Summary: Remmick is quite tired of feeling so alone, he's done turning people that will inevitably leave him and/or die on him, but what happens when he kills a random person and sees them the next day alive and well singing a song that reminds him of times long lost? What happens when he realizes maybe there's someone out there that could never stay dead for too long, someone who could maybe at last, fill the hole he has inside?
Basically Immortal!Reader meets a Remmick that will do anything to have them, as a songbird, as a partner, as someone who won't leave.
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
James Cook - Study Sessions - COMPLETED
Summary: The moments of you tutoring the infamous James Cook
Summary: A witch without a coven is a terrible thing, especially when her powers and desolate loneliness call out to any other immortal who might be listening. Or: An anthology series of the times a witch and a vampire collide across hundreds of years and two continents, and the uneasy friendship and eventual love affair that develops between them.
Word Count: 12.5k
Content Warnings (for this chapter): Gore, injury detail, animal injury, depictions of pregnancy, labour and childbirth (not reader's, not graphic), period-typical misogyny, manipulative asshole!Remmick, major character death (not Remmick or Reader), secondary character death (including of a child, not graphically shown or described), mention of torture, starvation, persecution and imprisonment (of Reader), Tudor-era crime and punishment is a trigger warning of its own, wrongful conviction and execution, references to colonial oppression, fistfight between Reader and Remmick. This fic will have heavy/darker elements, so please bear that in mind before reading!
Author Notes: Six months after uploading Chapter 1 of my first fic (Crying Like Cassandra, I- ), I'm back with Chapter 1 of my highly anticipated second!! I'll be honest guys, I was going THROUGH IT writing this, creatively and in general. Spring/Summer 2026 has NOT been kind so far 😰🤧 However! We persist!!! 💪 Thank you so much to everyone for their encouragement on this fic, it's really kept me going!!! I hope you all enjoy it ❤️🔥🦇
This is Chapter 1 of a multi-chapter enemies to lovers fic, told in past tense second person. Reader is cis!female but otherwise not described, with no refs to race or appearance. No use of Y/N. Pre-Sinners canon - you don't have to have seen Sinners to follow this, but you definitely should if you haven't cause it's amazing!!!!
Acknowledgments: @afraidoflittleauldme (Irish language consultant and chief hype woman), @emo-queer-boi (Beta Reader), @amoeba-dreams (Vampire consultant) THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH ❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥
I
London, 1599
Some say if you dance with the devil, he might follow you home. That may be true, but so was what your Grandame always told you: “Once the devil gets a good look at you, he’ll never forget your face.” And isn’t that worse than being followed? The real horror is of being seen, and known, and remembered.
You didn’t believe in the devil. Not really. Not in the way the Mortals did; the horned imp with cleft feet and fangs and a curling tongue. Mortals saw darkness everywhere, dark magic, evil intent, when the truth was so much simpler: there was nature, forces seen and unseen, life and death. No good, no evil. Only power, only energy. Of course, alongside that, there were people and beasts, plants and fish and spirits, and there were beings like you, existing on the faultline between the physical and the intangible, the magical and the mundane.
That was the true dichotomy. Mortals and the Others; shape changers and bloodsuckers and spirits and witches, like you and Grandame.
These things all coexisted together, cluttering the rocks and plains of the earth, entirely distinct from the Mortal concepts of good and evil. That being said… while the devil may not exist, while dark magic might be the paranoid mutterings of Mortals afraid of what they didn’t understand, evil was real. It existed in Others, as much as it did in man. You just hadn’t looked it in the face before. Not until that night.
September in London. The summer hadn’t released its sweaty hold on the capital yet, and the heat remained in the dusty, stinking air long after the setting sun dyed the skies umber. The river was putrid and brown, lapping lazily against the south bank and the oars of the wherrymen, smelling of ripe decay. It would be another rowdy night, though Bankside knew no other kind. Barely six and the taverns were already full to heaving, punters pressed sweatily against each other above their cups; the brothels rang with screaming laughter, raucous singing and tinkling music. In the alleyways between the ale- and pleasure-houses, brawlers and lovers alike tangled together groaning amidst the trash heaps, beset by rats. The streets were dust choked and dry in the drought, the only moisture to be found was in the gutters; standing water, piss and spilt beer, inching in yellow streams towards the river.
At the bear baiting the people’s champion, a ferocious black-furred beast named Stormcloud Ned, swung his paw at one of the bloodhounds tormenting him and split the creature’s spine in two with one clean strike. Its vengeful litter-mate leapt at Ned’s throat and ripped out a lump of hairy flesh the size of a child’s skull. The watching crowd roared: the sport was good, and Ned kept things interesting enough to bet on. Their stamping feet in the stands sent ripples through the blood-clotted sand dusting the floor of the pit. Bankside had built itself a colosseum, and in the bear had forged itself a gladiator. Until it would inevitably die, and another poor beast would be brought in in chains to curry favour in blood and broken teeth.
For yourself, you had pursued other entertainment for your afternoon off; less cruel, but no less bloody. A trip to the theatre. Another trip to the theatre - this playhouse was newly built this spring and you were already a regular. You swallowed the plays like bread and honey, like the roasted nuts the vendors sold outside for a penny. It was a portal, a stifling, sweat-stained portal, to other worlds. Tonight’s fare, bloodsoaked, tragic, dramatic, and funny by turn, was The Tragedy of Julius Caesar. You’d stood amidst the Groundlings slackjawed and wide-eyed as the two hours’ traffic of the stage whipped by, blind to the shifting mass around you, their smells, their gasps and whispers. There was just you and the tale, the boys in their robes and painted faces, their voices flowing like wine over the crowd. When real pigs’ blood poured from their doublets during the fight scenes, you were close enough to the stage for some to spatter your face, and you shrieked in delight. At the final bow, the applause was so raucous it drowned out the Beargarden next door. You hollered and cheered with all the rest, screamed for an encore, for the playwright to come onstage and bow, and clapped so hard the deepening sky was fractured into a thousand tiny pieces between your stinging palms.
The walk back along the river passed quicker than the walk to the theatre earlier that afternoon. Your mind was reeling with the tale, with treason and violence and prophecy and plot. You recited your favourite parts to yourself, lips moving around borrowed words.
The fault, dear Brutus, isn’t our minds but in… no, that wasn’t right. Hold on. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in ourselves…
You wished you could command a room like the actors did, even without magic. You imagined spreading your hands wide and speaking words that a hundred people would hang upon.
Of course, it would be a tough sell. Women weren’t allowed on the stage. And even if you were, you could never remember all the bloody lines.
The fault, dear, Brutus…is not… in our...something… but in… something…
No use. You had to hope the meter would click, that later the line would come back to you. The only other option was waiting for the piece to be performed again (which was never guaranteed, the censors came down hard on new plays, banning offensive ones after one performance), or keeping your eyes peeled for a pirated version that some quick-scribbling thief had copied out during the performance to sell for a profit later. Though those were never entirely accurate.
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our…hearts?
Dusk was falling now, and the city was still so hot, so loud. You stepped down onto Green Walk, your boots sinking into the stinking river-wet marsh. It was a lawless part of the city, and not safe for those who could not defend themselves without a knife or a well-timed hex. But you were armed with both, and had no fear of anything but the stink of the mud on your skirts and the wrath your Grandame would bring down on your head if you were really late, and the labour had started in earnest before you got back to Mistress Phillips. She was an illustrious client, the wife of a wealthy merchant. She’d been complaining of birthing pains all morning, begging to push, but Grandame had held firm. Drawing her head conspiratorially close to yours while you both stood at the fire laying out fresh towels and linens to use later, she muttered:
“She’s barely ready to pass a blueberry, let alone the babe. Nay, it’ll be a few hours yet. Get thee out of doors for a while, come back at eventide. Before seven bells, mind you!” You nodded, and left the Phillips’ house calmly, with all the dignity you could muster. But inside you were dancing jubilantly. Freedom! If you hurried upriver, you could get a ticket for The Globe! Grandame knew where you were headed; where you always went, if you could afford a ticket. She didn’t mind. She’d winked as she sent you away.
She’d mind that you were late, though. Eventide, she’d said, and it was eventide now: the stars were just pricking through the dusty reddish-mauve of the deepening sky.
Stars.
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.
“YES!” Your smile flashed in the dusk, your shout disturbing an owl. It shrieked; a shrill puncture in the sweltering dark.
You were still beaming as you made your way up to the house, as you kicked the foul-smelling marsh dirt from your boots and rubbed fruitlessly at your muddied skirts with a handful of moss torn from the garden wall. You swung the knocker, greeted the Phillips’ maid, and traipsed past Goodman Phillips with barely a nod, back up the stairs to Mistress Phillips’ chambers, where a reedy moaning was slipping through the gaps around the door. Being a midwife allowed you certain privileges; a wage, of course, and a way to use your power discreetly and in service of the most vulnerable and needy; but more excitingly, it enabled you to strut past the master of any house into a room he feared, into the secretive space of women and apothecary, into the birthing den, where women’s word was law.
Mistress Phillips was labouring properly now, the sheen of sweat on her brow gelling her pale hair to the pain-crumpled flesh. Grandame was easing her onto all fours on the bed, rubbing firm, soothing circles into her spine, encouraging her in a low voice. She looked up as you entered, her silver eyes flashing.
There you are, you luskish pigeon! What time do you call this? Eventide, I said! Her voice rang clear in your head, like a church bell heard across the river when the air was especially still. Coven mates could speak telepathically like this, use it for channelling spells and murmuring incantations nonverbally. Grandame mostly used it to talk without being overheard by Mortals, who thought her a woman of few words simply because they could not hear her.
I’m sorry, Grandame.
“Boil some water, and help me get her into the birthing stool,” she said aloud, as the voice in your head added: I’ll give you a flea in your ear later, girl. She wasn’t angry, not really. Just exasperated. This job was easier with two, especially if magic was needed to ease things along, which, given Mistress Phillips’ slow travail, was likely. You did as Grandame directed, easing Mrs Phillips onto the stool and setting the kettle over the flames to boil. You ground willow bark into a paste with a pestle, brewed raspberry leaf tea, and prepared tinctures of shepherd’s purse and yarrow flower in sight of the labouring mother, while Grandame silently performed her spells at her back. The secrecy was vital, or you risked your magic being outed. And to be outed was to court witch hunters, persecution, and death on the scaffold.
A midwife was already a suspicious figure, and one who walked through the world like Grandame did? Six feet tall, wire-haired, silver eyed, broad shouldered and strong despite her advanced age? A satchel of herbs and homemade concoctions at her hip and ancient magic in her bones, so vibrant even the Mortals could sense it even if they couldn’t give it a name? Even if countless babes were saved by virtue of being helped into the world by you and Grandame, it would not save either of you if an accusation of witchcraft came your way. Your Coven had learned that the hard way in Berwick, nine years before.
When Grandame tired, you would take over. A tag team of witchcraft, magic volleyed back and forth across the branches of a genealogical tree. Hours. Contractions. The dusk deepened into bistre darkness. The moon rose. The temperature did not drop. Both you and Grandame were sweating as much as Mistress Phillips, who was desperate and bad-tempered with exhaustion.
“It must be a son,” she moaned. “My husband wants for a boy, to take over his business. He has no use for girls. You must deliver me a son! It must be a boy. It must-!”
You couldn’t keep the irritation from rising inside you, brushing up the inside of your sternum like the barbs of a stinging nettle leaf. So often, you heard these words; or worse, the whimpered apologies of a mother still bleeding on the birthing bed, presenting a newborn girl to her husband. The reign of King Henry and his thwarted prayers for boys may have passed into the golden age of Queen Elizabeth, but nevertheless; her subjects wanted boys, boys, an army of boys to carry on after their fathers. What about the girls? You always wondered. What do they carry on? What do they inherit? Where do their legacies go?
Grandame knew you too well; she caught your eye again and gestured you behind Mistress Phillips to support her shoulders. It was a vital role, but also an invisible one: your distaste at her words would be concealed. As would your spell, the incantations whispered in the mind, strengthened by Grandame’s voice in your head; the beam of power unfurling from you into the labouring woman’s spine, unfurling like lotus petals, blooming… the spell took root and helped the baby turn, giving Mistress Phillips strength to bear down again. Grandame moved forwards, and took the woman’s hands in her whorled old ones, and didn’t once flinch when she squeezed.
Between you, you supported Mistress Phillips, now transformed into a primal being of survival and pain. Blood. Pressure. A keening wail, rising like wolfsong. And then: a cry. Young Master Phillips emerged into the world. Grandame caught him, wailing and red faced and wet, and cut the cord. She handed him to you to bathe and swaddle him while she attended his mother. This done, and the babe cradled against his mother’s breast, Grandame straightened up with the agility of a much younger woman and crossed the chamber to open the door, calling in Goodman Phillips to meet his son. The relief was palpable on the merchant’s face.
Grandame joined you at the fireside, where you were gathering up the tools of your trade; the scissors, the paring knives, the linens, the vials of tinctures and herbs and potions, the mortar and pestle. The hare pelt that had been wrapped around Mistress Phillips’ belly to promote a speedier labour. The geodes and runestones in their protective pouch. All went into the worn leather satchel.
Was it a good yarn, at least? Grandame’s voice, smoky in the mind. You dared a glance at her, found her smiling wryly into your face. You grinned back, dipping your head to her shoulder briefly.
–Wonderful. It was a new one by the young man. Master… Shakespeare, I think he’s called. He’s fantastic. Almost as good as Master Marlowe was—
Ach, Grandame tutted, and she kissed her teeth aloud. You and your Master Marlowe! If you like him that much—
What you should do, you didn’t find out. Grandame’s words, whispered directly into the brain, were stalled by the sound of knocking downstairs.
Grandame looked up, her silver eyes suspicious. You wondered what she’d sensed, and let your own instincts probe the house, the sharp edge of the sound as a second round of knocks punctured the air.
“Where’s that Agynes?” Snapped Mistress Phillips, furious at the intrusion into the warm serenity of her new motherhood. Her son squalled at her breast. “Stupid girl! She’ll be dreaming over the stove again, the halfwit–” More knocking.
“-Go see to that, child,” murmured Grandame, and you nodded, glad to escape the stifling heat of the chamber for the equally stuffy hallway. You descended the stairs, collecting a candle to guide your way, and approached the door as another round of knocking commenced. Still no sign of the maid. You seized the wrought iron handle and opened the door.
It was a man, bathed in the sputtering glow of the taper in your hand. He was standing close, too close to be polite; framed in the doorway, halfway between the dark without and the light within. His eyes, glittering in the candlelight, fixed on you and held your gaze unflinchingly, even as he bowed politely and greeted you in a clipped, courtly English voice. It settled in your stomach like stones. Something about his voice, his carefully chosen words, his manner, reminded you of the actors on stage.
“My lady,” he choked out, sweeping his cap from his head and wringing it in his slender, white hands. “I have to throw myself on your mercy. I beg you - implore you - for charity.”
“Why?” you asked hesitantly. “What’s happened?”
“Sanctuary,” he begged. “Please, madam. Sanctuary, I beg you. I was attacked on the road by the river there, on the marsh. By robbers. They’re still out there! I barely got away! If they find me—!”
In the folds of your skirt, you clenched your fist, felt your power thrumming in the hollow between your palm and your fingers. A hex, a warding spell, a defensive curse? You weren’t sure yet. But that voice was like silk fraying over a blade. Smooth, cool, and with a lethal undertone that chilled your blood. He was solidly built, handsome and well dressed in unusual clothes; a high necked yellow jerkin and a pale doublet beneath to match, the quilted fabric patterned with gold darts. He was dripping with yellow, the same hue as saffron flowers, and with gold: a chain at his throat glinting in the candlelight, rings on every finger, tipping the hem of his ruff.
“You’re well dressed for having just been robbed,” you said, bluntly, and the stranger stilled like a snake willing to strike. You realised that he had not blinked since his eyes found your face, a realisation that made you want to run and hide. He put you in mind of the witch hunters that had descended on you in Berwick. They knocked politely at first, too.
“It’s like I told you. I barely got away. But they’re out there still, and won’t just take my money. They will slit my throat as soon as catch me. Here—“ he slipped his rings from his left hand, and held them out to you entreatingly. The gold caught the candlelight as his eyes did; gleaming and glinting. “Take these, as payment for your hospitality. Please, sweet lady. Grant me sanctuary. Save my life! Let me in.” There was a desperation in his voice that his eyes did not reflect. “Let me in!!”
His mantle, a defiant yellow gold around his shoulders, brushed the dusty earth as he dropped to his knees before you, fistful of gold still outstretched, straining against the threshold as though a pane of glass stood between you. He was the picture of vulnerability, of supplication, of weakness, but it wasn’t enough to overpower the suspicion, the chill of dread that had taken root in you. Instinct. The jangling nerve-endings of your power, sensing another, an Other.
A vampire.
Of all the Others who shared the shadows with you, of all the faefolk and the immortals, vampires were the only ones Grandame feared. That alone was enough to instill terror, even though you had never met one. Until now.
“No.” You whispered, drawing backwards, away from the door frame, away from him. “No. No–!” You threw up your hands, palms pulsing with the feverish energy of every protective ward you knew to reinforce the threshold, fingers flared wide and crackling with power. The vampire’s eyes widened, his nostrils flaring at the smell of ozone; the sour, electric kick of magic in the air.
“Oh,” he breathed, and his full lips curved into a terrible grin, as though he really saw you for the first time. “Oh, I see…”
You dug in your heels, braced all your might against the intrusion of him, cold as steel between the ribs and toxic as hemlock in the mouth. With a shaking hand you reached for the pouch at your hip, made by Grandame: portable protection, sealed with the sigil of a witches’ knot. A bag of magic-charged salt and powdered eggshell, ground rosemary from the kitchen garden you kept, crumbled balsam soaked in frankincense; all to charge your shielding spell, the incantation clamouring in your head and hot on your lips. The vampire watched with a sly, hungry sort of interest, totally unphased at the display of your magic. His ears were pricked for your racing pulse, the tang of your sweat and fear budding against the hum of your magic in his nose. Still his lips wore that terrible curl.
You tore the pouch free and upended it, dusting the threshold, grounding the spell, reinforcing the ward. Desperation made you bold. You smeared your sweaty fingers through the powder and scrawled sigils on the doorframe that glowed faintly in the deepening darkness. The vampire’s eyes glossed over the powdery line between you, up over the shaky symbols you’d drawn, onto the plains of your body, the thrumming palms of your hands and the curve of your throat. They lingered there a moment, then climbed up into your face, staring deep as though inspecting the bottom of a pool. For a moment, there was brittle, electric silence.
And then he laughed; a cold, arrogant sound, a single bark on the balmy air.
“Ara,” he chuckled, the clipped accent slipping, vowels lengthening melodically. “Ya dote, I’m scarlet for ya. It’ll take a lot more than that to hold me back, once I’m in there with ya, darlin’.” Before you could reply, the parlour door behind you swung open with a clunk.
“How now, Miss!” cried the maid, her heavy footfall breaking the chill silence as she advanced up the hall towards you. “Why have you answered the door? ‘Tis not your place!”
“Goodwife Phillips was angry you couldn’t be roused, so I came instead,” you said without looking at her, your gaze caught in the trap of those strange, glittering eyes. You steeled yourself as Agynes reached your shoulder, staring confusedly at the scattered dust on the threshold and the mess of daubed shapes around the doorframe, before volleying between you and the vampire.
“-Who is this?”
You replied: “A stranger,” as the vampire yelped: “-A friend!”
He had transformed once more into the timid, fearful Englishman. Still on his knees, the stranger turned to Agynes, fixing her with that stare, that beseeching, desperate need writ large on his pale, handsome face. Agynes was a rosy-cheeked girl of nineteen, a village girl freshly arrived in London for work, heart ripe like a peach ready to be torn apart with sharp teeth. You saw her soften towards him, saw the shiver of sympathy pass through her.
“Please, sweet lady,” he gasped, clasping his hands supplicatorily beneath his chin. “Grant me sanctuary. I was set upon on the road, attacked by robbers. I have told your Mistress of my trouble, but her heart is hard–”
“-She’s not my mistress,” Agynes blurted out. “Goody Phillips is in childbed. This is just the midwife. She cannot dictate who comes into my Master’s house, and who does not.” You spun to stare at the girl, shellshocked; your movement sent the flame of your taper dancing and the light shifted over the stranger’s face. In the rapid shift of light and shadow, the strange glitter of his eyes became a glow: a pure bloody red. Terror licked its icy tongue up the nape of your neck and into your spine.
“Aye, but you are kind,” the vampire said gently, his voice full of honey. His lips were glistening and wet in the sputtering light. “What’s your name, chuck?”
“-Agynes,” the girl replied, charmed, her cheeks flushed. A weight dropped into your guts like a stone; she’d softened so readily for him, presented her creamy throat up to the snap of his jaws. “And this is—” You gripped her shoulder, cutting her off and turning her roughly toward you. Agynes grunted in surprise. It was mere superstition on your part, carried over from your dealings with the faefolk, but you believed it nonetheless. Names were powerful. You did not give over yours easily.
“Stop,” you spat. “He is not what he seems. He’s dangerous. He lies–!”
“Agynes, show mercy,” the vampire’s voice came again from the threshold, turning the maid’s head. He had risen to his feet again, two spots of dust on his pristine pale hose. “I am but a humble soldier of the queen, landed from Ireland this morning. The men who attacked me were Irish - supporters of the rebellion no doubt, sympathetic to their countrymen in revolt against the Crown - and they would have killed me if I hadn’t gotten away–!”
“-Ignore him, Agynes,” you groaned. “Think. He’s a soldier? Where is his sword, his scabbard? His clothes are strange. He has gold, but was robbed? He was attacked down by the river, he says. But his clothes are clean. Look at his shoes! Why are his shoes clean, if he walked in the marsh?” You held up the hem of your own dress, still dark with mud from your own walk by the river. Agynes looked, but your words didn’t seem to land. “Agynes!”
“-Agynes! What’s all this clamour?” You jumped, and Agynes did too: Goodman Phillips was himself descending the stairs, and behind him - you could have cried with relief - was Grandame. “Who knocks?”
“A gentleman, robbed on the marsh, begging for our help,” Agynes said. She fixed you with a pointed stare. “He is a soldier, a hero who fought in Ireland on behalf of the Queen. But he has been denied aid, barred from your door. By her, a guest of your house.”
You ignored the barb, stared back up the stairs, into the face of the Grandame, pleading, begging inside your head. She nodded stiffly, her mouth a grim line, eyes on the threshold. Goodman Phillips had reached you. He looked the stranger over cynically, and hope flared in your chest.
“-You served in Ireland, sir? With the Earl of Essex?”
“-Aye sir, at Curlew Pass. The Earl himself gave me leave to return to London, after our defeat to the rebels.” The stranger’s voice was calm, smooth and cool as a stone. The affected desperation he had shown you had melted away. When his eyes met yours, which they did often, they were sly and smug.
“-He was robbed on the Green Walk, attacked by a band of Irish sympathetic to the rebel cause!” Agynes cried.
“-So he says,” You snapped. “I didn’t see any roving bands of Irish on the Green Walk earlier. I don’t believe him. Sir - don’t let him in!!” Goodman Phillips turned on you, incensed. He was a big man, bigger than you, bigger than the stranger, and his rage was blustery.
“-Unfeeling wench! Where is your Christian charity, to deny a member of the Queen’s army sanctuary into an Englishman’s home?” You could have snarled in anger. Your voice, when it came, was brittle as a snapping branch.
“You stupid old fool! Can’t you see he’s not what he seems! You cannot - you must not let him in! He’ll kill us all!!”
“Granddaughter.” Grandame’s voice was heavy as lead. She stepped forwards, seized your shoulders. “You have overstepped yourself, to speak to Goodman Phillips thus. We must take our leave. Now.”
“But–!” You gasped, but she cut you off.
“Now. The babe is delivered, Goodman Phillips has paid our fee. Our work here is done.”
“Aye, I think that is for the best,” Goodman Phillips said loftily, and you glared at him. He didn’t notice, turning instead to the stranger. “Come in, sir. Any servant of the Queen is welcome here.” The words passed over you like an icy wave, humming with power. The meagre protection the threshold had provided melted away like snow in July heat. Your own spell faltered, flickered, died. The sigils around the doorframe were mere pictures now, their glow dying; the line of salt across the door just powder, dust to be swept away with a broom. You opened your mouth, raised your hands once more to defend, to ward, to protect—
Let go. There is nothing we can do. Grandame’s voice rang clear and commanding in your head, stopping you in your tracks. We must get away, save ourselves.
-NO!!! I won’t leave them!!
Grandame’s eyes flashed at your retort. She seized your shoulders roughly, and as her hands connected with your body you felt the heat of a spell, compelling you forwards. She was the leader of your Coven, the font of your power. You were powerless to resist her.
In the doorway, the stranger was grinning at you, directly at you, and his teeth were white and sharp.
“A shame, sweeting,” he said silkily. “I should have liked to know you better. Pray, what’s your name?”
Your jaw was locked by Grandame’s spell, not that you would have opened your lips in response anyway. You did all you could, and spat at him.
He laughed and stepped aside, bowing gallantly and bidding you goodnight as Grandame pulled you over the threshold. He stepped in behind you, scuffing the line of salt with the heel of his boot. Agynes closed the door with a snap in your face. The last thing you saw was the flaring ruby red gleam of his eyes, boring into your face as though committing every line and curve to memory.
Grandame dragged you home, deaf to your protests. She didn’t release you until you passed the threshold of your own narrow cottage, the tiny one-up-one-down abode that had been home since you arrived in London. It was built flush to the northern bank of the Thames, near to the wherry steps and the stinking docks at St Katharine’s. It was poky and damp, but had a small kitchen garden and a modicum of privacy. Privacy meant solace, but also safety. For all you yearned for friends, for the companionship you lost with your Coven and your sister, when danger pressed close to the nape of your neck you were grateful for the dark, sombre cottage you shared with Grandame. It was warded from the foundation to the chimney flue, and perhaps the most magically fortified place in London. But your thoughts returned continually to the chill that passed over you as the threshold’s protection at the Phillips’ house evaporated.
Grandame scarcely let you through the door before setting you to work reinforcing the wards, grinding up bones and eggshell and salt crystals into a powder, tearing wild garlic flowers from the stems until the entire cottage hummed with the stink. She dictated your moves from where she stood, hunched over her battered Grimoire reading aloud while your cat Greymalkin weaved between her feet, the faintest tremor in her voice the only thing betraying her fear.
“I didn’t realise there were vampires in London,” you ventured, smearing your streaming eyes with your sleeve. You’d moved on to garlic cloves now, ripping them from the bulb and grating them up small. The smell was permeating your pores, stinging your eyes.
“They’re rare. But they can be anywhere. Like rats. There’s always one closer than you think.” Grandame’s voice was grave.
“Couldn’t we have told them? The Phillipses? Warned them, or—?”
“It’s no use, child. Speaking of monsters to the Mortal folk will only invite their eyes on you.”
That word stuck out to you: monsters. As though a vampire was a baser being than yourself, as though their violent existence rendered witches closer aligned with mortals than with them. As though a mortal wouldn’t put both to the fire, vampire and witch alike.
“…They’re like us,” you mused. Grandame spat on the ground in disgust, her fingers fluttering around a sigil to ward off evil. When she spoke, it was venomous.
“That creature is nothing like us.” You swallowed, cowed.
“I know. I… I’ve never seen one before, that’s all. I didn’t expect—”
“Thank your lucky stars you’ve not seen one, girl. I saw you back there; you would have stood your ground, and wouldn’t have left without a fight. But trust the wisdom of my years. I have seen a vampire take down a coven of ten, singlehanded. They cannot be stopped, nor slain. Only slowed down, and evaded.” Grandame kneaded her forehead with an aged fist, her knuckle bones straining against the papery flesh like knots in the bark of a tree. “It is a point of pride that you’ve never seen one. It means I have protected you well. But I will not lose you, not as I lost thy mother, and thy sister. And our coven-sisters in Berwick, and all those before, lost to the fires, or the noose.” Her eyes gleamed, wet with unspilled tears. In her six hundred years, she had seen so much loss. So many of your kind lost to paranoia, fanaticism and hatred. So many killed simply for what you could do, slaughtered by those who were too wrathful in their fear to attempt to understand. Her next words were gentler, had softened in her mouth. “Thou art brave, child. So brave! But you have forgotten an important rule. A witch ought never be alone. You cannot fight things yourself. Sometimes all you can do is protect your coven, and run.”
Those words would echo in your mind many times over the following days. When the gory scene at the Phillips’ house was discovered the following day; the entire household slaughtered, their blood soaking into the floorboards and witchmarks around the door. When the shiver of terror at this grisly discovery rippled outwards, over London Bridge to the City and along the banks of the Thames to Wapping. When the eyes of your neighbours and clients became cold, stony, suspicious. When the whispers reached you that, as the last people to see the Phillips family alive, the wise old midwife and her granddaughter were now suspects. On the morning when the heat finally released its grip on the city and the air held the first delicious snap of autumn cold, when the constables and armed officers came for you and Grandame, they echoed once again. Should you have run, both of you, as you had from Berwick?
You saw them coming up the lane, peeped them from the window and hollered for Grandame; mortal men armed to the teeth, toting bibles and warrants, with a baying crowd of your neighbours assembling behind them. There were so many of them, as though they expected a legion of darkness to reside in the tiny cottage. Perhaps if they’d come ten years ago, they’d have found it, and been made to pay for their invasion; your Coven had once been twelve women strong. But the witch hunt at Berwick had claimed more than half your number and many innocents besides, and the plague six years prior had claimed your mother and sister, and now that left only you and Grandame. Scarcely enough to channel a spell strong enough to summon up a rainbow, let alone a fearsome tempest. There were so few witches left now; so many lost that you wondered how many covens remained at full strength. And yet the Mortals feared witches still.
You tore around the cottage, sweeping the tools of your craft into hiding places, or directly into the banked coals of the stove to burn. You hollered for Grandame again, shooed Greymalkin out the back door, a whispered prayer cast over his sleek body that he would melt into obscurity and anonymity among the strays that gorged on fish guts at the docks. You were bundling Grandame’s books into the stove, now a hearty blaze, when she appeared on the back doorstep, coming in from the kitchen garden with a spade in her hand and fresh dirt on her skirt. She said nothing; merely squeezed your shoulder and shook her head as the door crashed in.
You acted on your rawest instincts, and fought like a cornered bear at the baiting, scratching and foaming and screaming. The officers dragged you bodily from the house, wrenching your hands behind your back so you couldn’t cast a single spell nor shield your ears from the accusations hurled at you by your shrieking neighbours.
Witch! Murderer! Babe-killer! Lover of the devil!!
You let their screams wash over you, weightless as sunlight, and kept struggling, pulling against your restrainers, desperate for freedom, for flight, for a glimpse of Grandame.
The constables tore the cottage apart for evidence. Every bundle of herbs, every tincture, every almanac in the house was vilified. Some unlucky officer scorched his hands pulling half-burnt books from the stove. The herb garden was trampled into pulp beneath their boots, your midwifery supplies tipped out and shattered against the kitchen flags. No sign of Greymalkin. This small relief offered a shred of comfort you could cling to until Grandame was dragged onto the street.
They pulled her roughly from the house and threw her to the ground, no respect for her wisdom or care for her age, and you roared and spat with rage at the sight. Grandame didn’t say a word, didn’t flinch, didn’t react. She seemed unafraid. Eerily calm, in fact, and her eyes met yours in perfect serenity. It didn’t soothe you. The constable announced your charges to the waiting crowd, who cheered with glee at the apprehension of two witches in their midst, the instruments of the horrible slaughter at the Phillips house. You argued, screaming your own defence, naming the vampire as the true killer. You may as well have been whistling. No one was listening to you.
They bundled you and Grandame into a waiting carriage, and drove you directly to Newgate prison. There, you were crushed into crowded cells, tortured, stripped, starved and interrogated until your trial, where a sallow-faced justice of the peace charged you both with witchcraft, heresy, and murder, and sentenced you to death.
Newgate, cramped and stinking and festering as it was, became a kind of chrysalis around your body. Like a caterpillar, once you entered it you could never return to what you had been before. Over the months that followed, you began to consider your life before that night at the Phillips’ house as a kind of dream; a foreign country, a half-forgotten wish. Had you really once been a trusting, smiling girl, who ran up Bankside to watch the shows at The Globe? Had you really readily entered mortal homes to help them when they were labouring and vulnerable? Had you really held their babies when they were fresh-born and innocent, eased them gently into this world only for them to grow up and bare their teeth at you, spit at you, hunt you down like a hare? It all seemed so inconceivable, so obscenely naive. You’d had a strange fantasy of performing on stage.
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves that we are underlings.
Autumn set in. London’s palette transformed from sunbaked bronze and topaz into a slick wash of grey and silver and brown. The stench of the city remained, sharp and tangy on the frosty air. Soon it would be Christmas, then New Year, then a new century. You wondered if you would live to see 1600.
Grandame, who had seen six new centuries dawn at least, was stonily quiet throughout your incarceration; both in spoken words and in the private chamber of your mind. She was holding up well, painfully thin and more aged and frail-looking than she had ever appeared, but still vital, vibrant, strong. You had no idea what you looked like, and hadn’t seen your reflection in months, but you hoped you mirrored her strength.
At night, you would lay curled together on the straw, manacled by the ankles to the wall. Grandame would sleep. You would chase escape plans around your head, knowing they were futile; without your tools, beaten and tired and cold and starving, your magic had weakened to a barely-discernable humming in your marrow. You’d tried a hex on the cruellest guard, and barely ruffled his hair. The sense of powerlessness was so fathomless, you’d thought you would drown in it. Hopelessness settled around you like tar, thick enough to smother when the sun went down. Around you the other condemned prisoners snored and wept and coughed, warm wet sounds amplified by the cold stone of the cell’s walls. There were six other “witches” in the cell with you, all condemned to die, all Mortal and without a speck of magic in them. They were as innocent of the charge of witchcraft as you were of the charge of murder, and the injustice of it made you feel as though you’d swallowed lead shot. You watched the moon wax and wane and wax again through the barred slit of a window near the ceiling.
The morning of your execution was grey and cold. You were woken at dawn from an uneasy sleep, where you had dreamed once again of the vampire, of blood and sinew, of the glowing red eyes in the handsome pale face, of the sharp-edged smile and the stray curl of dark hair falling over his forehead. Inexplicably, the dream made your guts writhe like snakes, and you were considering this when the cell door opened; the sneering turnkey and a posse of guards entered the cell and ordered you to your feet.
“Oh God,” you moaned. “Is it time? Is- is it–” You twisted against your manacles, desperate for the familiar warmth of your magic simmering beneath your skin, for the comfort of knowing you could defend yourself. None came.
Grandame seized you firmly, pulling you into a bone-crushing hug: her silver eyes were burning, her face set and powerful. For the first time in days, she spoke. Her voice in your head was like birdsong, like raindrops on the roof tiles after a drought, so blessedly welcome after her silence.
Courage, child. Courage! Don’t make them a gift of your fear.
You gulped thickly, and promised aloud, your lips moving against the wiry brush of her filthy hair. The guards had to prise you apart.
The gallows at Tyburn were surrounded by a braying crowd, the square where they stood still swaddled in the early-morning mist. It had been specially adapted to execute up to twenty-four condemned at once. Death en masse, without discernment. They called the frame of the scaffold the Tyburn Tree, and soon you would hang from its branches like overripe fruit, like bunting on Beltane.
It was November, and the nights had lengthened, greedily swallowing up the daylight. Though it was almost eight bells, the sun had scarcely risen, its weak light barely penetrating the veil of grey cloud and silvery mist. You were shivering with cold as you approached the scaffold, and it made you ashamed. You had promised to show no fear, and now you seemed to tremble with it. The watching crowd would gorge on your terror like crows, a delicious morsel before the feast; the death of an accused witch, the triumph of good over evil.
Beside you, Grandame was still, her eyes on the gallows as though daring it to take her life. You didn’t have to wonder if she was afraid. Of course not. She was resolved. You felt a swoop of hope, enough to make you giddy. She had a plan. You could see it prickling in her silver eyes, tensing the corners of her mouth, tugging them downwards. Her posture was still straight as an oak tree, despite Newgate’s attempts to fell her; no amount of beatings could bow your grandmother, no Mortal torture could crush her spirit, and this gave you strength. You drew back your own shoulders, stiffened your spine, angled your chin to mirror hers. You repeated her words to yourself, over and over, as you and your fellow condemned were forced onto the scaffold and roughly placed before the dangling ropes that would take your life. Don’t make them a gift of your fear. Don’t make them a gift of your fear. Don’t make them a gift of your fear.
“Grandame,” you breathed, as the Justice approached, flanked by a priest, and began reading off the charges of the women on the scaffold. She was beside you, her wrists bound before you as yours were. “Grandame, what would you have us do?”
She did not answer, but smiled reassuringly, glossing her eyes over the simmering crowd, the gallows, the grey-faced priest and the droning judge. He had reached the elderly woman beside you, bowed with exhaustion and sickness and years of starvation in the pits of Cheapside.
“-Mistress Margaret Baker, you are accused of the capital crime of thievery, that you did steal from Goodman Geoffrey Arundell a silver cup…”
“-Grandame? What do we do?” It was becoming harder and harder to mask your terror. What was the plan? How would you escape?
“Aye, guilty,” wheezed Mistress Baker. “I pray the Lord have mercy on my soul…” The crowd cheered, the Justice scoffed.
“Grandame–!”
“-And finally,” The Justice stepped in close, blocking your view of Grandame. His breath was wine-sour as he bellowed your name to the jeering crowd.
“-For the capital crimes of witchcraft and murder! You stand accused of the slaughter of Goodman Thomas Phillips, his wife, Mistress Elizabeth Phillips, and his unbaptised babe, newly born, for usage in your dark magic rituals! You did then slaughter the Phillips’ maid Agynes Perrot, and drained both her and the Phillips family of their blood, feeding it unto your familiars and the dark demons that you draw into this world with your evil! You did leave behind witchmarks on the door as part of your ritual, and–”
“-No!” You cried out, unable to listen to any more. “No, no! We didn’t! It was him–” The Justice didn’t even falter, as though you hadn’t spoken at all.
“-How do you plead?”
“NOT GUILTY!!” You screamed. “Not guilty! We didn’t, we would never–” Your words were swallowed whole by the roaring crowd. Someone threw a rotten apple; it exploded against the wooden frame of the gallows, spraying juice and brown-red flesh everywhere, like viscera. The Justice raised his hand, waiting for the shouts to subside before he continued, his voice icy as the misty air.
“-You are sentenced this day to die, by hanging.” He stepped away, moving onto Grandame to read her charges, deaf to your cries. Panicking now, you strained against the bindings at your wrists, casting your eyes over the crowd for an ally, for a shred of kindness. There was none; the watching crowd were bloodthirsty as hounds, jeering and shouting to see witches and murderers and petty thieves put to death. Between the hostile, snarling faces filling the square before the gallows, standing in the alleyway beside an alehouse crammed with spectators for the occasion, you caught sight of a flash of yellow, dulled by the swirling mist.
It felt as though the trapdoor beneath you had already fallen away. You tried to keep it in sight, to see the face, to know for sure if it was him, if he’d dared–
“-How do you plead?” the Justice droned on, his nose inches from Grandame’s face, still proudly angled upwards as though she were the Queen, as though the gallows were a throne and all of us beneath her.
“Guilty,” she replied, simply.
Your head snapped to the side as though the rope had already pulled taught around your neck. The flash of a yellow cloak vanished from your mind as quickly as it had from your sight. Your head and heart were full of her now, of Grandame, stood tall and ancient and unafraid before the noose, her voice calm and ringing on the air as though she was alone in the square; as though you weren’t screaming for her in your mind, begging her to stop.
“I am the very witch who did threaten the Queen’s cousin, King James of Scotland, in Berwick these nine years’ hence. I did summon up a storm to drown his young bride on her voyage across the sea. I did commune with the devil. I did send my familiars into the town to spread pestilence and wickedness. I did curdle milk and smother babes. And when King James hunted me down, I did escape justice and curse his lands, fleeing to fair England to spread my Master’s mischief here!” Grandame was grinning broadly now. She was enjoying herself, enjoying the bizarre yarn she was weaving, a pack of lies and sensational tales to whip the crowd into a frenzy. It was working; the Justice and his guards had lost control of the spectators, who were howling like wolves, crowding the scaffold, throwing rubbish and insults. Your fellow accused were shuffling uncertainly, the priest had gone pale. And you - you were desperately trying to quiet Grandame, to stop her tirade, but one look at her silver eyes and you were frozen. She dropped her voice dramatically for the continuation of her tale. The crowd, still broiling with fury, leaned in to catch her every word, as transfixed by her as you were.
For a moment, you were back at The Globe, and instead of a painted boy on stage reciting his lines, it was Grandame; she commanded the square like an audience, like the hero of an epic play, and you were more awed by her than any of Master Marlowe’s plays or Master Shakespeare’s soliloquies. She was electric.
“I flew into your stinking cesspit city on a stormcloud, and set to my wicked work. I poured poisons in men’s ears, stirred up malice and violence. I soured women’s hearts, sowed bitter sickness in their bellies. I summoned up the great plagues, sending souls to the grave for my dark master. And this very September, I did slaughter the entire Phillips household, did drain their blood for my dark and demonic rituals. I did leave witchmarks around the door to mock the sanctity of their home; did offer up their souls to the devil! It is true, I am guilty, and I have no regrets!”
The crowd erupted in fury and terror, but Grandame wasn’t done. “My granddaughter is innocent! I killed her mother with plague, and imprisoned her, cursed her to do my dark bidding, all against her will! She was not with me that night, and when I did summon her to the bloody scene she did weep and pray. There isn’t a drop of magic in her - her soul is so pure it burns me!”
What are you doing?! You begged desperately, as tears carved tracks through the grime on your cheeks. You said a witch should never be alone! You said we had to protect the coven!
She turned to you, acknowledging you fully for the first time since the prison.
I am.
She lifted her bound hands, and twisted them against the ropes, releasing a pulse of magic you felt in the buds of your teeth. It emanated out like a wave; knocking the priest to the ground and making the Justice drop his scroll, buffeting the faces of the shrieking crowd and cracking the windows of every building on the square. The nooses dangling from the scaffold whipped upwards like kites on a stiff breeze. The magic pressed harder, making your ears pop and your eyes burn, churning the grey clouds above and channelling swirling patterns in the mist. There was a crush at the entrance of the square as the spectators tried to escape. Grandame’s voice rang in your mind, calm and true:
It’s all alright, my darling. It’s all alright. You remember what I told you? Sometimes you cannot fight. Sometimes all you can do is protect your coven, and run. Leave the first to me, and the latter job is yours.
The guards recovered first, and reacted violently. They threw Grandame to the ground and pummelled her with their fists and boots as her magic wavered and strained. The priest was next, bellowing prayers through pale lips. And you: you were screaming her name, begging, howling, fighting, crying so hard you scarcely noticed another guard loosening your binds as the Justice directed everyone but Grandame down from the scaffold as she was dragged back to her feet, back to the noose. And yet she was still calm, still proud, still straining to stand straight and tall.
NO, GRANDAME!! NO! NO!! PLEASE–!!
Go back to the house. Gather what you can, tend my garden, and go. He saw your face, that thing, and he will come for you again. You remember what I always say about the devil? You must run. Her eyes were on you, her voice urgent and strong in your head even as they tugged the noose around her neck. I love you. I love you. I love you. I lo–
The trapdoor beneath her opened, and the wave of her magic dissolved as soon as her life was extinguished, leaving a stink of ozone in the air strong enough to burn the back of your throat. All around you was calamity and terror, and yet you were numb: your eyes fixed on the limp form at the end of the rope just visible beneath the scaffold, and a silence like you had never known in your head; dark and cold as the open maw of a grave.
Your pardon came, heavy as lead, unwelcome as a wolf at the door. Every other woman on the scaffold that day was granted a stay of execution until the following morning, because the square had descended into chaos that the guards nor the Justice could quell. As for you, Grandame’s performance left the authorities in no doubt that you were a victim of witchcraft and possession yourself. They returned you to Newgate in a covered cart with the rest of the condemned, and sat you in a small private cell behind the guards’ mess hall. A guard was posted at the door, and he stared at you unashamedly through the bars. The priest entered, prayed over you, left again; you sat mutely through it all, completely numb, tears streaming silently down your cheeks. The sun had risen high in the sky and begun its descent once more towards darkness before the door opened once more, and you were formally set free. The pardon itself was somewhat anticlimactic - a roll of parchment marked with the seal of the Chief Justice, a final clatter as your manacles were removed, and the squeal of Newgate’s barred gates swinging closed behind you. You were free. And for the first time in your life, you were utterly, completely alone.
The telepathy of witches, which had been there since before you were born - sacred, comforting, warm - had fallen silent. Where before there had always been the flickering presence of magic, of other spirits attuned with yours, now there was only cool, lonely silence.
Grandame was really gone! It was unimaginable, irreconcilable. It was as though the entire world had inverted somehow; as though the colours had faded to greys, or the earth and sky had swapped places in her absence. Thinking of a world without her knocked you sideways; you leaned into a wall. Her horrible final moments. Her final words. I love you.
Who were you without her? Where would you go? What would you do now? It was sundown. You had no home, no family, no Coven. You were alone, as witches should never be. Your powers were weak and your body weaker still. All you wanted was to go home. Why? Home was an empty shell now. But it was yours, and Grandame’s final instructions had been clear: Go back to the house. Gather what you can, tend my garden, and go.
You closed your eyes, rolled your head back against the rough plaster of the wall. Why did Grandame want you to tend to her garden? She knew as well as you did that the cottage was likely destroyed, vandalised, looted, and unlivable, the garden burnt and earth salted. You could never return to living there, even as a free woman: your neighbours wouldn’t allow it, and to try would incite violence. You couldn’t work as a midwife. The corruption of a witchcraft accusation would cling to you like tree sap. Whichever way you looked at it, your life in London was over, returning to the cottage was pointless, and tending to the garden was downright fanciful. But it was Grandame’s final instruction.
You pushed off the wall and painstakingly walked from Newgate back down to the river with your head bowed, terrified that someone would recognise you. No one did. The Londoners streaming around you at Blackfriars and on the road that sloped down St Andrew’s Hill to the river barely noticed you were there. An innocent woman died at Tyburn, not the first and certainly not the last, and the city bustled merrily along as though your world hadn’t fallen apart. Grandame was dead and London lived on unchanged: stinking and noisy and careless. You pulled your tattered cloak tight around yourself, flinching when someone walked too close.
Your footsteps were slow and leaden with pain. You stopped frequently, your bruised, aching limbs trembling under your weight after weeks in shackles and enduring the beatings of the guards. You descended the wherry steps and climbed into the boat with difficulty. The wherryman had to help you, handing you aboard as though you were a much older woman. You stared blankly into the brown Thames, knuckles blanched as you gripped the railing of the boat as it trundled back to Wapping.
As expected, the cottage was a gaping wound. It had been vandalised, its windows smashed, door daubed with curses and spattered with rotten fruit and shit. You forced the door and picked your way across the carpet of shattered glass and clay pots littering the floor, sidestepping the overturned table and chairs smashed to matchsticks. The cottage, once full of warmth and humming with magic, was cold and hollowed out. You found yourself collecting whatever relics of your former life the looters hadn’t stolen or destroyed: the chipped mortar and pestle, a dented copper cauldron, a pewter cup. Carved bone runestones, scattered over the kitchen flags like broken teeth. The small spade that Grandame had been holding, that final day, when she came in from the garden before the constables kicked in the door.
You thumbed the wooden handle thoughtfully. Tend to my garden. She’d had mud on her skirts that morning. Something fluttered in your chest, something warm and enticing that felt like hope. You hurried outside, dropping to your knees in the churned up mess of weeds that was once Grandame’s immaculate kitchen garden, and hacked at the ground with the spade.
The dusk was deepening to nightfall. You had to light a candle and return to the garden, digging fruitlessly for a while before you were rewarded with a dull clunk under the spade, spreading up your forearm as you struck the earth. You tore up clods of dirt with your fingers when the spade was too slow, eventually pulling up the small wooden chest that had once been kept beneath Grandame’s bed. It was engraved with runes, anointed with protection spells, and under your hands it glowed with warmth. Its clasps were wrought iron and very heavy, but they popped open easily as you tried the lid. The smell that rushed up at you was so familiar it brought tears to your eyes. Grandame. Grandame, condensed into an essence. Rosemary. Frankincense. Lavender. Mint. Rose petals. Pine resin. Old paper. The slightest whiff of ozone, the ghost of old magic. The contents of the box were tightly packed. Grandame’s Grimoire. Her satchel. Stubs of enchanted candles. Her silver ring, which fit perfectly onto your thumb. Pouches of herbs. Seeds and dried cuttings, enough to grow a garden of your own. There was enough here to start again, to rebuild, to continue living the only way you knew how; as a witch, even if you were coven-less and weakened, exiled and alone. Grandame’s final act took on new meaning, as did her quiet stoicism for the duration of your imprisonment. It was a sacrifice. She knew she would not survive it, knew that the Mortals’ suspicion and fear and vitriol demanded blood, and at Tyburn, she offered hers up. It was not merely for safekeeping that she buried the box, a witches’ toolkit. It was insurance, preparation, a promise already kept. From the start, she was accepting of death. She was protecting her coven. She was protecting you.
You sat for a while silent and still, filling your lungs with the smell of her as your tears flowed freely down your cheeks. The night air was full of noises from the riverbank; footsteps, the shouts and snatches of songs from a nearby tavern, the muffled steps and voices of workers returning home, the din from the distant wharf, the yowl of a cat.
It was only when footsteps approached behind you, too loud to be from the wherry steps, that you were jolted from your sobs. You spun quickly, upending the box in your haste to stumble to your feet. There, leaning against the garden wall with Greymalkin in his arms, was the vampire.
Your first emotion, burning white-hot and ferocious, was rage.
“YOU!” You spat, venom bubbling in your throat. The vampire didn’t respond straight away, merely drew his slender fingers over Greymalkin’s sleek black head in a deft, firm stroke. Greymalkin wriggled, shedding dark hairs over the yellow jerkin, and you stared in exhausted, furious astonishment. Your words stumbled in your throat. “You–! You–”
The vampire’s eyes, glittering as they had before, slipped from Greymalkin up to your face. His eyebrows quirked, as if to say take your time, and your already simmering blood ratcheted up to a boil. There was no space for fear, only your thundering rage. “Give me my fucking cat!” The vampire’s lips curved; you recognised the lethal angle of the arc from that first meeting, from your dreams every night since.
“Ara,” he exclaimed, his voice melodic and accented as it had been the last time you spoke privately. “He’s quite happy here with me. I won’t do him any harm.” A beat; silence crackling in the bitter air. “I don’t mean ya any harm either, sweeting.” You scoffed, the sound sharp and ragged in your throat.
“Oh, really? You expect me to believe that, you repulsive creature? My Grandame is dead, hanged, because of you! I was locked up, tortured, starved, because of YOU! After what you did to the Phillipses?” The vampire, who had been half-heartedly listening while scratching Greymalkin behind the ears, looked up.
“-Who?”
You ground your teeth in fury, your hands shaking at your sides as you curled them into fists. Your blood was up, your humours bubbling. Deep inside, barely a quickening, the tiniest flicker of magic awoke. You tried not to react; tried to fan the spark into a blaze without drawing his attention. Your body was weak. Your magic dulled. But you still had fight in you yet.
“The Phillips family. You killed them, and ate their baby.” Your voice was trembling now, vocal cords raw from crying and unspent rage. Greymalkin twisted in the vampire’s arms, sensing your distress, and your attention snapped to him. “-Greymalkin, come!”
The vampire’s brow furrowed slightly. You could see his grip tighten around the cat’s sleek body as he stroked him again, his voice thoughtful when he eventually answered.
“...Ah. Aye, I did do that. But see, I only do what I have to, to survive. Ya can’t blame a man for not wanting to starve.” You spat on the ground in disgust.
“You’re no man. Grandame was right. You creatures are nothing like us. You’re foul. You’re a parasite! You’re a filthy baby-murdering monster—” The vampire snorted, laughter burbling in the space between his nose and his mouth, and your temper splintered, sending a crackle of energy to your fingertips. “—Don’t you dare laugh at me! And GIVE ME MY FUCKING CAT!” He shrugged, smile still curling his lip, and released Greymalkin, who leapt nimbly down from his arms and gave a satisfied little shiver on reaching the ground. Bizarrely, he was unafraid, and settled down on the ground between you and began to preen before slipping behind you into the ruin of the cottage. You stared after him in disbelief as the vampire began picking at the black hairs on his doublet.
“It’s funny you’re so attached to them, sweeting. The Mortals I mean. They’re mayflies, here for a blink and then they’re rotting in the ground, good for nothing but fuel for us, and they hate you. But here you are calling me a murderer. They’re the murderers. They strung up the old woman, not me. And I’m sorry. Truly, I’m so sorry for it. I wish I could’ve gotten to her first. I was there, you know? At the hanging. I wish I could’ve helped her, could’ve spared her the—”
“I know you were there, you loathsome fucking cockroach. I saw you from the scaffold. You’re hard to miss with that hideous fucking outfit you have on.”
“It’s good, isn’t it? I dyed the mantle myself. Did it the old way, the way old fat King Henry outlawed for us. But where’s he now? In a vault somewhere, rotten. And where am I? Or any of my people? Alive and fighting and holding onto the old ways. Like you.”
“I’m nothing like you,” you spat, though his words had stirred up something in you, buried deep in the murky pond of two centuries of memory. The Saffron Ban. The old King had outlawed yellow, and forbade the dyeing of cloth with saffron, convinced that the colour was a symbol of independence, of defiance against the Crown. But only in Ireland; the land he was determined to subdue, home of a culture he was desperate to crush.
The yellow. The voice. The slippery way he wove his true heritage into the lies he spun on the Phillips’ doorstep. “You’re Irish then. I knew that was nonsense about the Earl. You didn’t fight at Curlew, for or against the Queen.”
“Nahhh, ‘course I didn’t!” he chuckled dismissively. “Sure, I’m Irish, but I don’t go back too often as of late, not with ye Sasanachs carving it up. I’m hardly after fightin’. Here now, what would I go and do a thing like that for, pet? What good’s a battle for me?”
“Easy pickings for a carrion bird like you, I’d imagine.”
“Ah, ye dote. Only when the sun goes down. And by then the blood’s all dried up. I like my meat fresh, when I can get it.” Bile rose in your throat. The Phillipses were fresh meat. Agynes was fresh meat. The baby was fresh meat. And so were you. You couldn’t take it any longer - the surface tension of your reunion had to rupture.
“You’re here to kill me?” Unbelievably, the vampire looked flabbergasted.
“Kill ye? No, no. I don’t want to kill ye, pet. I want to ask somethin’ of ye.” You scoffed as his words landed.
“You really think I’d give you anything? After everything you’ve done?! You ruined my life!! I wouldn’t piss on you if your ugly fucking cape was on fire.” Your heart was hammering now, loud enough that he could surely hear it. His eyes were fixed on yours, glittering gold and scarlet in the glow of your taper, which was burning low. You eased your weight onto your back foot, inching painstakingly back to the shell of the cottage. Some wards remained, a threshold too, and that might be enough—
“—ah, ye aren’t too friendly are ye, sweeting? No matter. I’m sure we’ll see plenty of each other. And all I ask of ye is a little favour. An exchange really. Ye give me somethin’, and I’ll give ye somethin’ back…” Your guts twisted, hot and heavy as stone in your belly, the way they had when you’d woken up from dreams of him, of the sharp toothed smile held at bay by the threshold. You retreated back a little further, inch by agonising inch, glaring at him with fists clenched as you tried to coax the crackle of power thrumming there into something strong enough to shoot at him. You knew you would probably only have the stamina and opportunity for one blast: you had to make it count. The vampire took your silence as consideration, and continued.
“—See, what I need is a rare thing, and it occurred to me a while back that a witch might be able to get it for me. But there’s not so many of ye around these days, is there? There’s not so many of my kind, either. And my people, my real people? Ara, they’re all long gone, sweeting. Just like you, all alone now, hm? And see, this house stood empty after they came to get ye, so I know you’ve no Coven kickin’ about. Shame. Ye must feel awful lonely, up here.” He tapped his temple with his index finger; a ring that once sat on Goodman Phillips’ pinky glittered there. “-But I can help ye. See, witches aren’t the only ones connected to each other. Our kind, Others, we’re not supposed to be alone, are we? We need… fellowship. Community. Friendship. I can give ye that, and ye can give me my people back. Should be easy enough.” You realised with a start that he had advanced as you had retreated; he nudged Grandame’s Grimoire with the toe of his boot. “There might even be some spells in this book here.”
Does he ever shut up? You thought numbly, even as his words permeated your skull. His voice was lilting and entreating and honey-gold, slipping over his slick lips. His face, a broad, handsome face, was open and smiling; a tempting face, a vulpine face, a placid freshwater pool that concealed a whirlpool just beneath the surface. He stepped forwards again, his eyes flaring in the candlelight. You had stopped breathing. He hadn’t blinked since he entered the garden. A string of drool, viscous and milky, slipped down his chin. You spun on your heel, dropped your taper, and made a break for the house.
He was faster, and caught your wrist in a vicelike grip, before you made it two paces, spinning you effortlessly into his chest like a dance partner. You struggled, aching bones straining against his grip as the chill memory of your arrest submerged your brain in icy adrenaline. They’d caught you. They’d dragged you hands behind your back, so you couldn’t summon a spell. They’d taken you away, and beaten you, and killed Grandame. You would not be trapped again. You kicked out, striking him hard in the side of the knee, and twisted into him as he buckled, breaking his grip on your wrist. You were running before the heat of his palm could leech from your skin into the cold air; the same air that rushed past your ear as the bulk of the vampire’s body collided with yours, his boots hitting the earth with a thud as though he had jumped. Or just landed.
His arms encircled you like vines, his breath hot against the nape of your neck. Every hair on your body stood on end, your skin bristling, and a shrill gasp tore from your throat.
“Shh sweeting,” the vampire purred, his voice like a noxious gas. “You don’t have to struggle. Don’t cry…” You ground your teeth together so hard the enamel squealed. Your own voice, when it came, was a hiss, fracturing as you writhed.
“You don’t–tell–me– what to do!– You– creeping– crumb of shit!” Your elbow, the joints sharpened by starvation, drove into the thick plain of his torso beneath the ribs, and as he grunted in surprise you spun against him again, slipping out of his arms and driving a fist into his nose as you turned. The impact ricocheted from your knuckles up to your underarm, the sensation of bone striking bone flooding your gut like nausea, but you struck again. The vampire was winded, but caught your fist and wrenched it back against your wrist almost to the point of snapping the bones; in wild desperation you lashed out with your free hand and clawed down the length of his face with your fingernails. The scratches you left behind were wet and red and angry, and little half-moons of his flesh were bedded in under your nails as you ripped your hand away. But it wasn’t this that made him scream, his cry puncturing the air like the shriek of a fox.
It was Grandame’s ring. It had scorched his face, leaving behind a furious, swollen weal. He reared back, but you struck again, seizing his head like a ball and forcing the ring flush against his eyesocket. Agony made him clumsy, shock slowed his reaction. He dropped your wrist and you scrambled backwards to the house, tripping over the threshold and catching yourself on the doorframe, spinning around in panic. It was only by the moonlight and the glowing coals of his eyes that you could make him out; he was clutching his face, one eyelid sagging as another weal swelled the flesh. Blood dribbled from the wound, running down his cheek like tears. His expression, what you could see of it, was murderous.
You brought your hands together, funnelled the energy crackling between them into a beam of power, and threw everything you had behind the hex you lobbed at him. It caught him between the throat and the shoulder, a sizzling brand that cauterised the flesh, and he roared again, charging forwards against the threshold, colliding against the barrier.
The handsome mask he wore had degraded; melted, like beeswax. His face had contorted, grown waxy and hollow; the mouth was pooling with saliva and lethal with rows of narrow, white, razor sharp fangs. His hands had gruesomely lengthened, fingers lethally sharp and tipped with claws. The eyes burned, red and terrible. For a moment, you faced each other; chests heaving, eyes flashing, Immortal forms on full display. The darkness beyond the garden was suddenly splintered by howling dogs and angry men; your confrontation was drawing attention.
“Go,” you snarled, your entire body trembling with the effort of standing. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll go now. LEAVE!”
The vampire, still staggering against the heft of your spell and the burning weal on his face, let out a crackling, rasping laugh. He probed his face with a clawed hand, inspecting the damage.
“Ah, sweetness. Ye didn’t have to do all that. See, I’d have made it so you never felt grief again. I’d have taken all your pain…”
“No one could do that,” you replied. “Certainly not you.”
“Suit yourself,” he hissed, pulling his hideously engorged hand from his swollen, sizzling face. “I’m sure you’ll be quick to beg me, next time we meet.”
“There won’t be a next time,” you snarled. He just laughed.
“Sure there will, ye dote. I like that waspish sting o’yours. And remember, I have a favour to ask ye.” He spread his arms wide and bowed theatrically, inclining his head to best show the ruined, blistering side of his face, grinning broadly all the while; when he straightened up, he smoothed out his mantle and pulled his doublet straight with a flourish, before turning on his heel and retreating up the garden the way he came. His monstrous form melted away as he walked; the claws retracted, the hands shrank. On reaching the gate he called out once more, taunting and smug, over his shoulder.
“I’ll be seeing ye, sweeting. The name’s Remmick, by the way.”
EVERYONE READ THIS WONDERFUL FIC NOW, it may say I was the beta reader but I'll be honest it did not need me to "correct" anything, this baby was perfect from the beginning, SO much work and love was put into it and you'll be on the edge of your seat THROUGHOUT just read it now and COMMENT how amazing you found it okay that's my piece now read it please
Return to me - Chapter 7 "Am I in love with just a theme?"
Title taken from the song Who Is She?
Somewhere across the sea of time
A love immortal such as mine
Will come to me Eternally
Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6 and AO3 link
Summary: Remmick is quite tired of feeling so alone, he's done turning people that will inevitably leave him and/or die on him, but what happens when he kills a random person and sees them the next day alive and well singing a song that reminds him of times long lost? What happens when he realizes maybe there's someone out there that could never stay dead for too long, someone who could maybe at last, fill the hole he has inside?
Basically Immortal!Reader meets a Remmick that will do anything to have them, as a songbird, as a partner, as someone who won't leave.
Remmick’s POV
Remmick was drinking your blood.
Remmick was drinking your blood.
And boy was he glad he gave a warning earlier despite the embarrassment, because Remmick truly could not. stop.
He was aware he was making noises, grunting from the effort it was taking him to swallow as fast as possible. From time to time moaning at the taste his tongue was chasing. His spit mixing with the mess on your neck, squelching. It was a symphony of feeding, the harmony of feeling full for once, of feeling alive.
He had tried to be gentle, he had tried to be polite, but once your heartbeat went quiet, once your head fell back with no strength holding it in place… well whatever strength he had to keep composure left him quickly.
There were no polite words to describe the scene anymore, Remmick was devouring you, and the only thought he could formulate was that he was right, your blood was special. He’d never felt this good, this insatiable while feeding before.
The first time he didn't drink you dry, the first time he’d ignored the euphoria that rushed him, chalked it up to not having fed in a while, and he’d simply assumed it was a new day with a new outlook. No. No this was special, this was real, this was him feeling the endorphins tingling from his chest to his brain with every swallow, every suck for more of you.
Which brought him to the harrowing realization, he was running out. He had fed enough, he felt full in a way he usually didn’t. Being a vampire was about never being fully satisfied, never feeling enough warmth, never feeling enough like a live person. Your blood changed that, your blood made him feel… human. And he was running out of it.
Remmick whined a whine high pitched enough he was glad no one was around to hear it. He swallowed the last bits he could and proceeded to once again lick all around your neck for the tiny amount left he’d spilled. He felt like an animal, never understanding well enough the word ‘bloodlust’ before.
There was something going on in his belly, rising up to his chest and to his head slowly but surely. It was something he thought he’d never feel again and yet here he was, frozen, stunned, letting the feeling pass all over him, even his toes tingling with it. Heat.
Remmick could feel the warmth of the sun inside of him, spreading around letting him stop feeling well, dead, for once. He was alive, and he wasn’t starving, he wasn’t desperate for something to stop this coldness inside him, to let him in to pretend for a few hours he was different to what he was, no, he was a vampire, but he was satiated.
Remmick stood there holding your dead body, stunned. He looked down at you and gratitude surged from his chest, you’d given him more than the gift of trust, you’d given him a reason to keep going, a reason to stick around for that had nothing to do with music, you’d given him an internal sun, and he wasn’t letting go of it or you any time soon.
Your POV
You wake up with a sore neck.
Once a bit more awake, you’re grateful that’s all you wake up to, hell you’re simply grateful you wake up at all.
You’re laying down in the blanket from earlier, it’s a bit stained now but then again, so are you. Your neck is stiff, there’s something dried on it that makes it uncomfortable to move it but you do it anyways, anything to make sure it's working correctly and healed in the right way.
You’re alone. You feel a pang in your chest at the realization. For a second you’re upset and more than a bit angry, when the sunlight on your skin makes you realise exactly why your companion isn’t here with you. You go to raise a hand to rub at your eyes when you notice a piece of paper inside of it.
“Had to leave once the sun came up, left you some things in the basket that should help, thank you again.”
The remaining anguish at being left dead and alone leaves you after reading it. Looking around you realize you’ve been hidden behind some familiar bushes, you’re at the back of your house where you keep your garden. Not technically your house, anyone could still walk around here but it was always understood by the neighbours you put effort into making this place nice, they weren’t allowed to ruin it.
You have no idea how Remmick got you here, there’s no way of getting here without entering your house or the neighbours first, and you’re sure you didn’t give him permission to enter.
Something you’d confirmed with him about vampires from his stories, they weren’t able to enter a home without an invite.
So how did he get you to a safe place like this?
If you had to estimate you’d say it's between five and six in the morning. The basket next to you looks intriguing since reading the note.
Knowing you don’t have much time before someone could catch you looking like a murder victim, (which you guess you actually are) you quickly open the basket. There’s what you could describe as a million napkins inside, coming up from being squished inside, with a generous amount of water sitting next to them. This will be perfect to wipe the dried stickiness you assume is blood from your body, mostly neck area.
You sit there, behind the bushes, assessing yourself, looking up and down you quickly notice your clothes aren’t only stained, they’ve been gripped hard enough in some places near your shoulders and even waist that there’s holes all over. Better described as claw marks you coldly realized.
Wetting some of the napkins you try as fast as possible to wipe away any sign of the events from last night. Your neck is still tender but there’s no time to be gentle when people could be coming to knock on your door any minute. It's not like you to get visitors, especially so early, but one never knows and you have enough deaths on you to know it never hurts to be careful.
As you walk back to your house, a bit more fresh, you try recalling the night before. The conversation or better said interview you had with Remmick comes quickly back. He’s clearly been everywhere and has cherry picked well the moments from his life that make you impressed, though not as inspired as he’d probably wanted. You try not to feel guilty over that.
It’d all been going well till he’d bit into you. Though you are grateful this time it wasn’t a chunk of neck you had to regenerate but some puncture marks and possibly all the blood from your body. The pain hadn’t been as bad in fact it had been rather good at some points and-
The realization hits you immediately and with no warning, you got turned on by letting him drink from you.
Oh my god.
It’s as embarrassing as it is undeniable, you remember him grabbing you, having his mouth so close to an admittedly arousing zone, feeling his breath on your neck, his lips caressing your skin while his teeth marked you. His claws holding you by the waist desperate for more, you fading in and out in a dizzy state while the blood left your body.
It had all been just too much.
It had nothing to do with the man (could he even be called a man?) who’d caused it.
So you were what most would consider a freak in more ways than one, you tried to ration with yourself. You’d always had a relationship with pain people would be terrified to discover. Pain had never been as scary as it should be, if anything it had been reliable in a way most people in your life couldn't be, the idea of finding some pleasure in it… it’d never been farfetched, it just felt wrong that it’d happened now, in these circumstances.
Was there a chance Remmick had noticed? You don’t think you had any particular moment of a clear pleasurable high , apart from some moans that could be indistinguishable from moans of pain.
You took some deep breaths, your sore neck not helping in making you calm down.
It was fine, you couldn’t say much for when you were mostly out of it but it's not like that was a state where you could do much to betray yourself and aid him with knowledge you needed to keep hidden. No. You’d simply passed out after a while and apart from some ambiguous noises no one would figure anything out about your new ah, likes.
You still couldn't tone down the blush that ignited the moment you remembered the sensation of him devouring you.
Remmick’s POV
The heat hadn’t left Remmick all morning.
Usually he would spend the day time sleeping, hidden inside some shed or house or whatever he could find/take, but it had become obvious quickly how impossible that would be with the adrenaline he was now filled with. The warmth in his veins was something he couldn’t even remember feeling before, but now memories of being alive were creeping in for the first time in centuries.
He was being reminded of the feeling of being a normal human being, he wasn’t sure how much he would like it once the feeling left but right now he relished in it. He was just aimlessly walking around the abandoned shed he’d found his first night here, not having much space for anything but needing to keep moving, flexing his hands every few seconds, seeing the veins protrude from his forearms, knowing with a smug grin that was your blood running through them.
Remmick is filled with you. He’d been marked by you.
Something about that thought made the heat inside him travel down in a way he’s familiar if not used to feeling for a while. He’s been trying his best not to remember all your noises when you were being fed on, but there’s something about all the warmth inside of him, all thanks to you, that makes it impossible to think of anything but you this second.
You moaned at one point, he’s certain of that, it must have been from the pain but he now knows what you sound like and how is a monster like him not supposed to take advantage of that?
He finally sits down on the floor with his bent knees leveled with his chest. The different kind of heat stirring low in his belly making himself known once again at the thought of the music you made last night.
It reminds him of the purpose of the outing, Remmick wonders what you’ll take from his tales and make beautiful melodies about. He knows logically it will take a while to hear it but by the gods he stopped believing in a long time ago, he cannot wait to listen to his stories from your mouth.
Your mouth…
Now that was something quite distracting. The way it moved in an O shape when he bit you, the gasp you let out, a gasp of pain sure but what if it hadn’t been? Remmick allowed that thought to travel through his brain down to where he now noticed something awakening as well, the bulge in his trousers growing by every memory of you from last night.
Was this wrong? Getting aroused by something that had clearly been painful for you? That had resulted in your death? Remmick wasn’t one to care much these days if something was morally wrong, hell, he’d never been as far as he can remember which isn’t as far as he’d liked. But something about you had him wondering, would you feel disgusted by him for doing this?
What would have happened if he’d been able to stay, after jumping over your house to get you to that beautiful garden at the back? If you’d noticed the effect you’d had on him?
He imagines your look of surprise turning into repulsion, a shot of heat burst inside of him. Would you look at him the way you did after that bodyguard’s death? All disappointed like you expected more from him? Like he was a dirty thing you found at the bottom of your shoe and now had to deal with?
Would you still blush, that delicious smelling blush, and would he too now, both getting your blood rushing to your faces?
With those questions, he started unbuckling his belt, faster than he realized, more desperate than he’d noticed.
He remembered the feel of your body, grabbing it, twisting it to get the best angle for his feeding. You letting him. There was no way to forget, it had been your idea for him to feed from you. To use you. To let him consume you while at the same time being consumed back by you in his head, to be unable to stop thinking of you. Everything he was feeling now was thanks to you.
You, you, you.
Remmick knew what you tasted like.
And he couldn’t get that flavour out of his mouth while he grabbed his cock at last and quickly began stroking.
Your POV
You spent the day trying not to think about it, ‘trying’ being the key word.
Luckily a distraction came to your door during the afternoon. For a second you’d worried at hearing the knock on the door, thinking maybe it was later than you’d realize and Remmick was already back for more.
You hadn’t discussed a plan moving forward but you’d assumed he’d give you at least a day to feel better before coming back again for seconds, or you guess technically, thirds.
You’d been surprised when opening the door and seeing Lawrence there. Finally it seemed the bar was opening again after everything with Elliot was dealt with. The police had ruled it an animal death. You felt something twist in your stomach at that, the relief of them stopping their search for a killer, for Remmick quickly giving way to guilt over feeling that relief.
You’d done what you could come up with to make sure this wouldn’t happen again. That had to be enough, you couldn’t continue feeling guilt over someone’s death which you had nothing to do with. But your brain saying that didn’t do shit to the way your heart felt.
That hadn’t been the only news Lawrence had left you with, you were now officially the back up singer at the bar. Missy, the usual singer, would be given more of a break now to ‘relax’ and ‘not let what happened last time with her leaving them high and dry happen again’ and you would fill in those days.
You can’t imagine Missy being too happy about it but you also couldn't really care. You were going to continue to live your dreams for more than one night. Though trepidation quickly made itself noticeable, fear that if you continue to sing, Remmick would continue to appear to keep listening.
What was your end goal with the vampire? Did you even want him to leave you alone again?
So many questions and uneasy feelings came crawling back, enough you’d bid Lawrence farewell fast after showering him with gratitude over the opportunity, promising you’d arrived early to help open up at the bar tonight.
It was hard to imagine anyone being more of a mess than you felt at this moment.
Remmick’s POV
This wasn’t part of the plan.
‘This’ being the cum currently drying on his stomach from what was a way too satisfying, too good, too perfect, fantasy he’d created about you. You weren’t supposed to be this for him. Remmick wasn’t supposed to fantasize about you. His plan was quite different, it involved him having all the power and making sure you did what he needed, no, wanted from you.
Still, he hadn’t had an orgasm like that in a while.
Not that it mattered, or that it was at all because of you. He’d just gotten too overwhelmed with how good your blood was, that’s it. So at some point once the blood had traveled south it’d stopped being about that and start being about how good you felt in his arms, how his claws couldn’t help but cling on to your waist, wanting to both rip the flesh apart and leave his mark everywhere and also soften his hands and caress every inch of skin available to see what other goosebumps he could pull from you.
He remembered carrying you afterwards, cold and dead in arms, but still soft. You’d trusted him with your body in that state and he’d taken that with the carefulness it deserved. Remmick’d made sure no one would see you and clung on tight to make sure nothing would take you from him.
It had been… an experience to care so much for someone.
He had stayed as long as he could, smoking again by the time he made it back to the shed. Just watching you, slowly warm up, smelling how blood was being filled in your body. You were something else alright. He mostly stared at your face, relaxed, zero frown for once on your forehead. There was no denying you were beautiful, it was honestly annoying how much though.
He couldn’t get distracted, he wouldn’t.
Remmick stared again at the mess drying on him. He wouldn’t get distracted again.
Every single fic update there is an author trying frantically to find the right balance between a nonchalant aside of "leave a comment if you enjoyed =)" and clinging desperately to the coat tails of a random stranger, dragging along behind them on the street wailing "Please, please! I have to know what you thought! I'm desperate to talk to people about this! Ask me about the alliterative repetition! Ask me about the symbolism!"
summary : reader is general montgomery's daughter and she crosses paths with paddy mayne - she finds him arrogant and unbearable despite her father admiring him deeply; through months of war, banter, and quiet moments together, irritation slowly turns into love
(gif by : @fuckyeahizzyhands)
The war room smelled of cigarette smoke, wet wool, and old paper.
You sat near the far wall with a notebook balanced on your knee, trying your best to disappear while senior officers crowded around the map table. Pins and colored string stretched across France like some dreadful game.
Your father, Bernard Montgomery, stood at the center of it all, sharp-eyed and immaculate as always.
And beside him lounged the most impossible man you had ever met.
Paddy Mayne had one boot hooked around a chair leg, sleeves rolled to his elbows, looking less like a soldier and more like a dockworker who had wandered into headquarters by mistake.
“…and then,” Mayne was saying with confidence, “we simply stole the staff car and drove straight through the checkpoint.”
Several officers blinked. One coughed into his hand.
Your father, to your horror, burst into laughter.
“You see?” he said, pointing at Mayne as if presenting a prized exhibit. “Initiative. That’s what wins wars.”
You looked down at your notebook to hide your expression.
Initiative, perhaps. Madness, certainly.
Mayne noticed anyway.
His mouth tilted. “Miss Montgomery doesn’t appear convinced.”
“I’m trying to determine,” you replied coolly, “how much of your story survived contact with reality.”
A few officers went very still. But your father only chuckled again.
Mayne grinned outright now, entirely too pleased with himself. “Ah. There it is.”
“There what is?”
“The look you always give me. As though I’m a particularly suspicious horse.”
You shut your notebook with more force than necessary. “If the comparison fits.”
Another dangerous grin.
Your father shook his head fondly. “You must forgive my daughter, Mayne. She thinks every man who tells a story exaggerates.”
“Only the ones who clearly enjoy it.”
“That excludes no one in uniform,” Mayne said.
Several men laughed. Traitors.
You had met him four times before this.
The first had been at a briefing in Cairo, where he arrived late, bleeding slightly, and somehow still managed to insult a colonel before sitting down.
The second was in Sicily, where half the officers treated him like a hero and the other half like an unexploded shell.
The third had ended with your father declaring Mayne “one of the finest fighting officers Britain possesses,” while you privately wondered whether Britain simply had very low standards for acceptable behavior.
And now here he was again. Louder than necessary. Too confident by half.
And entirely adored by your father.
It was unbearable.
The meeting finally ended near midnight. Officers filtered out in tired clusters. You gathered your papers quickly, hoping to escape before Mayne decided to speak to you again.
“No farewell tonight?”
Too late.
You turned to find him leaning against the doorway, arms folded.
“I assumed you had another staff car to steal.”
“Hm. Only on weekends.”
You stared at him flatly.
His eyes flickered with amusement. “There’s that look again.”
“You mistake irritation for fascination.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
“Pity.”
The word landed oddly softly.
Before you could answer, your father crossed the room behind you. “Mayne, tomorrow morning—same hour.”
“Of course, sir.”
Your father clasped his shoulder warmly before leaving, entirely unaware of the expression on your face.
The moment he disappeared down the corridor, you sighed.
“I truly do not understand why he likes you so much.”
Mayne was quiet for once. Then he said, “Your father likes results.”
“And charm, apparently.”
“That too.”
You rolled your eyes and started toward the door. But his next words stopped you.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I rather enjoy that you disagree with him.”
You glanced back. He was still smiling—but less arrogantly now. Almost honestly.
“Most people in these rooms worship him,” Mayne continued. “You don’t.”
“He’s my father,” you said simply. “Not a monument.”
Something unreadable crossed his face then. Respect, perhaps.
Or surprise.
“Well,” he murmured, stepping aside to let you pass, “that may make you the bravest person here.”
By autumn, you had developed the unfortunate habit of looking for him in every room.
It annoyed you immensely.
Headquarters shifted constantly now—temporary offices, commandeered estates, damp stone buildings filled with telephones and exhaustion. Yet somehow Paddy Mayne always appeared eventually, usually carrying mud into places mud had no business being.
And somehow, against all reason, he had stopped feeling like a disruption.
Not entirely, of course.
He was still impossible.
But now you noticed other things too.
Like how he always removed his gloves before shaking hands with a secretary.
How he remembered the names of drivers and radio operators everyone else overlooked.
How the loudness faded when someone frightened entered the room.
You hated noticing these things.
Truly.
“You’re staring again.”
You looked up sharply from your book.
He stood in the doorway holding two steaming mugs of tea, rain darkening the shoulders of his coat.
“I was not.”
“You were.”
“I was wondering why your boots sound like artillery.”
“They’re good boots.”
“They’re dreadful boots.”
He handed you a mug anyway before dropping heavily into the chair opposite yours.
The room was unusually quiet tonight. Your father, Bernard Montgomery, had gone to another strategy meeting, leaving you alone among piles of reports you had long since stopped pretending to organize.
Mayne glanced at the book in your lap.
“You’ve been reading that for three days.”
“It’s history.”
“You read history for pleasure?”
“Yes.”
He stared at you for a moment as though this revealed something deeply alarming.
Then he said, “Good Lord.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
The sound startled both of you.
His grin appeared slowly afterward, victorious and warm in a way that felt unexpectedly dangerous.
“There she is,” he murmured.
You narrowed your eyes immediately. “Don’t become smug.”
“Far too late for that.”
Still, he seemed absurdly pleased with himself for the remainder of the evening.
—
Over the following months, it became impossible not to notice the effort he made.
At first it was small things.
He remembered you disliked overly sweet tea.
He brought you books from towns he passed through because he once overheard you mention an author you liked.
He asked questions—and, more shockingly, listened to the answers.
Not polite questions either.
Real ones.
“What did you want before the war?”
“Why do you hate being called ‘Monty’s daughter’?”
“What makes you angry enough to shout?”
Nobody asked you things like that anymore. Most people only wanted proximity to your father through you.
But Mayne spoke to you as though you existed separately from Bernard Montgomery.
It unsettled you more than his stories ever had.
One evening in Belgium, you found him sitting alone outside headquarters, smoking beneath a weak yellow lamp.
“You’re avoiding everyone,” you observed.
“Excellent deduction.”
“You’re in poor humor.”
“I’m Irish. It comes naturally.”
You sat beside him anyway.
Cold wind swept across the courtyard. Somewhere nearby, engines rumbled in the dark.
After a while he said quietly, “You’ve stopped looking at me like I’m a liar.”
You glanced sideways at him.
“That’s because I’ve realized something.”
“Oh?”
“You’re actually worse.”
He barked out a laugh.
But then his expression softened.
“Fair.”
Silence settled again—comfortable now, somehow.
Dangerously comfortable.
Then a familiar voice cut through the night.
“Well.”
You nearly jumped.
Your father stood several feet away, hands behind his back, observing the two of you with entirely too much awareness.
Mayne looked utterly unbothered. “Evening, sir.”
Your father’s eyes moved between you both.
“You’ve been here an hour,” he said to Mayne.
“Yes, sir.”
“And not a single argument?”
“Tragic, isn’t it?”
Your father hummed thoughtfully.
Then, to your horror, the corner of his mouth twitched.
“I see.”
You knew that tone.
It was the same tone he used before devastating battlefield observations.
“Father—”
But he was already looking at Mayne now with unmistakable amusement.
“Well,” he said mildly, “this explains quite a lot.”
“Explains what?” you demanded.
Neither man answered quickly enough.
Which was answer enough already.
You stood abruptly. “Goodnight.”
As you swept past your father, you heard him say under his breath:
“Try not to terrify her entirely, Mayne.”
And then, impossibly—
“Yes, sir,” Paddy replied, sounding almost sincere.
The first time your father failed to appear for briefing, half the headquarters panicked.
The second day, rumors spread.
By the third, every corridor carried whispers.
Exhaustion, the doctors said. Nothing dramatic. Weeks of relentless movement and too little sleep had finally caught up with General Montgomery, though he seemed personally offended by the diagnosis.
“I am perfectly capable of working,” he snapped from his bed the morning you carried in another stack of reports.
“You threatened to dismiss a nurse for opening the curtains.”
“She opened them incorrectly.”
You pressed your lips together to hide a smile.
Even ill, your father remained entirely himself.
Unfortunately for you, his absence meant much of his correspondence, scheduling, and briefing organization had landed squarely in your lap.
Every desk became yours. Every telephone seemed to ring for you.
By the end of the first week, you could barely remember when you had last slept properly.
And through all of it, Paddy Mayne was gone.
Some operation near the border. No details. Only absence.
At first you hardly noticed. You were too busy drowning in paperwork and officers demanding signatures your father normally handled himself.
But gradually the headquarters began to feel oddly… quieter.
No muddy boots appearing where they shouldn’t.
No impossible stories drifting through briefing rooms.
No voice at your shoulder saying things specifically designed to irritate you into laughing.
It was ridiculous that you noticed at all.
Two weeks passed that way.
Two long, grey weeks.
By the time rain hammered against headquarters one miserable evening, you were bent over reports in your father’s office with a pounding headache and ink smeared across your hand.
You hadn’t even bothered changing out of your day clothes.
A knock sounded against the open door.
“Unless this building is actively on fire,” you muttered without looking up, “go away.”
Silence.
Then:
“That bad?”
Your pen stopped.
You looked up too quickly.
There he was.
Mud-splattered coat. Windblown hair. Exhaustion carved faintly beneath his eyes.
And somehow still grinning.
Relief hit you so suddenly it was almost embarrassing.
You masked it immediately with irritation. “You look dreadful.”
“Wonderful to see you too.”
He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. The room seemed smaller with him in it. Warmer somehow.
“You disappeared,” you said before you could stop yourself.
You leaned back in your chair, suddenly aware of how tired you must look.
His gaze swept over the endless paperwork covering the desk.
“Christ,” he murmured. “Have they worked you to death?”
“Nearly.”
“And Montgomery?”
“As impossible as ever.”
“That’s reassuring.”
He moved closer to the desk slowly now, his expression changing as he studied you properly.
“You haven’t been sleeping.”
“I have.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m selective with the truth.”
“That’s my line.”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched. Victory lit briefly in his eyes.
God, he noticed everything now.
“You should rest,” he said quietly.
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“There are forty-three reports that need sorting before morning.”
“Then let them wait.”
You gave him a flat stare. “You say that as though generals simply stop requiring paperwork.”
“They should. Terrible system.”
A laugh escaped you before you could prevent it—tired and small, but real.
And suddenly his expression softened in a way that made your chest ache unexpectedly.
He reached toward the desk, hesitated only briefly, then slid the top stack of papers toward himself.
“What are you doing?”
“Helping.”
“You can’t just—”
“Too late.”
“You don’t even know how these are organized.”
“I’ll learn.”
“You hate paperwork.”
“I hate watching you look half-dead more.”
The room fell quiet.
He had already started reading through reports with intense concentration entirely unsuited to a man usually associated with stolen vehicles and explosives.
You stared at him for a moment too long.
Then finally asked, more softly than intended:
“How was the operation?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
“Messy,” he said at last.
Your eyes moved instinctively to the healing cut near his jaw you hadn’t noticed before.
Without thinking, you reached across the desk and touched just beneath it lightly.
He went very still.
So did you.
The air between you changed all at once.
Neither of you spoke.
Then a voice drifted dryly from the doorway.
“Well.”
You jerked back immediately.
Your father stood there in his robe looking deeply unimpressed and entirely too observant for a sick man.
General Montgomery looked from you to Paddy, then to the paperwork spread between you both.
“Hm,” he said calmly. “I leave for two weeks and apparently return to find my office occupied by emotional incompetence.”
You stared at him in horror.
Paddy, traitor that he was, looked dangerously close to laughing.
“Father.”
Your voice came out sharper than intended.
Bernard Montgomery ignored you completely as he crossed the room with infuriating calm, robe tied neatly despite the fact he was supposed to be resting.
“You,” he said, pointing at Mayne, “are meant to be at your own camp.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you,” he added, turning to you, “look dreadful.”
“I’ve inherited your workload.”
“Temporary hardship builds character.”
“It also builds homicide.”
To your astonishment, Paddy actually laughed aloud.
Your father gave him a sidelong glance. “Don’t encourage her.”
“Far too late for that, sir.”
Montgomery settled into the chair beside the fire with a sigh that betrayed more exhaustion than he would ever willingly admit. For a moment, the lines in his face seemed deeper in the dim light.
You softened immediately. “You should be in bed.”
“I should be at headquarters.”
“You are at headquarters.”
“Yes, but horizontally.”
Paddy coughed suspiciously into his hand to hide another laugh.
Your father’s eyes drifted slowly between the two of you again. Assessing. Calculating.
You knew that look. It was the same expression he wore while studying battle maps.
Which was deeply concerning.
Finally he said, almost casually, “Mayne.”
“Sir?”
“How long have you been back?”
“About twenty minutes.”
“And you came directly here?”
There was the slightest pause. “Yes, sir.”
You looked down at your papers very quickly. Your father noticed. Of course he noticed.
A slow understanding spread across his expression—not surprise exactly, but confirmation.
“Well,” he murmured. “That answers that.”
“Answers what?” you demanded immediately.
“Nothing.”
“That is absolutely not a ‘nothing’ face.”
Paddy had become intensely interested in the paperwork.
Coward.
Your father leaned back comfortably, looking entirely too pleased with himself for a sick man. “You know, when I first introduced you two, I assumed one of you would eventually commit murder.”
You stared at him in betrayal. Your father actually smiled.
Actually smiled.
It was catastrophic.
“Oh, this is unbearable,” you informed them both.
“Mm,” Montgomery replied. “And yet you haven’t asked him to leave.”
Silence.
You hated that silence.
Because he was right.
Paddy’s gaze shifted toward you then—not teasing now, not smug. Just steady.
Too steady.
The room suddenly felt far too warm.
You stood abruptly, gathering papers mostly so you would have something to do with your hands. “I need coffee.”
“You hate coffee after midnight,” Paddy said automatically.
You froze.
So did your father.
Mayne seemed to realize what he’d revealed exactly one second too late.
And then your father laughed.
Not a polite chuckle.
Not mild amusement.
A full, genuine laugh that filled the office.
You had not heard that sound in weeks.
“Oh,” Montgomery said, looking delighted despite your horror. “This is serious.”
“Father—”
“He remembers your coffee habits.”
“Many people remember my coffee habits.”
“No,” your father said calmly, “many people fear your coffee habits.”
Paddy looked entirely unapologetic now. Which was worse somehow.
You pointed at both men accusingly. “I was happier when you disliked each other.”
“We never disliked each other,” Paddy said.
“I disliked him enormously.”
“And yet,” your father mused, watching you both with sharp amusement, “here he is. Sorting paperwork voluntarily.”
That shut the room up for a moment.
Because it was true.
Paddy Mayne hated paperwork with the passion of a man personally betrayed by filing systems.
Yet he was still sitting at your desk, sleeves rolled up, reading reports beside you without complaint.
Your father saw the realization cross your face.
And suddenly his expression gentled.
“You know,” he said quietly, “there are very few people Mayne makes time for willingly.”
Paddy glanced toward him sharply, almost warningly.
But Montgomery only looked back at you.
“And there are even fewer people,” your father continued, “who make him sit still.”
The room fell silent again.
Your father looked tired but content for the first time since falling ill. And beside you, Paddy sat very still indeed.
You escaped the office under the excuse of finding coffee.
In truth, you simply needed air.
The room had become unbearable in the last few minutes—too warm, too observant, too full of things no one was saying aloud.
The corridor outside headquarters was dim and nearly empty, lit only by weak lamps and the occasional passing orderly.
You had just reached the end of the hall when you realized you had forgotten your father’s medication on the desk.
Muttering under your breath, you turned back.
The office door remained slightly open.
And then you heard your father speak.
“Mayne.”
Something in his tone stopped you before you stepped inside.
Not teasing now.
Serious.
You stayed where you were, hidden by the shadowed corridor.
Inside, papers rustled faintly.
“Yes, sir?” Paddy replied.
A pause.
Then your father asked quietly:
“What are your intentions toward my daughter?”
Silence.
Complete silence.
You forgot entirely about the medication.
Inside the office, even the fire seemed to crackle more softly.
Finally Paddy spoke.
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“You heard me perfectly well.”
Another pause.
You could picture the exact expression on Paddy’s face now—that careful neutrality he used whenever cornered by senior officers.
It did not work particularly well on your father.
“You seek her out constantly,” Montgomery continued evenly.
A beat. “So I ask again, Mayne. What are your intentions?”
You should leave.
You absolutely should leave.
Instead, you remained frozen outside the door like a criminal.
Inside, Paddy exhaled slowly.
“I wasn’t aware this was an interrogation.”
“I’m a general. Everything is an interrogation.”
That nearly made you laugh despite your horror.
Then came another stretch of silence—long enough that your pulse began hammering annoyingly in your throat.
And when Paddy finally answered, his voice had changed.
Quieter now. Honest.
“My intentions are respectful, sir.”
Your breath caught.
“I see,” your father said.
“But—” Paddy stopped briefly, as though choosing his next words with unusual care. “I suspect respectful may not be the entire problem.”
“No?”
“No, sir.”
Then your father asked the question you dreaded most.
“Do you care for her?”
Your heart nearly stopped altogether.
Inside the room, there was no immediate answer.
And somehow that silence told you more than anything else could have.
Because Paddy Mayne was never silent unless something truly mattered.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low enough you almost missed it.
“Yes.”
One word.
Simple.
Certain.
No arrogance.
No charm.
Just truth.
You pressed your fingers tighter around the papers in your hands.
Inside, your father was quiet for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly:
“She’s stubborn.”
A short huff of laughter from Paddy. “I’m aware.”
“She inherited my temper.”
“I’m very aware.”
“She’ll argue with you constantly.”
“I should hope so.”
Your father made a thoughtful sound at that.
“And you?” he asked finally. “What exactly are you offering her, Mayne?”
That question lingered longer.
This time when Paddy answered, there was something rougher beneath the words.
“Everything I can.”
Silence again.
Then your father sighed softly—tired, thoughtful.
“You know,” Montgomery murmured, “when she first met you, she described you as ‘an overdecorated disaster with alarming confidence.’”
To your horror, Paddy laughed quietly.
“That’s actually kinder than I expected.”
“And now?”
There was movement inside the office. A chair creaking softly.
“I don’t know,” Paddy admitted. “You’d have to ask her.”
You finally forced yourself to move then before your presence became obvious.
Your pulse still raced embarrassingly hard as you walked away down the corridor, clutching the forgotten medication far too tightly.
Behind you, faintly, your father’s voice drifted one last time through the cracked door.
“Well, Mayne,” he said mildly, “for your sake, I suggest you ask her soon.”
By the time you returned to the office, you had almost convinced yourself you imagined the entire conversation.
Almost.
The corridor felt too narrow suddenly.
Too warm.
Your pulse still refused to behave properly.
You paused briefly outside the door, smoothing your expression into something calm and unaffected before stepping inside.
Only to stop immediately.
Your father was gone.
And Paddy Mayne was alone in the office, sitting exactly where you had left him, sleeves still rolled, one hand resting against a stack of reports.
He looked up the moment you entered.
“There you are.”
You tried very hard to sound normal. “Where’s my father?”
“He left.”
You blinked. “Left?”
“Said he was tired of supervising us.”
That sounded alarmingly like him.
You crossed toward the desk carefully, setting the medication down. “He was supposed to take these.”
“He did.”
“You watched him?”
“He attempted escape halfway down the corridor. I was sent after him.”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched faintly.
Paddy noticed immediately, of course.
He always noticed now.
The room fell quiet after that.
Not awkward exactly.
Just… charged.
You became acutely aware of everything all at once—the rain outside, the fire crackling low in the grate, the way his coat hung over the back of the chair, still damp from travel.
And him watching you.
Not casually.
Directly.
“You’re staring again,” you said softly, mostly because the silence had become unbearable.
“You’re nervous.”
“I am not.”
“You’re twisting that ring.”
You looked down.
Your fingers immediately stopped moving.
Traitorous hands.
A slow smile appeared on his face—not mocking this time. Gentler than that.
And somehow worse.
You busied yourself with rearranging papers that did not need rearranging. “You should probably return to your camp.”
“Probably.”
“But you haven’t.”
“No.”
Another silence stretched.
Your heart hammered harder with every passing second.
Then he said quietly:
“How much did you hear?”
You froze completely.
There it was.
No escape now.
You considered lying for approximately two seconds.
Then sighed.
“Enough.”
Paddy leaned back slightly in his chair, studying you with unreadable eyes. “That could mean many dangerous things.”
“I heard my father interrogating you.”
“That sounds like him.”
“And I heard your answers.”
The room went very still.
For once, Paddy Mayne looked uncertain.
Not frightened.
Not nervous exactly.
But careful.
Which might have been more frightening somehow.
“I see,” he said at last.
You folded your arms tightly. “You might have warned me he planned ambushes.”
“He didn’t warn me either.”
“You could’ve lied.”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
Simple answers.
You hated how much that affected you.
His gaze remained fixed on yours now, unwavering.
“I meant what I said,” he added quietly.
That was the problem.
You knew he did.
The fire snapped softly behind him.
Outside, rain battered against the windows like distant static.
You looked at him for a long moment before speaking.
“When we first met,” you murmured, “I thought you were unbearable,I thought you exaggerated everything.”
“I still do.”
“I thought my father admired you far too much.”
At that, something warmer entered his expression. “And now?”
You should say something clever.
Something composed.
Instead, honesty slipped out before you could stop it.
“Now I think he may not admire you enough.”
The look on his face after that nearly undid you entirely.
Gone was the easy arrogance.
Gone the practiced charm.
He looked almost startled.
As though those words mattered more than all the others.
Slowly, he stood.
The movement drew him closer until only the desk remained between you.
“You know,” he said softly, “for a woman who claims to dislike me, you’ve become remarkably terrible at convincing anyone.”
Your breath caught embarrassingly fast.
“You’re still overconfident.”
“And you’re avoiding the point.”
“I’m trying to.”
A low laugh escaped him then—quieter than usual, fond in a way that made your chest ache.
“That obvious?”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
Then, very gently:
“Should I ask you properly?”
You looked up at him.
At the man you once dismissed as reckless noise and impossible stories.
At the man who remembered how you took your tea, who sat through paperwork he hated because you were tired, who answered your father with terrifying sincerity.
And suddenly the answer felt inevitable.
“Yes,” you whispered.
Paddy smiled then.
Not the cocky grin everyone else saw.
Something rarer.
Something real.
For perhaps the first time since you had known him, Paddy Mayne seemed at a loss for words.
It was astonishing.
You almost wished someone else could witness it.
Almost.
The firelight caught against the sharp line of his jaw as he looked at you across the desk, still as though any sudden movement might shatter the moment entirely.
Then, softly:
“I had a speech prepared once.”
You blinked. “You?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe that for a second.”
A quiet laugh escaped him. “Fair.”
The tension loosened slightly after that, though not entirely. It still lingered in the air between you—warm and electric and impossible to ignore.
He rested one hand against the desk. “Would you prefer the disastrous speech or the honest version?”
“You have a disastrous speech?”
“I’m capable of terrible romance when properly motivated.”
“That I would pay to hear.”
His eyes crinkled faintly at the corners. “Cruel woman.”
“Honest woman.”
“That too.”
You smiled despite yourself. God, when had this become easy?
Months ago, every conversation with him felt like a battle you were determined to win. Now the silence between words carried its own strange comfort.
His expression softened slightly as though he’d reached the same realization.
Then he asked quietly:
“Would it trouble you enormously if I said I’ve been trying not to fall in love with you for months?”
Your breath caught.
There it was again—that infuriating honesty he only seemed to possess around you.
“You make that sound like a military failure.”
“It was.”
“I see.”
“A catastrophic one.”
You laughed softly before you could stop yourself.
The sound seemed to affect him more than it should have.
“I think,” you admitted carefully, “you were doomed from the moment you decided to argue with me for entertainment.”
“Oh no,” he said immediately. “That happened after.”
You narrowed your eyes. “After what?”
“After Cairo.”
You stared at him. “Our first meeting?”
“You called me ‘a walking international incident’ under your breath.”
“You heard that?”
“I hear everything.”
“That’s horrifying.”
“It was also the moment I became completely doomed.”
Heat rose annoyingly fast to your face.
“You are unbelievable.”
“So I’ve been told.”
A knock suddenly sounded against the office door.
Both of you jumped apart slightly despite the fact you had not actually touched.
“Enter,” you called, perhaps too quickly.
An orderly stepped halfway inside carrying another stack of folders before freezing immediately at the atmosphere in the room.
His eyes moved from you to Paddy.
Then back again.
“…Am I interrupting something?”
“Yes,” Paddy answered flatly.
“No,” you answered simultaneously.
The orderly looked terrified.
You sighed and took the folders from him before he fled the room with visible relief.
The moment the door shut again, Paddy muttered, “Coward.”
“You frightened him.”
“I was sitting.”
“You’re naturally alarming.”
“I’ve also been called handsome.”
“By deeply suspicious people.”
His grin returned instantly. “There she is.”
You rolled your eyes, but the fondness in his voice lingered warmly in the room afterward.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
Then quietly, almost carefully, he said:
“I meant what I asked before.”
You looked back at him.
“Ask me properly then,” you murmured.
Something in his face changed at that—became steadier somehow.
Less teasing.
More certain.
He walked slowly around the desk until he stood directly in front of you now, close enough that you could see the faint scar near his jaw where the cut had healed badly.
War had marked both of you in different ways.
But here, in the quiet warmth of your father’s office, he looked at you with startling gentleness.
“Would you allow me,” he asked softly, “to court you properly?”
Not flirt.
Not tease.
Not circle endlessly around whatever this had become.
Something real.
Your heart beat so hard it felt genuinely unfair.
And despite everything—the chaos, the war, your father undoubtedly knowing all along—you found yourself smiling.
“Yes,” you said.
The relief that crossed his face was almost enough to ruin you.
Almost.
Then his grin returned slowly. “Your father is going to be unbearable about this.”
You groaned immediately. “Oh God.”
“He’ll absolutely pretend he orchestrated the entire thing.”
“He probably believes he did.”
A thoughtful pause.
“…He may have.”
You buried your face briefly in your hands while Paddy laughed quietly above you.
And somewhere down the corridor, you could have sworn you heard Bernard Montgomery laughing too.
The next morning, headquarters returned to its usual chaos.
Telephones rang endlessly. Officers marched through corridors with stacks of reports.
And somewhere within that chaos, Paddy Mayne had apparently decided to lose his mind entirely.
Because he intended to formally ask your father for permission to court you.
You discovered this while attempting to drink tea in peace.
“You’re doing what?”
Paddy looked deeply offended by your tone. “I’m attempting respectability.”
“You stole a staff car through enemy checkpoints.”
“Yes, but politely.”
“That is not how crime works.”
He ignored this. “Your father deserves the courtesy of being asked.”
“You realize he already knows.”
“Probably.”
“He knew before we did.”
“Definitely.”
“Then why are you nervous?”
At that, he paused.
Actually paused.
Then muttered, “Because it’s your father.”
You stared at him in astonishment.
“You’re frightened of Montgomery?”
“I fear nothing in combat.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
A long-suffering look. “Your father once stared at me for a full minute until I confessed to something I hadn’t actually done.”
You laughed into your tea.
“Traitor,” he informed you.
“You deserve it.”
Still, despite the teasing, you noticed the faint tension beneath his calm that morning.
It touched you more than it should have.
Because this mattered to him.
Enough to make even Paddy Mayne uneasy. Which felt nearly impossible.
By afternoon, your father had finally returned to his office despite every doctor’s objection.
You found him seated behind his desk reviewing reports with infuriating energy restored.
“You should still be resting,” you informed him.
“And you should stop inheriting my stubbornness.”
“That’s rich coming from you.”
“Hm.” He continued reading. Far too innocently.
You narrowed your eyes immediately. “You’re in suspiciously good humor.”
“I often am.”
“No. This is worse.”
Your father looked up over the edge of the report, entirely composed. “Mayne’s coming to see me.”
“There it is.”
“He appears distressed.”
“He’s nervous.”
“I know.”
The horrifying thing was how pleased he sounded about it.
Before you could respond, a knock sounded sharply at the door.
Your father didn’t even glance up.
“Enter.”
Paddy stepped inside in full uniform, posture noticeably straighter than usual.
And to your absolute delight, he looked genuinely tense.
This was extraordinary.
Your father gestured calmly toward the chair opposite him. “Sit down, Mayne.”
“Yes, sir.”
You rose immediately. “I should go—”
“No,” both men said at once.
You froze. Then slowly sat back down.
Your father folded his hands together, expression unreadable.
Paddy cleared his throat once—a man clearly regretting every life choice that led him here.
Finally he began: “Sir, I wished to speak with you regarding your daughter.”
“I assumed so.”
“Yes, sir.”
Another pause.
You watched with growing disbelief as Paddy—reckless, fearless, impossible Paddy—looked momentarily uncertain.
Then he said steadily: “I care for her deeply.”
Your father nodded once. “I’m aware.”
“And I would like your permission to court her properly.”
Silence.
Then your father blinked.
“Mayne.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You’ve had my permission for months.”
You stared.
Paddy stared.
“What?” you both said simultaneously.
Montgomery looked almost offended by your confusion.
“Oh, honestly,” he said. “You two were painfully obvious.”
“That is deeply untrue,” you argued.
“You glared at him with emotional investment.”
“That means nothing.”
“It means everything.”
Paddy looked betrayed. “Sir, with respect, you could have warned me.”
“And deprive myself of this conversation?” Your father leaned back comfortably. “Certainly not.”
You pressed a hand to your forehead. “This is humiliating.”
“No,” Montgomery replied calmly. “Humiliating was watching Mayne attempt paperwork for your sake.”
“That was classified,” Paddy muttered.
Your father ignored him entirely.
“You think I didn’t notice?” he continued. “The man returned from operations and went directly to my daughter. He remembered her coffee habits. He voluntarily remained indoors.”
“That last one is unfair,” Paddy said.
“It was the strongest evidence.”
You could not decide which man was more unbearable.
Probably both equally.
Then your father’s expression shifted slightly—less amused now, more thoughtful. He looked directly at Paddy. “You make her laugh,” he said quietly.
The room softened at the edges after that.
Because beneath all the teasing, there was sincerity there. Relief too.
Your father had spent years surrounded by war, strategy, and men who rarely survived long enough for certainty.
Yet here he was looking at Paddy with unmistakable trust.
“And,” Montgomery added mildly, “she looks happier when you’re around.”
You glanced down quickly before either of them could see your face properly.
Paddy, unfortunately, noticed everything.
“I’ll do right by her, sir,” he said quietly.
Your father studied him for a long moment.
Then nodded once.
“I know you will.”
Simple words.
But they landed heavily.
The office fell quiet afterward.
Until, naturally, your father ruined the moment entirely by adding:
“Though if either of you become insufferably sentimental in my headquarters, I’ll separate you through military assignment.”
Paddy grinned immediately. “Understood, sir.”
You groaned aloud while both men looked entirely too pleased with themselves.
Later that evening, after your father had finally been bullied back toward rest by three officers and one furious nurse, the headquarters settled into unusual quiet.
You stood alone on the balcony outside your father’s office, watching mist curl over the dark grounds below.
War never truly slept.
Even now you could hear distant engines somewhere beyond the hills.
Behind you, the balcony door creaked softly. You didn’t turn immediately. “He’s impossible, you know.”
“I’m aware,” Paddy Mayne replied.
You glanced back to find him carrying two glasses and a bottle he had almost certainly acquired through illegal means.
“Where did you get that?”
“I stole it heroically.”
“Of course you did.”
He handed you a glass anyway before leaning beside you against the stone railing.
For a while neither of you spoke.
The night air felt cool against your skin, carrying rain and cigarette smoke and distant earth.
Then quietly, you asked: “Did you really know from Cairo?”
Paddy looked sideways at you.
“When?”
“That first meeting.”
A slow grin tugged briefly at his mouth. “Ah.”
“That means yes.”
“It means perhaps.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“So I’ve heard.”
You nudged his shoulder lightly with your own. “Tell me.”
For once, he didn’t answer immediately with some clever remark.
Instead he looked out across the darkened grounds, expression thoughtful now.
“You want the truth?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll mock me.”
“Almost certainly.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
You waited anyway.
Finally he sighed softly.
“The first thing I noticed,” he admitted, “was that you looked completely unimpressed by everyone.”
You blinked.
“That’s your great romantic beginning?”
“You were sitting in the corner with a notebook while three senior officers attempted to impress Montgomery.”
“That sounds dreadful already.”
“And you looked bored enough to set the room on fire.”
A reluctant smile tugged at your mouth.
He continued quietly:
“Most people around your father either feared him or worshipped him.” He glanced at you. “You argued with him over a map placement ten minutes after I arrived.”
“He was wrong.”
“He was mildly wrong.”
“He was entirely wrong.”
“There she is.”
You rolled your eyes, but he smiled faintly before going on.
“I remember thinking…” He paused. “Well. That’s dangerous.”
You looked at him carefully. “Dangerous?”
“You weren’t intimidated by anything in that room.” A small shrug. “Not rank. Not reputation. Certainly not me.”
“I was absolutely irritated by you.”
“Yes,” he said warmly. “That part was obvious.”
You laughed softly.
And God, the way he looked at you afterward—
As though he still couldn’t quite believe he’d earned that sound.
Then his expression shifted quieter.
“You know what actually ruined me?”
“What?”
“You listened.”
You frowned slightly. “To your stories?”
“No. To the men around me.”
The wind stirred softly around you both.
“You watched people carefully,” he said. “Drivers. orderlies. junior officers. You noticed when someone was frightened or exhausted before anyone else did.” His gaze dropped briefly to the glass in his hand. “Most headquarters don’t notice people like that.”
Something tight pulled unexpectedly in your chest.
“You noticed that?” you asked softly.
“I noticed everything about you.”
The honesty in his voice nearly stole your breath entirely.
You looked away first.
Beside you, Paddy smiled faintly to himself before adding:
“Though admittedly, the true disaster came later.”
“Oh?”
“The Sicily meeting.”
You groaned immediately. “No.”
“Yes.”
“You were impossible in Sicily.”
“You called me an ‘overdecorated catastrophe.’”
“You behaved like one.”
“I knew then.”
“Knew what?”
He looked directly at you now.
“That no matter how much you argued with me…” His voice lowered slightly. “You were watching for me every time I walked into a room.”
Your heartbeat betrayed you instantly.
Because the worst part was—
He was right.
You stared out into the darkness to hide yourself.
“That is an outrageous level of confidence.”
“It’s not confidence if it’s true.”
You shook your head, laughing quietly under your breath.
Then, after a long silence, you admitted:
“You frightened me a little at first.”
That surprised him.
“Me?”
“You seemed larger than life.” You searched for the words carefully. “Like one of those men war turns into stories before they’ve even left the room.”
Paddy became very still beside you.
“And I dislike stories,” you continued softly. “They usually leave people behind.”
The teasing disappeared from his face entirely then.
Slowly, carefully, he set his glass down on the railing.
Then he reached for your hand.
Not dramatic.
Not possessive.
Just warm fingers threading quietly through yours.
“I’m here,” he said simply.
Four words.
Nothing elaborate.
Yet somehow they felt heavier than every speech he could’ve made.
You looked at him then—really looked at him.
At the man beneath the stories.
And for the first time since the war began, the world felt strangely, impossibly still.
The war did not end all at once.
It ended slowly.
In fragments.
In exhausted smiles from soldiers returning home.
In quieter headquarters.
In maps finally taken down from walls.
And in the strange, almost disbelieving realization that one day there would be no more operations waiting for Paddy Mayne at dawn.
You remembered the exact moment it truly struck you.
The corridors were no longer frantic with urgency. Windows stood open for spring air instead of blackout curtains. Somewhere outside, men were laughing—not the sharp laughter of tension, but something freer.
Alive.
Your father, General Bernard Montgomery, stood near the office window reading reports with the expression of a man personally offended that peace had disrupted his schedule.
“You realize,” you told him, “most fathers would retire quietly after helping win a war.”
“Most fathers lack standards.”
“Most daughters aren’t forced to organize military paperwork before breakfast.”
“A tragedy.”
You smiled despite yourself.
He looked up then, studying you over the edge of the papers.
“You’re happier,” he observed.
You leaned against the desk lightly. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
There was no teasing in his voice now.
Only certainty.
Your father folded the report carefully before adding:
“He gives you peace.”
The simplicity of the statement caught you unexpectedly off guard.
Because it was true.
Not excitement.
Not chaos.
Peace.
Even with all his recklessness, all his impossible stories and infuriating confidence, Paddy somehow made the world quieter around you.
As though you no longer had to brace yourself every moment.
Before you could answer, footsteps sounded in the corridor outside.
And there he was.
Still slightly untidy.
Still carrying himself with that dangerous ease that made officers nervous and junior soldiers adore him.
But when his eyes found you, his entire expression changed instantly.
Warmth replacing sharpness so naturally it made your chest ache even now.
Paddy stepped into the office with a grin. “Am I interrupting?”
“Yes,” your father answered.
“No,” you answered immediately.
Paddy looked deeply pleased by this.
Traitor.
He crossed toward you slowly, handing over a folded piece of paper. “For you.”
You opened it carefully.
Inside was a train ticket.
Your brows lifted. “Scotland?”
“Eventually Ireland too,” he said. “If you’ll come.”
You looked up at him.
And suddenly every version of him existed at once in your mind:
The impossible soldier in Cairo.
The reckless officer your father admired far too much.
The man sorting paperwork because you were tired.
The voice outside your father’s office promising everything he could offer.
And now this.
A future.
Something beyond war.
Your father cleared his throat loudly behind you both.
“You know,” he said dryly, “there are regulations regarding excessive staring in military headquarters.”
Neither of you looked away from each other.
“I’ll risk it,” Paddy replied.
Montgomery sighed dramatically. “Hopeless.”
But when you glanced toward your father, there was unmistakable fondness in his expression.
Not just approval.
Relief.
As though after years spent surrounded by destruction, he was grateful something good had survived all of it.
Paddy held out his hand toward you then.
Simple.
Steady.
Certain.
And this time, you took it immediately.
—
Months later, long after the war had ended, you would stand beside him beneath a sky untouched by smoke or sirens.
There would be laughter instead of gunfire.
Letters instead of reports.
A home somewhere quiet where no one outranked anyone.
And sometimes, late in the evening, Paddy would still look at you with that same expression he wore in your father’s office—the one that always seemed slightly amazed you had chosen him too.
You would tease him for it endlessly.
Naturally.
And somewhere nearby, your father would absolutely claim credit for the entire relationship for the rest of his life.
the most essential part of a fandom are those people who immediately tell you to write it, draw it, make it when you share your ideas, you have no idea how many fanworks are born just because someone encouraged it
Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5 and AO3 link
Summary: Remmick is quite tired of feeling so alone, he's done turning people that will inevitably leave him and/or die on him, but what happens when he kills a random person and sees them the next day alive and well singing a song that reminds him of times long lost? What happens when he realizes maybe there's someone out there that could never stay dead for too long, someone who could maybe at last, fill the hole he has inside?
Basically Immortal!Reader meets a Remmick that will do anything to have them, as a songbird, as a partner, as someone who won't leave.
Remmick’s POV
“But from now on you'll feed on my blood.”
Remmick remembers very well feeding from you. How could he not? He’d been so desperate, finally arriving to this ghost town, starving, angry at the world, at the connections he’d made and had been broken, finally spotting the delicious sight of a random person just walking around by themselves in the dead of night.
A woman, a strange woman, Remmick would arrive later at the conclusion. A woman who he’d been so desperate to keep tasting he’d licked her dead neck when all the blood had been already taken, trying to take as much as he could that still remained cooling on the outside.
He hadn’t been sure at the time, but your blood had been special. Remmick had chalked it up to being too hungry and anything tasting especially good when starving. But the desperate strokes of his tongue on your neck afterwards… that had been animalistic, there had been something there that couldn’t make him stop.
Now knowing what Remmick knows about you… it's quite possible your blood is special in more ways than one. He means, the fact it replenishes itself already makes you the most interesting person he’s met in a while. The idea of tasting from you again… of being able to check if something had truly tasted different, better… well how could he possibly say no to that?
You'd said yes.
To say that Remmick was surprised would be an understatement. To be completely honest, he hadn’t gone with the most planned out idea when seeking you out to make a deal. He’d been too desperate, too eager, he wanted to see you and he didn’t want you to assume you’d had your fun together and it had already come to an end.
He was also a bit wary of seeing your reaction to killing that guard from your place of work. He didn’t regret it, hell he simply didn’t care. That man had been in his way and he’d done what he had to to be able to witness you singing, he wouldn’t apologise for doing what he had to to get to hear your voice.
Okay maybe he was a bit defensive, you’d already bonded over being seen as monsters, maybe he didn’t want that to evaporate now because of one measly kill and have you look at him like that too. Maybe he regretted killing someone who could have been close to you, considering you worked together.
Lucky for him, you didn’t seem to fully mind who the victim was, just upset it had happened, but understanding all the same. You even found a way to keep it from happening again! While understanding his necessity for blood. You hadn’t pleaded with him to stop as if it was a pastime Remmick enjoyed but had the option to stop doing, no, you’d simply found a, dare he say, heroic way to stop him from feeding from anyone else for now.
You really were a box of surprises, and he couldn’t wait to unwrap you completely.
Still, the idea of feeding from you again… well suffice to say it already got him drooling a bit again, something he quickly swiped with his hand to keep him from making a mess in front of you.
You two were, what was the phrase he’d desperately used then had to confidently sell? ‘Hanging out.’ It was night of course, the sun having been down enough Remmick had quickly come back to your house, maybe he’d once again been too eager and appeared, to your alarm, smoking a bit. Still, it was dark enough now, he hadn’t even attempted to persuade you to let him into your house yet, figuring trust would come once you got to know each other a bit better.
It was unlike him to be so patient lately, but what can he say? You make him want to put in the effort again.
Being a vampire was a lot like being a conman. You had to be suave, you had to be smooth, you had to sell this image of yourself that promised no harm, while on the inside salivating at the idea of harm worse than the other person could ever imagine. You had to put in the effort basically.
It was fun. Seeing what strategy would work with who. The poor lonely soul, the hurt vulnerable victim, the desperate fighter who needed another chance to help, the innocuous gentleman who fancied coming in. It all came natural to Remmick at this point. If he needed a new angle he could just as well see into the many lives of the many connections he’d made and pick a new personality to show off.
He wasn’t thinking about them right now.
Still, with you it was different. He didn’t want you to associate him with a lie, a persona he’d put up. He, for once, wanted someone to get to know the real him, the human way. It would be easier if he could turn you, but without that option available, this would have to do.
So here you both were, walking silently side by side to the place he’d chosen for this “hanging out.”
At first he’d been surprised you said yes. He figured he’d had to come back a few nights at least to convince you, maybe go back on his word to try the honest way and drop the ’charming’ side a bit and go more manipulative to remind you that no one else would understand you like him. But you’d said yes!
It certainly had to help that you weren’t scared of him, knowing nothing he could do to you would be permanent, why not hang around with the local vampire? Though Remmick was used to getting his way because of that underlying fear, the implication that if he didn’t get his way something bad could happen, and it appeared you were aware of that, if not fearful for yourself, for the people around you.
The silence didn’t seem to be bothering you, though you were looking around a bit as if trying to figure out where exactly this vampire was taking you. Remmick wasn’t bothered by the silence either, he’d get you to talk soon enough.
You finally made it to the park.
Your POV
You’d had a day to think about your deal, and already you were regretting it.
It didn’t help Remmick kept glancing at you with a victorious grin on his face, like he couldn’t quite believe you were there following him to an unknown location in the dark, but still so pleased every time he checked you were still there.
You couldn’t quite believe you were here either. You’d spend most of the day (still not returning to work just yet) thinking of excuses and outright negative responses to get out of this deal. Then Elliot’s torn body would flash in your mind and well, you’d go back to choosing an outfit you wouldn’t mind staining and dying in later that night.
You’re surprised Remmick seems to genuinely want to hang out, the way he’s been basically bouncing around when walking, trying to get faster to the destination, while still glancing back to make sure you’re there… it reminds you of a too eager teen on a first date.
Not that this was a date, well a date with death totally, but nothing more, nothing less.
Remmick finally stops some place ahead of you, having entered a park and going left to a secluded corner. You shut down the idea of walking faster or even running to reach him, he can wait. You walk at a leisure pace, seeing his trembling back all the while, waiting for you to finally get there. He glances back as if he can’t help himself and grins amusedly at seeing you walking slowly to him.
“We made it sweetheart, and look! All intact like I left it.” Remmick breaks the silence, anticipation clear in his voice at you seeing whatever he has planned.
You finally reach him and stand next to him, the coldness emanating from him almost making you shiver. His musk, a mix of iron and manliness, with a hint of something ancient and powerful, like the moment you enter an old warehouse and you know things have happened here you'll never be able to comprehend, fills your nostrils and you resist the urge to exhale strongly trying to get it off. The last thing you need right now is finding something attractive about this vampire.
You follow his expectant gaze to the floor where a cozy looking blanket spreads out under a normal, if a bit scary considering the circumstances, basket. There’s also four unlit tall candles, each over a corner of the blanket. You eye this would-be-normal-if-a-bit-cheesy array with some apprehension.
…Is this what you think it is?
“Well? Don’t just stand there staring like it's a bomb about to go off.” Remmick’s voice calls out, still amused if a bit softer around the edges. “Choose a spot and sit down.”
You could have done a lot of things in that moment, laugh at the idea of a creature of the night planning a picnic, mock him for his candle choices, hell you could have tried to run away from this fucked up, silly scenario.
Instead you sat down.
This was weird, it felt like what you'd assume it felt like when parents would force their children to spend time around another child to force them to be friends. You were just sitting on this comfortable blanket on the ground, trying not to get your garments dirty while this non-human stared at you from above while lighting candles, a dark glinting in his eyes.
“Well? Are you gonna stare all night or are you gonna sit down too?”
Remmick huffs a laugh and sits opposite you. The silence from the walk returns tenfold. This time it is awkward, though Remmick is just staring at you as if fixated on what you'll do to fix it. He doesn't seem to know what else to do but stare at you, you figure you'll start with the question that's been plaguing your mind since last night.
“What're you expecting out of tonight?”
“To be truly honest…” Remmick smiles shamefully. “I wasn't even expecting you to say yes.”
You try not to laugh but a smile still peeks through. He looks proud of having caused that. “So what, I made you have to plan a picnic in a frenzy by just being polite?”
At this, Remmick grows serious “Nothing ‘just polite’ about it.” He carries on explaining at your confused expression. “This trust you've decided to place in me, this… chance, to prove myself as more than just a monster, it's more than just politeness, it's a gift, one I don't intend to throw away or hold as anything but special.”
You weren't sure how to feel, something about the devotion with which he talked about you, about what you've done for him so far, it causes a blush to spread across your cheeks. He stares at it amazed, like he can't believe he pulled this reaction from you, though you also notice his nostrils flaring, like he can't help but smell something delicious right now and wait a darn minute.
Could he be smelling your blood better by it rising to your face like that? You can't help but blush harder at the idea in embarrassment that doesn't quite make sense. Should you always be ashamed now of having blood and common human responses around this creature? Still your body doesn't care for logic, something awkward is happening and while others might be more frightened than embarrassed, you know you're in no more danger than what you've signed up for, you blush hard and try to look down to not notice his reaction.
Still you can't help yourself, you glance up for a second (or two) and…
Woah.
His eyes are red.
There's surely a more poetic way to describe it, the glowing crimson emanating from the darkness of his eyes, something about a light in the dark, a non-human response but a physical response nonetheless that speaks more than words can say about his state right now.
His eyes are now a pool of darkness with one shining beacon in the pupils beckoning you closer. They would be telling you it's safe out here if not for the colour which you've never seen before in someone's eyes. At first you think it's a trick of the light, the candles in the dark somehow reflecting red for a second, but it quickly dawns on you this is lasting more than a second. For some reason you can't look away, it's not terror gripping you, it's not the submission at the bar either, this is just pure amazement.
You're so focused on his eyes it's impossible not to note that same amazement being shared by Remmick who's still staring at you like you've done something incredible, something daring, something mesmerizing.
He's smelling your blood.
And you're looking deep into his eyes.
The moment continues for a beat, enough for the blush to die down and his eyes to turn back to, for lack of a better word, ‘normal.’
You continue staring at his eyes, and he lifts his sight enough to stare at yours as well. You're trapped for a second, a slight gasp leaving you at the contact. Remmick seems to want to follow it, like it thrilled him to hear it and he refuses to let it get away, but there's nothing he can do but keep staring.
You should clear your throat, the louder, harsher sound breaking this tension that has spread across the park. You should look away first, let him know this was a weak moment but you're no weak woman and you're ready to let the moment pass. You should definitely get that soft wonder in his scarlet eyes out of your mind.
You do nothing. You just keep staring. There's something about staring at another ‘person’ for a while that you've never allowed yourself before. Your parents didn't like you staring at others less you be noticed back, and that had always stuck with you into adulthood. It was strange in a way, you weren't doing anything and yet, there was something quite intimate in staring and letting yourself be stared back.
It wasn't just that he was handsome, because damn him he very much was, he was strange in a way you found fascinating. He was an open book in some ways, in his desperation, his amazement, his need to have you look at him back, most of all the hunger that claims him clear as day. But in other ways, he was just so goddamned strange in that you know nothing about the real him.
He was a too charming man with a desperation streak to him. You can't forget how he was that first night though. That was probably the most honest he'd truly been, more than on that rooftop and certainly more than whatever he had planned for tonight. He'd hurt you, cause he could, cause he wanted to, he'd needed to feed but he'd also just wanted to break something on his hands and watch it be torn apart. He'd spotted you and had his way, he'd played with his food then fed until you'd probably resembled one of those ropes the neighbour's dog chewed on furiously.
In some ways he was exactly the same as his eyes. A dark, dark ‘man’ with some inhuman light inside. You should really not want to know more and yet you were fascinated. Which drew you to finally break the moment, realizing Remmick was more content with never breaking it himself.
“You said you had stories for me.” You whispered softly, trying not to abruptly cut what had been a too long moment.
Remmick blinked a few times, as if trying to wake up from a particular deep sleep. Then slowly smiled, a bit more of a fake smile than he probably wanted, but the need in his eyes to get your focus on him was still there. “Aye I do darling, aye I do.”
And so you spent the next hour listening to the no-man in front of you paint you beautiful pictures, of survival, of strength, of watching time pass by and watching humans remain the same. It was surely interesting if a bit too majestic for your taste, you’d been expecting more personal stories, things he’d endured and had learned from.
Instead it seemed he wanted to talk about his opinions on people, on the world at large, in a way he was probably one of the most qualified to talk about it, in others he was surely the last ‘person’ who should be talking at all.
You listened all the same, inspiration actually striking you a bit, damn him for being right, but mostly, you felt less alone, just like he’d said. The thing about his stories not being as personal as they could be, they were easy to relate to. You may not need to hide the way he does in the wee hours of the morning, you may not have the physical attributes or thirst for blood that out him as a vampire.
You still watch humanity more than you can say. You still hide a huge part of yourself in the hope for no more excessive pain. You still understand the immortality aspect and how tiring it truly is. At times he seems to forget parts of the stories, like all the knowledge just can’t fit inside his head either, you feel a certain kinship there.
You start nibbling on the small sandwiches he brought with him in the basket during the second story. You can’t help it, he’d arrived so early you hadn’t had time for dinner, something he’d certainly accounted for if the amount of sandwiches said anything. You notice he ate nothing, interrupting a story to ask him about it, to which he just chuckled at.
“I think I’ll have enough of my fill when you’re done honey.”
Right.
You were dying tonight.
Somehow in all the staring and eating and listening you’d forgotten yourself. As if he could sense the dread rising in you he quickly took one of your hands on his. This might be the first time you’d touched since that violent night. You tried not to shiver at the coldness emanating from his hand, he didn’t hide the shudder that spread through him at touching yours though.
“You can always back out of your condition darling, there’s no shame in that.” He whispered quietly, his voice rough from all the telling he’d been doing. You tried not to shiver at that too but this time you failed, he tracked the movement with dark eyes.
“No.” Your voice cut through the tension rising back up. “In fact,” You took a deep breath bracing yourself then continued. “I think it’s time we get to it, I’ve heard enough for tonight and I’ve definitely had my fill of food so, let’s get to it.”
He eyed you for a second too long, trying to read you once again. “If you’re sure…”
“I am.”
You’re still holding hands. You quickly swipe yours away, not seeing him clench his trying to keep you there a beat too late. You use both hands to hold your hair on one side so your neck is fully free on the other. You turned towards the side you’re holding your hair, your neck bulging out a little at the motion. You risk a glance and confirm your theory.
His eyes are red again.
He cautiously gets closer to you, as if expecting you to scream bloody murder any second now. You're still sitting but he's now kneeling in front of you, mouth higher than your neck, he leans in a bit too far, a bit too eager, and his nose touches your jaw. He makes a noise between a growl and a whimper, both scary and weak, like a wounded animal stuck in a corner, still willing to give it his all.
He's smelling you now, you can feel the deep inhale he's trying to conceal. His eyes are closed, his nose is slowly moving more toward your neck and he's biting his lip to avoid any more noises coming out when he finally is the one to break the silence.
“You need to tell me now if you regret this.” He whispers into your flesh. “Because I'm letting you know now, once I've started it’s going to be very difficult for me to stop sweetheart.”
You both feel your pulse jump in your throat at that, what exactly your feeling you hope he assumes is fear. Doesn't stop him from groaning at feeling so up close. That's when you notice the wet sensation dripping from your neck, you remember a similar sensation last time this happened.
You open your eyes, when did you close them? And see it, drool, thick lengthy drool coming out of the vampire’s mouth, more resembling a cartoon wolf than a bat at this moment. Remmick doesn't seem to notice it or at least doesn't seem to be able to do nothing about it for he's just letting it drip drip drip down your body, wetting your shirt along the way. Now that it matters, it'll be covered in blood soon enough.
“Just do it.” You whisper harshly, uncomfortable with how much this is making you feel, and exactly what it is you're feeling.
It's safe to say you haven't been aroused by a man in a long time. You really weren't expecting this.
Remmick nods like he imagined your response, mutters more to himself than you “here I go.” And clamps his mouth over your neck, this time not biting out a chunk and immediately spitting it out quickly going back toward your neck, letting it spray your jaw and face and shoulder, while you quickly pass out, no.
No, this time there's no piece of you bitten and chewed out. This time, you would even describe him as gentle.
Remmick quickly pierces your skin with his fangs, his teeth growing while gnawing on your skin, you feel the length of them, the longer and sharper and more brutal they're becoming all while laying territory on your neck. The pain comes sharply, quickly, but you've built quite a tolerance over your existence, it's not that bad if anything well,
It makes you feel alive.
He pulls his teeth out slowly, trying to make it as less impactful as possible while trying to let his lips as close by as possible for when the blood starts gushing out. Not wanting a single drop to go to waste.
You feel the moment his tongue touches your blood for he shudders through it while groaning once again. The pain haven't done nothing to quell your arousal, if anything only fuelling it responds strongly to the noise Remmick makes.
He's sucking now, swallowing strongly, loudly, greedily. He doesn't seem to be able to stop to take a breath, much less stop to check on you. His warning was no lie, he genuinely can't seem to stop.
The pain is going away now, as is your clear read on the situation. You're dizzy, sight coming in and out while you sway in place. Remmick’s holding you as much as he can, you feel his claws (when did they come out?) pinching you, also hurting you lightly enough you suddenly moan from both the pain and overstimulation. Remmick freezes for a second, then as if not by choice goes back to swallowing.
You're lightheaded, you're all over the place, you suddenly question how he's supposed to bring you home after this without anyone noticing. So nervous over dying again, you really hadn't made the necessary planning beforehand.
You're too tired to think, you abandon that train of thought quickly going back to Remmick's tongue flicking, swiping longingly on your neck while he breathes for the first time in a bit, then goes back to sucking while groaning once again, this time more desperate, this time more like he can't get enough but knows there's no much left on the tank still.
With the pressure of Remmick's claws on you, going from your shoulders to your waist to anywhere he can reach that helps his newfound angle at your throat, you finally slip away.
Please keep interacting with this post because when I come to tumblr to procrastinate, this shows up again in my notifications and guilts me into writing again
Sooo if I were to write another James Cook story... this one about a ten year anniversary reunion at Roundview...
It would be an AU in that, the end of series 4 didn't happen, Rise didn't exactly happen tho I'll probably be very inspired by it for Cook's future
The question is, would it be more interesting to write a Nerdy!Reader in school who Cook never paid attention to but now does because Reader got a confidence glow up, maybe even he used to make fun of her slightly tho not harsh bullying and now has to apologize for it
OR Ex-girlfriend!Reader who has a past with Cook and never saw each other after breaking up and are now reuniting, think about the angst potential, the abandonment issues, the trust issues of if they'll break each other's hearts again...
AND IT'S DONE, so this is actually like double the length of the other two parts combined soooooo oops? HOPE YOU ENJOY please please please let me know what you thought of it.
Summary: The bet was placed, will it even matter in the end who wins?
Cook's POV
“I'm not letting you go so easily, Cook.”
The words rang in Cook's head. It was something he'd always wanted to hear, someone willing to not leave. But why did it have to come from someone that deserved so much better than him?
Right now, he couldn't even focus on how good you looked right now. Right now you were by the kitchen serving yourself a drink, clearly expecting alcohol to make the current situation easier to endure.
He doesn't know if you've ever even had alcohol before, he's never seen you drink. He's bothered there's so much he still doesn't know about you beyond studying together.
“I'm not letting you go so easily, Cook.”
Fuck. Why'd you have to go and say something like that, do something as crazy as this? Is this how people felt being around him? Feeling like someone swept the carpet underneath their feet by his crazy actions? He wasn't sure he liked it.
Don't get him wrong, he likes seeing this side of you. This hot, stubborn, determined side who looks like it'd do anything to keep him around. But there was danger too in everything you had done tonight, from the too small outfit where he could see more skin he wanted the rest of the world not to see, to the idea of you staying all night here, with the rest of the usual scum he hung around with.
This wasn't your scene, and he was worried about you, more than he cared to admit.
He stood still, looking at you, when he realised what he was doing. He quickly shook his head as if trying to shake his thoughts out. He was Cook damn it, he didn't stand there looking out for some nerdy girl, he was the life of the party.
Determined and confident, he decreed to himself that nothing, no amount of worry pity he felt for you right now would make him go to you.
Casting one last look your way, he made his way back to the center of the living room. Where he started jumping around, dancing with all the pent up energy you'd just given him. He tried to forget about your words, about you, for now, he'd win this bet and then he'd never have to see you again.
It was better for everyone this way.
Your POV
You were carefully serving yourself some beer into a plastic cup when you felt colder all of a sudden. You looked around a bit confused when you saw Cook again, doing what he does best, be the loud center of attention.
You were a bit intimidated, you were in his natural habitat basically. How the hell were you meant to outlast him in a place like this with your nerdy self?
You looked down in defeat and saw your outfit again. You weren't really looking like yourself tonight, all dolled up and um, less covered than usual. Maybe you didn't have to be yourself tonight. Maybe channeling Cook wasn't just for the bet idea, maybe channeling him tonight was means for survival.
With a newfound rigor and air of victory you took a sip of your beer, trying your best not to grimace at the taste.
You heard a laughter behind you and turned around.
“Yeah, that's the face one should make at this shitty beer. I keep telling Josh to not buy the cheapest one, I can only apologise.”
The guy talking to you is handsome, that's the only way to really describe him. He's a tall man with brown swept hair that looks too casual to be anything but and green shining eyes that are right now looking amusedly at you.
“So you're complicit in what just happened to me.” You joke back. “I would accept the apology a lot faster if it came with a better drink.”
He laughs again, louder this time and you see his neck tilting back. There's something warm about nailing a social interaction you weren't prepared for. You smiled back brightly. Unaware of the eyes now on you.
“Say no more, here you can have mine, I just made it so no cooties.” He teases while holding out a drink, you go to take it but another hand quickly grabs it before you can.
“Hey cheers mate.” James Cook says before downing the drink.
What the hell.
The other man looks perplexed for a second, darting his eyes between you and Cook as if trying to find an explanation for what just happened. You can't really give him back so you just shrug. Cook just looks at him with a sharp grin.
Green eyes quickly switches back to the casual posture from before, though still with some confusion in his eyes and tone he replies. “Um, no problem man.” He turns to you. “I'll just make you another one.”
“That won't be necessary mate, she's busy, come on babe.” Cool cuts in while grabbing your hand and dragging you to the dance floor/living room.. You try to throw a final look at the kind man from the kitchen, maybe share in his bewilderment one more time, but Cook's too fast and your mind quickly strays.
Babe!?
You barely accept that you just heard him call you that before he's already singing along to whatever song is playing and swinging your arms around. Now holding both of your hands. You stand still in place looking at him half confused, half irritated. Though you notice the heat quickly rising to your cheeks at the close proximity and petname combo.
“What the hell was that?” You demand.
He seems to think for a second as if not even he knows why he did that. Before his usual nonchalant smirk falls on his face.
“What?” Cook casually asks shrugging. “Figured I'd saved you from that interaction, you're welcome.” He grins at you.
“Save me?” You repeat confused. “I didn't need saving, he was just being nice.”
His grin quickly falls at that, a stubborn frown replacing it. “I'm sure he was, and what reason did he have for that huh?” At your lack of response (you're still so confused) he adds. “Not to mention you were just gonna drink that without having seen if he put anything in it were you?”
He's berating you.
He does have a point thou- wait a second.
“So your solution was to neck the possibly spiked drink?” You question both alarmed and irritated at his behavior in the kitchen and now.
He seems caught for a second, before he once again shrugs. “Better me than you sweetheart.”
Just ignoring that now you focus on the last word reminding you of your next line of questioning.
“And what's up with the pet names? Usually they just sound like your usual condescending sarcastic ‘jokes’ but babe? Seriously?”
His eyes look back to the kitchen for a second before placing them back on you. “I know guys like him love, better he thinks you're unavailable.”
Your blush comes back at the implications. He just made this guy assume you're dating Cook. He just implied that guy wanted to… with you.
What?
“Guys like him?” You repeat hoping for an explanation on something that actually makes sense.
“You deserve someone better.” Cook starts explaining, his eyes softening when looking back at you and seeing the confusion in your eyes. “Not a sleazy guy, someone who comes to these parties and stays all night and skips school the next day to go to some more.”
“Cook-”
“Someone who won't even graduate.” He continues, ignoring you. “A mess that will just drag you down to his level.” There's a faraway look in his eyes now like he's not even seeing you but this awful future he's concocting. “Who will hurt you, not give you enough because he isn't enough.” He snaps out of it and looks at you deadly serious with suspiciously shining eyes. “Someone who is utter shit.”
“James…” Your voice fades out. Hearing what he is and isn't saying. Confused still but also so sad for the man in front of you.
Cook closes his eyes after you utter his name. He opens them again and they come back clearer. He tries to smile but it's the fakest smallest smile you've seen, it doesn't fit anything you know of Cook.
“Don't act like you don't know it, smart girl.”
A beat passed. You feel useless, all the words you want to say to him, all the reassurance you want to give him overwhelms you and a tiny voice in the back of your head betrays you by asking you, is he right?
“Now if you'll excuse me, I have a bet to win.”
You for the second time watch him walk away from you, hating yourself for not having the bravery or words to tell him how much he's come to mean to you.
.
.
.
.
.
No.
This won't stand.
First of all, you are winning this bet.
Second, this is the last time you let James Cook walk away from you.
You may not have a plan yet, but that's very soon changing. You go to sit down at a nearby chair and let your mind do its thing.
Overthink like crazy.
You strategize different ways to convince him, to show him, to love him so loudly and so rightly he has no option but to take a chance on you. It goes from the most sensible to the most chaotic, from your way to Cook's way.
The problem is the beginning. He'll just keep ignoring you, walking away, he won't even give you the chance and one moment of being flustered and overwhelmed by him and he'll be gone.
You're so busy shutting down every plan that comes your way you don't notice the figure saddling up next to you.
“So…your boyfriend is pretty protective eh?”
Green eyes makes you jump in your seat.
You look at him, all your thoughts and plans and overwhelming feelings screeching to a halt too fast for you to make much sense of the sentence. One thing stands out.
“I don't have a boyfriend”
The guy, now sitting down next to you, eyes you interestedly. “Oh? Let me rephrase then; so… your friend is pretty jealous eh?”
You're a bit annoyed you have to be social when you're so close to a plan when you catch up to the conversation.
You can't help but giggle at the idea he's painting.
“Jealous? James Cook?” Because of me?
The man raises his eyebrows at you “You usually have guy friends call you babe and pull you from meeting new guys that are interested in you?”
Did he just-?
You stuttered while trying to respond while he watches amusedly. You clear your throat then finally find something to say. “Well you certainly don't beat around the bush do you?”
It’s weak, but he laughs. “No, not really.”
You squint your eyes at him. “What's your deal?”
He laughs again, you're beginning to get a little annoyed at this. “I'm Mike, my roommate Josh throws parties like this all the time and you're the first person I see who looks as out of place as me at one.” He smiles at you. “And it doesn't hurt that you're very pretty.”
He's flirting with you!
Oh my god you're getting flirted with. Like genuinely.
Wait, you had strategies to analyze!
You look at him, ready to turn him down, when your overpowered brain finally connects some pretty clear dots.
This man, Mike, was flirting with you in the kitchen.
He was interrupted by Cook pretending to be your boyfriend.
Mike thinks that Cook was jealous.
Because Cook was jealous.
Cook will refuse to talk to you if you just go up to him.
Ergo, you need to make Cook come to you.
Mike is the beginning of your plan.
You're a freaking genius.
All you have to do is convince this man to help you and you're golden…
How the hell are you supposed to convince him!?
You take a deep breath, worriedly realize you've been quiet for a while and look up again at Mike. Who is clearly chill with watching amusedly at you thinking so hard after he called you pretty. Prick.
“I need your help.” You want so badly to smack yourself in the head for that being the phrase you start with.
Mike raises his eyebrows again, questioning you immediately. “Wow you sure don't beat around the bush huh?”
“I don't have time for your charming funny lines Mike.” You hurriedly reply.
Then take another breath because you clearly need to chill.
“Sorry, I just-” You sweep your gaze around the room, eyes quickly finding Cook again, who's back to dancing with some beautiful girls, too far away to see you in the corner sitting with Mike. “You ever find someone who challenges your way of viewing life so hard you should hate them a little bit? But you can't help but love them for having given you this insight into what an actual enjoyable life could be?”
Mike eyes you questioning then looks at where you're looking, then back at your now clenched fists. Understanding quickly fills his eyes. “Oooh, your friend isn't the only jealous one is he?”
“No, he isn't.” You admit to another person, finally. “But he is the one whose jealousy leads to him doing impulsive things that contradict his original plans.”
“Huh?”
“He won't talk to me.” You explain, hurt seeping into your tone. “He's decided for both of us that he's not good enough so he won't even try.” You look back at Mike, determination replacing the pained tone. “But if I can get him to admit his feelings, if I can get him to stop ignoring what's going on between us, I can show him the truth.”
Invested and seemingly moved, Mike urges you. “And what is the truth?”
You look back at Cook. “That I love him, for who he is, and he's better than what people including him say he is.”
“Wow.” Mike huffs a breath. “I really wasn't expecting this tonight.”
You snort, tension breaking. You shyly look back at him. “Yeah sorry, this is part of the reason I don't come to parties, I'm too intense for them.”
Mike laughs again. “Hey no apologies necessary, it's the most entertainment I've had at a party that didn't result in me having to clean up gross stuff or kicking people out of my room.”
You both laugh together at that.
Right at the time the song currently playing ends and there's enough silence for your joined laughter to reach someone else's ears.
“So if I'm understanding correctly.” Mike starts. “The way I can help you with your situation is to make the guy you yourself have called impulsive when jealous, and who sidenote I've definitely seen beat up dudes at other parties before, jealous enough he'll be provoked into breaking us up?
“When you say it like that it sounds dangerously stupid.”
Mike laughs while raising his arms. “Hey if the shoe fits…”
“What can I offer to convince you?” You ask, hoping the desperation in your voice isn't too obvious. You've already been vulnerable enough with this kind stranger tonight.
Mike scratches his chin while staring into the ceiling. “I don't really want anything from you now that I know you're into some other bloke but, now that I think about it, if I get punched I can definitely use it as a reason to not have any more parties at our house anymore…”
You stared amazed at Mike. “You're incredible you know?”
He shrugs, suddenly a bit shy. “You just happened to trigger my romantic side okay? Don't read too much into it.”
You kiss him on the cheek. Hoping your gratitude will come through in the gesture.
Mike blushes then looks away “Well with you doing things like that we're not gonna need much to get the plan started. He already looks like he wants to kill me at least.”
“Huh?”
You start turning to look when Mike grabs your chin, impeding you from seeing what he just saw. Indignant, you open your mouth when he stops you by whispering in your ear.
“Don't look now, but he's switching between staring daggers at me and staring at you like a hurt puppy.”
Your heart skips a beat.
This could actually work. Or really hurt Mike.
“What do we do now?” You whisper back. His face still too close to yours, making you blush at the intimacy.
You see movement out of the corner of your eyes.
Mike distracts you from turning once again but replying. “Well this of course.”
Then he kisses you.
You are kind of a prude. You aren't one to have kissed much. Kissing someone still makes you blush intensely. Still, you're experienced and knowledgeable enough to know you're supposed to be feeling more right now.
You feel plenty physically. Your mouth quickly responding once your brain reactivates. Moving along and kissing back is sure a sensation on the mouth.
But your chest couldn't feel emptier right now.
He's just starting to slip his tongue into your mouth and you're starting to think this is too much when he stops and says loudly. “Follow me.”
You scurry to follow Mike and before you can comprehend much, with your mouth still buzzing, you arrive at the upstairs bathroom. You're about to question what to do now when he shushes you.
He stands next to the door while pushing you further into the back of the bathroom. You hit the wall next to the shower when you start to hear hurried footsteps. Your eyes widened look toward Mike who's smirking like everything is going exactly as expected.
The door opens with a bang. James Cook stands on the other side, panicked and out of breath, he enters.
Quietly, Mike steps outside, looking pretty satisfied with himself. He closes the door behind him.
All you can hear is Cook breathing heavily and the bass of the music thumping on the walls. You feel like a deer caught by headlights, you stare guiltily at how his face that went white from the panic starts reddening with anger.
This is the hard part of the plan.
“What. The fuck. Just happened.” Cook’s clipped tone should scare you. It should make you want to run and hide, but all you want is to place your fingers on his furrowed brow and caress till he stops looking so angry.
“I tricked you.” Your shaky voice replies.
“What?”
“I needed to prove something.”
“What?”
“You like me.”
He stills. His anger seems to evaporate and panic sets in. He seems ready to deny it so you keep going.
“And I like you too.”
Silence.
He seems unable to comprehend what you just said. He's staring at you afraid, like somehow you hold everything you need to destroy him. You see fear and hope fight for dominance in his eyes.
“In fact I'm pretty sure I'm in love with you.”
Cook looks destroyed. That's the only word for it.
Then, you watch sadly but not surprised how he snaps back into his persona. He grins at you. Prepared to make a joke out of this, out of you.
You raise a hand to stop him. “Don't.” You look him in the eyes. “Don't be a coward now.”
He takes a step back in shock. You see his expression crumble once again. He looks hurt, he looks afraid, in fact you've never seen him so terrified. But he stopped what he was going to say.
This is your moment.
“I'm smarter than you, correct?” You ask plainly, looking at him expectantly.
Confused and still scared, Cook nods.
“Good. So it won't come as a surprise that you are wrong and I am right when it comes to most matters.”
“What're you-”
“Most matters usually referring to things like Literature, Shakespeare, the themes and motifs of classical plays, though you are good once you actually read the plays at that last one, usually you see things I've also noticed-”
“Princess-”
“But today the matter I am referring to is the one of one James Cook.” You see him stop his frustrated interruptions.
“You see you think James Cook is shit, you think he has no future, and most incorrectly you think he's not good enough for me.” You state the cruel facts.
“That's the conclusion you've come to, now onto my conclusion.” You take a deep breath, this is it. “James Cook; he's annoying, he's frustrating and he's rude. He jokes too much and laughs too loud and thinks the world owes him more than it does. He pushes my buttons by just breathing and enjoys it the way a child enjoys burning ants with a magnifying glass, simplistic and cruel.” You watch his face fall as he looks down in shame.
“He's also the person who has taught me the most in this world.”
His head snaps back. Confusedly he looks at you.
“My life was every day the same, before James Cook, I'd wake up, go to school, do small talk, study, study, study, and sleep. I thought if I could control everything enough, do everything as right as possible, I would have a good life some day. Losing sight of the fact that my life was passing by and I was enjoying nothing.
Then came these study sessions, where I learned what fun actually was. Where I learned what enjoying one's time could be. Where I learned that not everything must be the strict schedule I'd built for myself. If you have nothing good in the present, what's the point of building a future?
And you are good James, you're very good. You live life with everything you've got you love with your whole chest, you keep going in spite of the bad hand you were dealt and the shitty people that have hurt you.”
I've seen you when you try, you're not dumb either. And most importantly, you care. You care so much it destroys you and makes you hide away, but I've seen you when you care and it's when you're most beautiful.
So yeah you can be mean, childish, a prick. Who isn't sometimes? You're also full of light and beauty and caring.”
You finish your monologue and take a deep breath, you're pretty fucking embarrassed at being so vulnerable. You risk a glance at Cook and he seems as broken as you feel.
“So yeah, James Cook is good enough for me, he's actually amazing for me, and there's nothing you can use to debate with me that will change that.”
“You don't know all the things I've done princess.” Cook whispers hoarsely.
“I don't love you in spite of the bad stuff James, how can I get you to see-” Your voice breaks, the tears that you've been holding back this whole time crawl back with a vengeance.
“Why do you do that then?” He questions then explains. “Call me James. Like I can be something better than just Cook.”
“I don't think being Cook is bad.” You start delicately. “I actually like when you're Cook and wild and unpredictable. I just like James too, the one who loves his little brother, who tries to listen intensely to my summary of Hamlet.” You smile at him. “The one who's so scared of hurting me he would deny himself being with the person he likes.”
“I don't like you.”
Pain. Immediately you feel hurt all over your chest.
You start stuttering, trying to find what to say that will fix this huge glaring error in your thinking. When he steps forward. Clutches your cheek in his hand like something precious he's worried will slip away.
And kisses you.
Now you feel something in your chest. Warmth blooms in, if fireworks could exist inside the human body you'd be certain this would be the evidence to prove it.
Your mouth doesn't start moving in time, too stunned to do much of anything but experience the party in your chest, when he pulls away.
“I love you too.”
And that's the story of how you ended up making out with The James Cook at your first high school party.
"Just so we're clear, fuck the bet and all but you're still studying with me again."
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Somewhere across the sea of time A love immortal such as mine Will come to me Eternally
Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4 and AO3 link
Summary: Remmick is quite tired of feeling so alone, he's done turning people that will inevitably leave him and/or die on him, but what happens when he kills a random person and sees them the next day alive and well singing a song that reminds him of times long lost? What happens when he realizes maybe there's someone out there that could never stay dead for too long, someone who could maybe at last, fill the hole he has inside?
Basically Immortal!Reader meets a Remmick that will do anything to have them, as a songbird, as a partner, as someone who won't leave.
Remmick's POV
Remmick isn't used to this feeling.
Surely a being that's lived as long as he has, should be used to everything at this point. He isn't sure he likes surprises like this.
It's true he's lived too long, longer than even you apparently, so being so unused to things like acts of kindness, well it's simply depressing isn't it?
He isn't absolutely certain of what he's feeling exactly. He sure as hell knows at what though.
You forgave him. It didn't make sense. You let go of the fact that he killed you, murdered you, then threw you away.
Another thing he wasn't used to feeling, not anymore, the guilt.
He was a vampire, there wasn't much more to it. He needed to feed and feed he did.
He always preferred turning to simply killing, in fact he used to fantasize, when younger and dumber, (or maybe when younger and hopeful) of turning most of the world. They would all be connected, all understand each other, but most importantly, they would all be the same.
But that was early turned Remmick, a being he forgot what it was like to be like.
He still liked saving people. He still liked the moment when the bite took, seeing, learning, knowing all there was to know. He was just done.
Remmick sort of wished there was some big event that happened that made him decide. Some moment everyone around him betrayed him one final time. One person he couldn't bear living without being lost. Something that would have brought the old vampire to tears for the first time in who can remember.
In reality he'd just gotten too tired. No big moment, no final goodbye, just a man looking around tired of seeing no one there, feeling them at the back of his head, without him. Living, in a way, making more of them even, having experiences he was no longer privy too.
Remmick wasn't meant to be alone, even as a kid. When he would have done anything for someone to want to save him. He had a father, he had people around, he was never alone, not really. Another thing he'd never gotten used to, the silence.
He may not remember much of the times before all this, hell he doesn't even remember much of the times after being turned, but there's a familiarity he feels every time his skin crawls at the silence, like his usual reaction isn't something his body has ever not done.
Silence led to nights like this, sitting on a rooftop alone, thinking too much, of times before, of beings he'd known, created, and even seen destroyed. Thinking of the call at the back of his head, the hivemind he was apart from but always connected to.
If he focused he could feel whatever they were feeling, he could probably find them, try one more time. But then he thought of you, of your voice, your story, he thought of you giving him a glimpse into what his life had been.
He couldn't just walk away from you.
He had to make it up to you somehow, sure, you'd forgiven him, understood him after he opened up, something he didn't do anymore either. He'd taken a chance after hearing your story, he'd forgotten you could feel that connection without a bite first. You'd forgiven him, but now, now there was no reason for you to ever even see each other again.
That simply wouldn't do. He'd find something to do, to give, something good that would force you to be around again, to maybe sing to him again. To cover the silence with your stories, surely you had many similar to his, you even knew what it was like to be perceived as a monster.
He'd been shocked by that. The idea that you, some pretty and strong being, could understand him, it was wild while also comforting.
He'd find a way to keep you, even better, he'd find a way to make you want to stay, a way to return you to him.
This would be different. This wouldn't be Remmick turning the first person he finds, and waiting for the inevitable moment they'd die or leave. This is someone who first of all, can't die. And secondly someone who's as lonely as he is. He could see it in their eyes.
If he played his cards right, he could have his own songbird around, cooing in his ear every night when the quiet got too loud. Telling him about their struggles with humans, with the passage of time, with the need to run from everywhere.
More than that, they could listen back, hear his own stories and struggles and maybe sing them back to him.
Remmick could see his family again.
So maybe forming connections with people was never going to work, maybe one day everyone leaves and he isn't meant to have a new family anymore. But now with you, he had a chance to get his original one back, one song at a time, his home, his life, with that, who even needs the sun?
He would go back a bit on his promise to himself, he wouldn't turn you, he wasn't even sure he could, but he'd pull every trick necessary to make himself indispensable, to attach himself to you. And when you thank him and offer to pay him back for all he's done for you well, how could you refuse singing a tune like the ones at the bar?
Yes, tonight had been more useful than he'd expected. And it was all thanks to you.
He still wasn't sure what he was feeling, the guilt was still there as well but now for new reasons he was pushing down as far as he could. But he was determined now.
Remmick smiled up to the sky, measuring how long he had until the sun came up. With one final thought he stood up ready to jump down.
This was going to be fun.
-----------------------------------
Yn's POV
You woke up the next morning already overwhelmed. Memories of yesterday flashing through your mind. The sensations of finally being able to sing, actually getting up on that stage, inviting something in, something that felt as magical as you but better, good.
Meeting your killer, actually talking to him, letting go of your secrets for the first time, forgiving him, understanding him in a deep level you'd never been able to connect with anyone in-
You sighed. You just woke up. It'd taken you forever to fall asleep yesterday, Remmick's heartfelt “thank you” stuck in your mind on repeat. And now morning was here and you were as tired, if not more, with too many thoughts running through your head.
You tried to organise your thoughts and figure out what you were feeling about them all while getting ready for the day. You made breakfast, you considered his regret over killing you. You showered, you remembered the look on his face when you started singing a song from his people. You got dressed and couldn’t stop replaying the moment you realised you’re both alike, both desperately wanting a connection you can’t have.
And through it all you felt the fear. The fear you felt when you exited that burning house, waiting for everyone to come and curse you out. You finally told someone your secret, your whole reason for being how you are, you told someone something that was from so deep in you, taking it out, for a moment you’d seen the words on the air and wished so badly you could grab them and put them back inside.
You knew he couldn’t kill you, you also knew he had no reason to betray your trust. Hell, he’d chosen to give you parts of himself to make up for forcing yours. What would be the point of telling anyone your secrets when you could easily give his back?
But still the fear of everyone around you coming together to cage you like an animal, execute you like a monster… It was hard not to feel it after revealing so much.
Going outside to head to work you almost expected a mob gathering there. Calling yourself all synonymous of stupid you could think of, you walked to the bar. Unbeknownst to you, work would give you the first real distraction from everything that happened last night.
----------------------------
“What happened?” That's your first question when you see the place still closed with Lawrence outside as if waiting for you.
“It’s bad kid.” The man sighs looking at the ground. “It's Elliot… someone murdered him last night, threw his body in the dumpster”
Your body freezes.
“I called the police as soon as I came in to open up, the smell alone was enough for me to throw up.” Lawrence shakes his head while talking as if trying to shake the images in his head. “Whoever did this took a chunk out of his neck, I’ve never seen anything like it, I’d have thought it was an animal if not for where he was found.”
You can't believe this, you remember seeing Elliot stepping outside before Remmick came in. You try hard to remember if you saw him come back in at some point before you left for the night, but the memory is nowhere to be found.
There's no question who did this, you're almost offended he didn't even try anything a little bit original, just copied your death with the next one close by like nothing.
The next phrase from Lawrence cuts your selfish thinking. “The police will want to talk to ya kid, it's part of it we've all had to do it, I told them you left early and were on stage for the most part but still, it's important, you understand.”
You did understand, there was nothing you could say that would help, but it was important everyone tried their best to solve this. Knowing they wouldn’t, that his death would go unavenged… it left a bitter feeling in your chest.
Something akin to guilt also started festering, Remmick had come back to The Space Between the bar because of your singing. You quickly shook your head at the thought, you refused to be so self centered as to make his death about you. You’d lived too long to know that your actions were your own, and it was the same with the rest of the world.
If Remmick had decided to kill Elliot, that was his guilt you were feeling for him, and you were not gonna make things so easy for him.
----------------------------
Your talk with the police went as well as it could. They clearly wanted information you could not give them, or at least wouldn’t. You apologised to Elliot in your head, but there were certain rules to how far you’d go for other people. Rules you’d put in place to make sure you wouldn’t end up on the wrong side of an angry mob again.
Once you’d said goodbye to the police and Lawrence you quickly went back home to think before it got too dark. What now? You had no reason to think you’d ever even see the vampire again. Sure you’d had a heart to heart, you were not conceited enough to assume he would stay in this nowhere town just because of it.
Should you just continue your day as normal? Before your singing, your supernatural discovery, your death? It wouldn’t be the first time you’d woken up from a death and carried on, but there was something about Remmick that wouldn’t let you leave the matter settled.
You thought back to his eyes, the amusement they carried with them at every corner, like he was in on a joke you would always be too late to be included in. His voice, the fake accent, the real one underneath, the way he called you sweet names naturally.
You wondered what it would be like to hear him sing.
You shook your head for what felt like the tenth time of the day. You were done with this no man, you had been forced to bond with him once and suddenly you were able to excuse his killing of a coworker? Just because you understood him, forgiven his treatment of you, should it be the same for poor Elliot?
You were tired of thinking of someone who would never even show his face again. You could recognise some reasons why you were still thinking of him, and admit you found pity in never seeing his face again, you could even admit he had a nice face to begin with. Though the actually admitting it out loud would have brought shame and heat to your cheeks at once. That did not mean he was suddenly a nice man, one you should give the time of day to.
No, you were done thinking of Remmick the vampire, the killer, the sweet talker who you could have formed some kinship with if he’d stayed, he would have to be a fool to ever show his face around this parts again and more than that-
Your thoughts were halted by a knock on the door.
It was a polite and unassuming knock, yet something about it drew you to walk slowly to the door with certain caution. Perhaps it was the quiet you’d just noticed from the outside, the way the birds stopped singing and the wind stopped howling, the way everything seemed to standstill waiting for you to answer something maybe you shouldn’t.
You’d never been one for cowardice though, while squaring your shoulders back you decided to open the door and-
No.
It seemed the vampire was a fool after all.
There stood Remmick, with the same clothes from the last time you saw him. The same pretty eyes filled with mischief, though they held some trepidation this time you’d never bet on him feeling. More surprising, there was a banjo strapped to his back.
“Hiya sweetheart.” The ‘man’ greeted you, a tone indicating it was good to see you.
You considered slamming the door on his face.
“What are you doing here?” You decided on asking first, out of the million questions in your head.
He shrugged “Well I figured I’d pass by, maybe offer some distraction for you tonight seeing as your usual plans of working have been canceled.” He offered a fake apologetic smile at that. “Sorry about that.”
You couldn't believe his casual tone mentioning his killing, like he hadn't been driven to tears yesterday over his regret at killing you.
Then again why wouldn't you believe it, he'd given you pretty shit reasons to imply he had a heart.
“I don't need a distraction.” You finally settled on, no point wasting time trying to get him to feel for a victim that could do nothing for him. “So unless you're paying me for my shift tonight I suggest you get.”
He laughed amused at your words. “Oh honey I don't think you want to close that door on me until you're heard what I've got to say.”
How had he read you so easily? And more importantly, what the hell was he talking about?
He sighed for a second looking at the ground, like he hadn't anticipated whatever this was being so difficult.
“Look I'll just cut right to the chase, you seem the type to appreciate that. But first I'll explain that that security man didn't really give me much of a choice, and I needed to get in and hear your sweet voice somehow.”
You feel a mixture of things when hearing that. Guilt again at the confirmation that he got to Elliot because of you, before you quickly pushed it away. Anger at his easy justification for killing someone. Most of all you felt tired at having to feel so much for someone you didn't really even know well.
You ignored the part of you that felt pity for the man in front of you, at how easy it was for him to strip himself of his humanity.
“You said you'd cut straight to the chase.”
He stared at you for a second, as if trying to read you, you did your best to give him nothing. You just stared back, gazing into his eyes, trying not to stare too deeply into them, you didn't care what he felt, at the very least you didn't want to care.
When he realised you were staring back something shifted in his, something he was trying to hold back seeped in and you recognized it plain as day.
Hunger.
Finally he broke the silence, but continued to stare into your eyes while he spoke. “I think we both know we understand each other better than most people could understand us.”
You stilled.
He continued.
“And we both understand the importance and… magic of music.”
“This is you cutting to the chase?”
“I'm getting there.”
“You need inspiration.” At your affronted look he clarified. “For your music.”
“Oh do I?”
“And I need someone to listen.”
You frowned at him suspiciously. “What are you suggesting?”
“Let's meet at night.” He started pleading. “I'll tell you a little something about myself, or someone else who's just like me, you then grab whatever you want from that, and make your art to sing back at the joint.”
You were confused for a few reasons. He was being bold coming to you like this. He was even more bold in pretending this was at all a fair deal. Helpful to you in any way.
“I'm not even the usual singer at the bar, I'm a backup.”
He smirked then looked you up and down. “We both know they'll be crazy not to offer you the job after last night.”
“And-” You carried on like he didn't say anything. “Who says I need your stories to make up any of my art?”
“Okay so the song thing was a bit of a stretch.” Remmick conceded. “But it's not a bad reason and even if not the priority, let's not pretend you won't get anything out of the two of us…”
You could see Remmick struggle to find the words.
“...hanging out.”
You stared at him for a beat too long.
You saw satisfied smile at having finished his sentence. But you also saw the uncertainty in his eyes at his choice of words. He was really trying for something here.
You were sure you didn't want him getting it easily.
“Hanging out?” You deadpanned.
He spread his arms at his sides and exclaimed. “Hanging out!”
That's when the rest of the sentence came back to you. “Wait, what do you think I'll be getting out of us hanging out?”
At this he dropped his arms, stopped the fake confident smile and looked into your eyes once again.
“I can promise you you won't be lonely no more.”
.
.
.
You've never not been lonely before. At least you don’t remember a time you weren't. If you concentrate hard enough, sure there were moments; your parents hugging you before everything, Cynthia laughing at something deadpanned you'd said you couldn't resist at the time, her baby holding your finger.
There were moments you'd felt something close to the connection Remmick talked wistfully about. Short moments you'd been close to something real.
It was a strange feeling when you were in a room with people. You couldn't really form relationships with them but you had acquaintances, people who knew whatever name you used in whatever town you'd gone to. Still, being in the room with them, them who knew a version of you that wasn't real, while not even knowing that much to begin with. It was strange.
You were lonely, no matter how many people were there or not. You didn't let them close, you didn't let them know you, you couldn't.
You were forced to run, forced to continue coming up with new names, new places, new everything. Why go through the pain of knowing anyone and having to say goodbye? More than that, why go through the danger of having people want to keep in touch?
So yeah, of course you were lonely.
That didn't make you an easy mark.
You get what this used-to-be-man is trying to do here. You can see the desperation leaking off him in his sweaty forehead. You can sense the anxiety on his tight shoulders. He's breathing fast hoping the moment will pass faster if he can just inhale it quick enough.
He's hanging on barely, waiting for your response. You take a moment to think, you are lonely as you've established, you could use the company of someone who you don't have to keep at arms length, someone who knows enough about the real you, who could find out more and actually wants to.
That's not a question. What is a question is if this being, Remmick, is truly the one to let close.
He isn't, you know he isn't, he's a murderer, a cruel man who took pleasure in playing with you, with your fear. Surely out of everyone to let close enough to form an attachment, a bond, surely he's the last one, he should be.
But he does know your secret. More than that, he understands what it's like. He's died before, and gotten up right after, and have to keep going knowing there's no clear or inevitable end, probably.
'He's lonely too'. You can't help but let the unhelpful thought come through.
'He's also willing to do anything to get his way' You argue back with yourself.
Sure, you'd forgiven him for killing you. You understand survival, you understand getting colder as time passes. You can even understand not caring at all.
Still, you refuse to be his victim twice.
But then you think of Elliot.
Thrown away, discarded after being used so this vampire could see you once again. You thought of the people of this town, the ones you sort of knew, the ones you saw walking around sometimes, what would happen to their lives if Remmick stuck around?
What would happen to their lives if he didn't get what he wanted?
You had an idea, a crazy, stupid idea, but it was something that would bring you some peace over not helping with Elliot's death. Perhaps it would bring you more than just some peace.
“I have a condition.”
At this you saw his expression change. He stilled. You saw his desperation leave for a second as he smiled triumphantly, knowing he'd won. You saw shock enter his eyes before they gleamed with satisfaction. You took in all of this with a bittersweet sensation.
“Whatever you want sugar, it's yours.”
“I don't want you to feed on the people of this town.” You blurted out.
He exhales strongly like he wants to laugh but won't for your benefit. “That's fine, it'll take some trouble going to the next but not enough to not accept the deal.” He teases.
You shake your head “No, I don't want you to feed from the next town either”
Something shifts in his eyes, his posture tenses once again “I don't think you fully understand what I am sweetheart I ha-”
“You have to feed on human blood, yes, I understand.” You quickly interrupt. You inhale before finally bursting out with your idea. “But from now on you'll feed on my blood.”
“What.”
“You'll drink my blood at night after we've… ‘hung out’ or whatever you have planned. And during the day I'll regenerate the blood you took from me.” You explain simply, neutral toned.
He doesn't relax. Or seem any less confused. “You want me… to feed from you…?”
You feel heat crawl at your cheeks. “I don't particularly want that, I just don't want you to kill anyone else if I can help it.”
“How noble.” He huffs a laugh “I gotta say honey, you're already been such a big bag of surprises. I can't wait to get to know you even better.”
This was probably not your greatest idea.
You clear your throat. “So it's a deal?”
He smiles victoriously, all fake human teeth shining. The reminder of what hides underneath making you shiver slightly for some reason that's not entirely fear.
