations” Oh.
While it was odd that she hadn’t told him anything, it was just difficult to cut someone’s existence from a memory that involved them so much.
Duncan played such a big part in the explorations they took. He was every deep conversation, every silly head bump that made her laugh, every sweet kiss he gave her, and every part that made those explorations special.
Quickly she responded, “I thought you might want to focus on the tourney” she mentally sighed, thanking herself for thinking of something so fast. “- I did not want to bother you with my silly stories on how I found a flower pretty" she sent him a tight-lipped smile. Then she continued, "or how I seen a sheep take a shit”
That made him laugh, which made her relax. She prayed to the gods he wouldn’t ask more. Already hating the fact that she lied to him once.
“I was just worried that—“he stopped himself from walking beside her. And before she could even turn to look at him for interrupting himself, she felt his hand on her arm, tugging her towards him.
His eyes, a copy of her father’s, showing anger and fear she’d never seen on him before. Well, at least not while looking at her. His jaw clenched as he bent his head, as if what he was going to say was sacred.
“He’s not been bothering you. Has he?”
She immediately knew who he was talking about.
Aerion.
“Gods, brother, you made my heart stop” she let out a heavy breath.
“You tell me if he has. I’ll k—” she interrupted him before he could finish the sentence that would be treason if anyone else were to say it.
“No, he hasn’t. I have not spoken to him since arriving in Ashford” she was honest.
“Good.”
His anger faded as if it was never there. Leaning down, he kissed her head before telling her to be safe in her explorations. Doing a once over on her figure as if to make sure she was fully intact.
After he left, she could finally breathe. Watching his body walk towards the castle— most likely to inform their father on what she said.
He reminded her so much of their father. Both in the protectiveness and adoration they held for her. But they need not to worry about Aerion, she always made sure to steer clear of him.
Continuing her walk to the shopping grounds. She made sure to fix her cloak securely around her head. Making her way to the shop that caught her eye a couple of days ago.
It was a nice man who made leather belts. She’d been wanting to buy one for Duncan while shopping for clothes, but he refused. Said he made his from scratch with random rope he would find and that he liked it very much. But she knew he just wanted her to stop spending so much coin on him.
The shop owner had various types, and she hoped to find one perfect for him. While she knew he liked his belt, it would not stop her from spoiling him.
He could keep it as an extra.
With a small smile on her face, she made her way closer to the shop. Excited to surprise her love with another one of her gifts.
The vendors were chipper today. The people were walking about, tasting and purchasing needs and wants. Even the air felt lighter than any other day. The sun was bright, the beautiful streaks of light breaking through the clouds.
A certain loud ladies voice caught her attention. She turned to look at the commotion, drawn in by her words.
“A Knight? You...? I guess they are just takin in fuckin' anyone. As long as you have brawn you don't need brains”
That’s when she caught sight of who the words were directed to. She recognized his brand-new cloak instantly.
Her blood boiled. The lady laughed at him, his posture sagging slightly. His eyes instantly gravitated down.
As she made her way over, the lady spoke once again.
“Best find a trade you’d be good at, boy. I hear there’s opening for more privy cleaners” she said with a degrading tone. The people around glanced, and some whispered. The lady clearly making a scene out of it.
“I—I—“ she knew he was about to apologize. She was having none of that.
She cut him off, “You best watch your tongue, woman” her voice so cold she was sure it sent a shiver down Duncan’s spine. Having never heard her speak like this. “Have you no respect when speaking to a Knight”
“And who the fuck are you girl—“ the lady finally looked at her, noticing the violet color of her eyes. “Princess, Y/N...” the lady’s face paled. “Apologies, My Princess”
She hated using the power she had as a Princess over people. It was not what she was taught and not who she was. But everything in her was holding back from reaching over, catching the woman's tongue, and cutting it right off.
Not hiding her distaste for the lady, she asserted, “I am not the one you mocked, am I?”
The lady turned to Duncan in haste, fear in her eyes. “I do apologize, Ser. I meant no disrespect”
“I would suggest finding a trade you do not struggle with. Clearly, hospitality isn’t something you are very good at.” The Princess's voice was stern and just above a whisper but the silence that surrounded them was enough, no doubt, for her father to hear from Ashford Castle. Patrion's nearby now quiet, most likely holding their breath.
She guessed they already had a taste at what Aerion is capable of.
The lady stood there, her mouth moving like a fish. Not knowing what to say or how to respond to her sharp words.
“I heard there is an opening for privy cleaners, much less talking” she said the last words slowly. The look in her eye intimidating the lady, making her cast her eyes down. “And gods know it; the world could use a break from your foul mouth”
Now she was embarrassed. Good. She deserved to feel how she made Duncan feel. He’s always sweet to everyone he met, people only teased him because they find it easy.
“Come, Ser” she kept her eyes on the lady, her glare steady. “I will treat you to breakfast”
The Princess walked away, knowing Duncan was already following her. His heavy footsteps loud against the gravel.
He was nervous, he could tell she was angry. Did not know if she’d snap at him just for stepping the wrong way, so he made sure he was just one step behind her.
Hesitantly, Duncan leaned down a bit so she could hear him over the patrons. “I—I'm sorry” that’s when she turned to him.
Her beautiful eyes looking up at his. Her face confused and brows furrowed. “Why are you apologizing?” She was genuinely curious.
He did not know what to say. “Well— I— Urmm” he stuttered out. “I—I don’t know, really”
“She deserved every bit of venom I spit her way. If not more.”
“Aye”
He was quiet. Too quiet.
“You are a truer Knight than any of those other lads who say they are because they have egos larger than their heads and some random house name” She looked for his eyes with her own.
She could tell he was hurt. Knew that was not the first time that verbal knife was thrown his way. But she believed he was more worthy to be a Knight than any other man.
“I did not mean to scare you, my anger got the best of me” She apologized in a whisper only loud enough for him to hear.
“No. No, thank you. F—For defending me” he looked up slowly, his eyes the sweetest they’ve ever looked. “No one’s ever done that before…Usually people jump in for a laugh”
Her heart clenched, her mind wondering how someone could be so mean to him. He was the sweetest soul, yet the world treated him so cruel. He was not stupid; he was knowledgeable from his own experiences.
He always knew when it was going to rain, what she should not touch when exploring, when it was a good time to fish, and even knew what type of bird was near just by hearing its chirp.
“Well, as long as I live and breathe, I will protect you from foul mouth breathers” that made him break a smile. She reminded him so much of someone he knew.
He did not know what choices he made in life that led him to where he was now, but gods was he grateful that such a beauty like her was keen in a man like him. Someone so rough around the edges, someone that was not perfect in their own eyes.
But he couldn’t see what she saw, he was everything a woman could want. Respectfully, Loving, and Gentle. And gods, was he loyal. She hadn't even seen him blink an eye at another woman.
She saw how woman stared at him, some in amazement in how tall he was and others with lust in their eyes. Probably wondering how a man his size could exist. But he did, and he was all hers. And she was not afraid to take anyone who thought they could take him from her.
“Come, follow me, Ser Duncan” she kept her distance just a tad. He knew the formalities were killing her inside. But they had agreed that it would be best to keep a bit more distance in public areas. Not just because of her status but because people were starting to memorize her face.
She kept her steps walking forward but she looked at him from the corner of her eye. He was already looking down at her, his eyes studying her in awe. The slope of her nose, the perfection that was her eyes, and even the small scars that decorated her face- most likely from her spar training.
He followed her closely, as they reached an orange tent that smelt of good meat and beans. The seating was full but just with one look at her violet eyes, the men scattered out of their seats.
"Thank you" she said to the men who gave her their seats. Clearly taking her thanks as a welcoming to gawk at her. Their eyes going to areas he didn't like.
He noted that this might have been the first time these men have ever seen a Targaryen Princess. The men in her family certainly had more freedom than the women, since small folk only ever heard stories of them.
She hadn't even noticed. Making herself comfortable in one of the wooden benches. Already telling the barmaid what they would like.
"Aye" His tone came out harsher than he expected. Low and Deep, a loud and clear warning. The palm of his hand reaching for his sword without a second thought. He took a step forward, the men moving quickly and even bumping into some people as they took their leave.
Not daring to look back or even apologize to the Princess.
"Come. Sit with me, Ser Duncan" He did as she said. Wondering in his mind if men looked at her like that all the time and he just hadn't noticed. Wondered if she welcomed the feel of another man's hands on her skin. If she allowed them to kiss her as he had.
"Does it not bother you?" He looked up from the wooden table. "When men stare?"
The corner of her lip lifted just a tad before leaning a bit closer, well, as close as she could with the table between them. She proceeded to whisper with a shrug of her shoulders, "Your eyes are the only that matter to me"
His face felt warm and he was sure the tips of his ears were bright red. Averting his eyes back down to his hands on the table.
"A- am I..." he shook his head as if to dismiss what he was going to say. The fear of sounding stupid clawing at his throat.
But even with his own interruption, she knew what he was going to say. She did not blame him for thinking so, she was a Princess after all. She could have any man she wanted but the Princess only had eyes for a certain tall and sweet blue-eyed man.
"You are the only man seek" was all she said. That was enough to calm his nerves. He bit his bottom lip to conceal the small smirk that wanted to so desperately show on his face.
"I pray I am the only woman you seek" Her eyes were playful, and her tone just the same. He'd be a fool of a man to even pass a glance at another woman that was not her. The idea hadn't even crossed his mind.
The comfortable air was interrupted by the barmaid as she carefully set down the plates of food. The nice plate containing two eggs, brown beans, and two slices of grilled tomatoes. The steam rolled off the food softly, making his mouth water at the sight.
They entered a comfortable rhythm. Some moments were silent as they ate and others reminiscing on things they've seen together.
"Gods, curse this stupid dress" The Princess complained. Her dress far too tight for her to feel any sort of comfort. The edges of her corset digging into her skin, thinking, surely it was rubbed raw by now.
"Now there, Princess. The pain should fade though the night"
If anything, it felt like it was getting worse. Her vision a bit dotti at moments. She'd worn tighter dresses; she didn't understand why this one was causing her problems.
"That is easy for you to say, Dorine. You do not have to wear this stupid dress" Her maid only chuckled. They'd known each other for years, Dorine had taken care of her since she could remember. Wiping her tears when she was sad and even making the extra effort to try and make her laugh. Which she always succeeded.
The Princess would have been out with Duncan right now, but sadly, the Lady Gwin invited her out for a stroll around the fair after night fall.
The only reason she was allowed out during the night was because her father was attending as well, but him along with the rest of her family were arriving at a later time.
She knew she must present herself as a Lady and not in pants with muddy boots. Hers now being worn down a bit from her explorations with Duncan. They'd seen almost all of Ashford together. From the most beautiful lakes to the greenest pastures.
She wanted to daydream of their moments together but the ache in her ribs prevented her to do so.
The dress that hugged her body was a very simple deep black color, the top showing just a smidge of cleavage. As the dress went down, her sleeves slowly turned the shade red, as did her skirt. The delicately beaded swirls that decorated her bodice, were a rich dark red, the art mimicking the appearance of a sharp-edged dragon.
It was not the most extravagant she's worn but it sure felt it for this occasion. She was merely going on a walk with Lady Gwin, not trying to court her.
Softly rubbing her cinched waist, she took a deep breath, regretting it immediately. It took everything in her not to cry, finding the pain faded a bit if she stood straight.
A knock on her chamber door, interrupts her pain mildly. She knew who it was, not taking a chance to breath, she made her way to the door. Her maid already greeting the Lady Gwin as she waited for the Princess at her chamber door
"Good day, Lady Gwin. I pray you rested well"
"Good day, Princess" The young girl bowed, "and yes, I had the most comfortable slumber"
"Perfect." was all the said, gesturing her hand for the lady to lead the way. Lightly shaking her head to rid herself of the thought of the pain carving into her abdomen.
"I hear there will be a fire spectacle, some puppet performers, and some small theatric plays" She nodded her head at what the girl said but it all flew from one ear to another.
She stood straighter, her hands held tightly together Infront of her. Her mind returning to a steady state once they exited the castle, the fresh air hitting her face.
"I really do hope we get to see the fire spectacle. It's one of my very favorites. I wonder how they learn to do all those tricks; it must be very difficult for one to gain such resistance from fire-" The Lady Gwin's voice became background noise as they entered the fairgrounds.
There were already people mingling about, either they stayed up all day, or they came early for the free samples. Either way, the energy was loud, the people minding their own as they participated in games set up for anyone to try and helped themselves to the mounts of food offered to everyone. The parade being a place of fun but also an opening for bakers and cooks to let people try their foods.
And as much as she tried to have an appetite, her stomach was too compressed to think about craving anything at the moment.
She felt the Lady Gwin's eyes on her. Reading her face immediately. "Are you alright, Princess?'' she looked at her, eyes furrowed in worry. "Apologies, but you look a bit pale"
The Princess shook her head, "I feel splendid" she lied, she wanted to get this fair over with. Praying for the comfort of her chambers, or at least the comfort of her Knights arms.
She could already hear him say, "You do not have need to wear these extravagant dresses, wearing a sack of potatoes you'd shine brighter than any star I've ever seen"
Gods, he made her heart ache just thinking about him.
Lady Gwin led the way for them. The time dragged on for what felt like hours, Lady Gwin, taking her time to look every single item. She did not blame the girl at all, almost all the vendors had amazing work, but she felt she would faint if they did not find some place to sit and take a break.
"OH, the puppet show is starting!" Lady Gwin said excitedly.
The words were like blessings to her ears. She wanted to take in a deep breath but remembered the lingering pain from the last. So, she settled with taking small careful breaths as they made their way to the yellow tent.
They had a small seating area just for them. A bit more forward from the small folks seating. The area was surrounded by joyous children seated anywhere they could fit and adults who already drank one too many.
The tent was already hot itself, with the amount of people inside the tent, but once the large dragon was brought out, the fire created to mimic dragon fire made the heat overbearing.
She harsh light burning her eyes and the heat sticking to her skin.
It was difficult to focus on the words the puppeteer girl was saying. Her story telling being one of the things she had been wanting to hear since arriving at Ashford.
Suddenly she was seeing three of the girl standing on the stage. She closed her eyes tightly, to blink the daze away. But another strong wave of heat hit her skin as the large dragon puppet blew fire.
The Princess sagged in her chair a bit, no longer being able to keep her posture straight. Her hair that she chose to keep down, not helping as it stuck to her neck.
"Princess, we should take our leave"
She could hear the worry in the Lady's voice.
"I..." The Princess could not get a word out. I small whimper leaving her mouth as she made a move to get up from the wooden chair.
Lady Gwin held her arm out to help the Princess out of her chair and she took it without a second thought.
Gripping at the upper arm of the Lady, she almost made it to the other side of the tent, but her breaths became hard to take. Not an ounce of oxygen making it to her lungs.
Afraid to bring the girl down with her, she let go of the girl's arm. Her mind shut off as she lost conscience and her body made its way limply to the ground.
And just as quick as her body shut down, was how fast Duncan shoved himself through the crowd to make his way towards her.
Quick to reach out, his arm firmly caught her body before it could touch the ground. He carefully set her down on the dirt, his hand- without a second thought- moved to her cheek, turning her limp head towards him. Noticing that her skin looked pale and was drenched in sweat.
He knew something was wrong the second she limped in her seat. He could read her body like the back of his hand.
Duncan looked down to her chest, it was not moving. His heart thumped loudly in his ear; it could not be. She was the embodiment of health.
His mind raced with questions and answers quickly followed. None of it made sense. She would tell him if she were battling a sickness. She told him everything.
Then he looked down at her clothes. She was in something he had never seen her in before. It was rare when she would wear something with Targaryen colors around him. Much less a very fancy dress.
The way her waist was cinched, caught his eye. Those were not the curves had once memorized with his hands; it had to be the bodice underneath. Only knowing it was something women used to shape their body.
His hands moved before his mind could catch up, turning her in his arms, her back now facing him. He reached for his blade, not thinking twice before letting the blade cut right through the fancy fabric.
The gasps leaving people's mouths deaf to his ears as he continued.
Duncans hands were steady, his grip tight on his blade. Careful not to cut her skin as he tried to force the blade through the thick material. It would go no further than a small amount at the top.
Once the third try did not budge, his hands moved on each side of the tightened bodice, ripping it apart with ease.
A harsh gasp escaped her lips. Her hands recognizing the feel of his arms before her mind could wake. The Princess held on to him for dear life as she coughed out in pain.
Stuttering in her breaths as she tried to take in as much oxygen as she could at once. The small candles that casted light around the tent seeming as bright as the sun.
He slipped off his cloak quickly, remembering there were prying eyes. Wrapped it around her shoulders gently, making sure it covered her bare back.
"Slow breaths, Princess" he said to her.
She nodded her head lightly, relaxing herself slowly as she stopped herself from breathing franticly. She noticed that he tried to give her some space, but with her tight grip on his arms, she dragged him closer.
The loud shouts outside the tent made the small folk create a path. The pure white armor of the King's guard was the first indication as to who was coming.
She let go of him instantly. Guilt twisting her in her stomach.
Valarr ran in through the path first, his mismatched eyes scanning the room till they landed on her slightly trembling body kneeling on the ground.
"Sister" Was all he said. His tone carrying both his questions and his worry. Without even saying much else, she heard him through his eyes. What happened? Are you okay?
Valarr's eyes caught Duncan's. The prince reading his posture for any malice or signal that he had anything to do with her current state. Instead, he saw his worry, and looking down at his sister. She was looking at the tall man with a look he's never seen on her face before.
"I am alright, Valarr" her voice came out a bit raspy and low. He kneeled beside her, his hands touching her shoulders as soon as he was close enough to touch her. "My dress was far too tight..."
Her father came in not a second after, with her uncle at his heels. "What the fuck is going on?!" Her uncle spoke first, his harsh words scaring off some of the people watching. Afraid to catch his eye and be at the receiving end of his tongue.
Duncan now stood awkwardly at the side, his tallness not helping him as he stood out like a sore thumb. He wanted to tell them something, but he was afraid of it coming out wrong. Already knowing that sometimes his words don't come out right.
"Dearest, what's happened?" Her father came close to her immediately. His eyes searching her face for any signs of discomfort.
Valarr helped her up slowly, his hands helping hold her up, as she was still shaken from her spell.
"My dress was constricting me from breathing. Ser Duncan here was brave enough to help me" Her eyes found Duncan's. He hoped his face did not show how worried he was for her. Terrified that her father's watching eye might read into it too much.
"He touched you?!" Her Uncle said right after. Turning his face to send a glare up at Duncan. "I should have your hands, boy!''
Duncan shook his head and did not know what to say. Choosing the latter, "My deepest apologies, I meant no harm, milord. Truly" In haste, Duncan kneeled before them. His head hung down in fear.
The sight of him doing so, leaving a sour taste in her mouth.
"If he did not, I would have died" She gave her father pleading look. In between her words saying the Knight had no ill intentions. If he would have not stepped in, she surely would have died.
Her father looked away from her, his eyes moving to Duncan, who was still kneeling. The older prince was grateful that a man was brave enough to help his daughter. Most would cower in fear before touching a Princess of the realm.
"I am in your debt, Ser Duncan"
Duncan, more confused than ever, looked up. The father of the woman he loved looked down at him. Prince Baelor nudged his head up, a signal for him to stand.
"Ser Donnel, if you would be so kind to escort Ser Duncan here with you back to the Castle" The shorter Knight was quick to respond and gestured Duncan to follow him.
The Princess followed Duncan with her eyes, not knowing when she'd see him again.
Once he was a bit away, he turned slightly. Making sure to catch her eyes as people moved around them. It was not difficult to, her violet eyes gleaming with worry and her brows furrowed.
His eyes were sad, afraid of what was to happen to him. He knew it was treason to touch a Princess the way he did, but he would have done no different. She was in pain and seconds away from death.
If it were her life or his hands, he would gladly give his hands. Anything just to know she was alive and breathing.
Bringing her out of her head, her father embraced her in his arms. Rubbing her arms with his hands, noticing the chills that ran down her skin. He took off his elegant cloak, wrapping it around her shoulders. Adding it on top of the one she already held tightly around herself, in hopes to ease her chill.
"Come now, Dear. Let's get you inside, you are trembling" he said, him holding her from one side and Valarr on the other. They continued to ask her if she was alright and if anything hurt on the walk back but all she would say was "I am fine" and "I am alright".
Those words being the only ones she could conjure out of her mouth.
She silently prayed to the old gods and the new to protect her sweet Hedge Knight.
HEEEYyyyyy! Hows everyone doing? Personally, I am a widow to a very honorable man (Baelor Targaryen) :'( I miss that hunk of a man so much!! LIKKEEE AAHHHH! Give me back my husband RIGhTMEOW! Anyway, Duncan has a Jack Sparrow moment hehe. I'm not gonna lie he probably just wanted to see her boobs LOL. I hope you guys like it! I was geeking so hard while writing this because YEESS girl protect your man! And Dunk is just so scrumptious. Also decided to sprinkle in some Valarr and Reader, cute sibling moments, because my guy just loves his sister (NOT IN A WEIRD WAY)!
Egg’s older sister, Princess Y/N Targaryen, finds herself drawn into adventure alongside her little brother and Ser Duncan the Tall. A journey that turns into something far more dangerous, tender, and unforgettable than either of them expected.
Hell or Paradise | @meadowscarlet
after the tournament, ser duncan the tall crowns the targaryen princess as queen of love and beauty, awakening a tender bond between them and the dangerous jealousy of prince aerion, leaving the princess caught between a kind knight who truly sees her and a possessive prince who believes she already belongs to him
The Dragon Will Never Lose | @/meadowscarlet
y/n targaryen marries her cousin aerion and becomes queen, torn between fear and desire for her husband and her legacy. ser duncan, bound to serve the targaryens, is forced to watch in silence as the woman he loves slips beyond his reach.
The Knight and the Princess | @calpalsbestie
The civilians gathered to catch a glimpse of the Princess' arrival, but one half-man's gaze lingered with something more than curiosity.
husband!dunk headcanons | @ghostlybfgf
Yours, Mine, Ours | @/ghostlybfgf
a collection of moments of your life together, and bringing up your children amidst the court and country.
The Girl Is Mine | @/ghostlybfgf
the runaway princess, part 02, part 03 | @eu-nicola
No better version of me I could pretend to be tonight. | @dustofstarss
You decided to take a nighttime trip to the lake, only to find yourself with company, Ser Duncan… will he dare to join you in your bare midnight swin?
All my blood for the sweetness of her laughter. | @/dustofstarss
After the dance in the Baratheon tent, Ser Duncan wants to talk with him, but he’s quickly interrupted by the arrival of Lady Baratheon, Lyonel’s sister.
A Knight’s promise | @nyrasvoid
you find yourself drawn to ser duncan, a quiet, honorable knight who stands out in a world of power and pride.
Imagine | @simple-dorito
𐙚 Aerion Targaryen
prince aerion targaryen x wife!reader | @spaceyaemonds
your husband interrupts your bath to give you a word of warning.
CYNOSURE | @targaryenheretic
a tourney in summerhall has you enjoying the festivities of the night, though when aerion sees you with a lordling that could possibly take his spot; he takes matters into his own hands.
SERVING GIRL. | @quietlyvigilantdream
THE DRAGON & HIS SUN. | @/quietlyvigilantdream
SOMETHING HOLY. | @/quietlyvigilantdream
GILDED CAGE | @missglaskin
Aerion Targaryen is to suffer a political marriage that was made to humble him
headcanons for soft Aerion | @/missglaskin
it’s cause of these things | @alexablissmark
A Day of Secret Rituals With Aerion | @dreamfyrie
Consort's whim | @starxs-s
Madness of Dragons | @/starxs-s
The Proof of Fire (1/3) | @/novaursa
A daughter of exile returns with a dead dragon’s heart. Fire remembers her name—and so does madness.
God-Born | @/novaursa
When Princess Y/N is promised to a Baratheon heir, her brother Aerion Brightflame refuses to let her go.
the innocent | @/eu-nicola
you had grown up in the shadow of Aerion, your older brother, idolizing him despite his reputation. you know about his lovers because you see him, and that destroyed you, but your love persists. aerion, bored of his easy conquests, notices your devotion and decides to "conquer you"
Obsession | @/eu-nicola
since you met ser duncan, you had become obsessed with him and from the first moment you believed you loved him, but he didn’t reciprocate, he never did
forced | @/eu-nicola
you and aerion are forced to get married
The dragon's temper | @blueberrypancakesworld
Appearing together as a future couple, Aerion and his lady watched the puppet show. Yet the pride of her dragon fiancé is high, and after an outburst, she is expected to calm the dragon. But what can a Lady do against a Targaryen prince?
i’m your man | @/ghostlybfgf
TWIN FLAMES | @iydiamartinx
They were born together, They would die together. In the flames, the dragons would rise.
𐙚 Lyonel Baratheon
Mediations | @escapic-mezzanine
There is no such thing in the world that would cool down Lyonel's spirit, but when intercession is needed and his lady wife has to put up a good word for him – well, then even the Laughing Storm can sense the seriousness. Who would have guessed that the spooked deer he married would turn not only into his true friend, but also the closest advisor?
honey slurred words | @trulyumai
On a rain soaked night full of festivities and wine, you retreat early—only for your lord husband to stumble into your shared tent, drunk on celebration and far drunker on his love for you, it seemed…
Stormbound | @siolixz
Wed to Lyonel "The Laughing Storm" Baratheon, you leave your family and the safety of court behind, bound for Storm’s End and a future shaped by thunder rather than flame.
Imagine | @thewritetofreespeech
just some cute fluff between lyonel & reader after the first night feast of the tourney.
Storm-Chased (1/2) | @/novaursa
Princess Y/N Targaryen slips into the chaos of Ashford disguised and unguarded, only to catch the attention of Lyonel Baratheon, who mistakes her for trouble rather than royalty.
STORMS AND DRAGONS | @/iydiamartinx
You sneak away for one reckless night of freedom, only to wake in the bed of Lyonel Baratheon— who is now very much besotted with you.
the first night of marriage with valarr is very uncomfortable
The Young Prince's Lady | @/starxs-s
your prince needs cheering up after a mediocre tourney. | @dreamfyr-e
Burning Hearts of Dragons | @/blueberrypancakesworld
Even the worst prince had another side, a sister who, even though she was his spitting image, had none of his destructive character. The princess became Valarr's wife, a marriage of love and contentment. Will the love between Valarr and his beloved withstand the ordeal of childbirth and bring new life into the world?
The Dragon and his Star | @/blueberrypancakesworld
In Tyrosh lay riches and a marriageable daughter, a good match for the prince who would one day ascend the throne. Behind all the riches and festivities, however, they were both young lovers who had to find each other in the night—out of love and out of duty.
from fury, from fire | @sehaedazokla
Lady Baratheon encounters an unexpected visitor when she sneaks out to the jousting lists in the late hours of the night during the tourney at Ashford Meadow.
Valarr Targaryen (1) | @dtyfp2
Valarr Targaryen (2) | @/dtyfp
𐙚 Baelor Targaryen
A dragon in the north | @/blueberrypancakesworld
The crown prince travels through the Seven Kingdoms and arrives in the North. The heir to the throne, Baelor, meets with House Stark and is assigned the daughter of the house as his guide. How will the young she-wolf react to the older dragon?
Passageways | @/eu-nicola
you are the daughter of maekar who is deeply in love with baelor
andulkaphoto
gummygunk
stormborns
amandla
romaincrisis
theartofmadeline
gracieabrams
