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
James Cook - Study Sessions - COMPLETED
Summary: The moments of you tutoring the infamous James Cook
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.
Okay it's actually going to be three parts if people like it doNT KILL ME. no sad ending this time tho!!
Summary: After Cook cuts off your study sessions in defeat, you do the impossible to get him back
Part 1
Your POV
“We both knew this was a waste of time anyways.”
Those words haunt you the next few days, the defeated tone in his voice. The anger rising in you from the fact that, yeah, maybe at first you’d thought you’d change nothing when it comes to James Cook succeeding in school, but that had changed.
You’d seen him try, hell you’d see him nail some stuff when the assignment was given to him the right way. With patience and explanations and actually listening to his words. Trying your best to help stir him in the right direction had been a lot at times but never wasted time and sure as shit never boring.
You hate that about him, the defeatism, the way he’s already assumed everyone around him thinks he’s shit. You don’t think he’s shit, you don’t at all in fact you very clear lik-
Woah, wait a second.
Your eyes widened as you realised where exactly your trail of thoughts was leading you.
Moments like this you wished you had more friends to be able to talk to someone about this. But thinking of your friends from school, the ones you sit with at lunch and share notes with in class, the ones you study with and say goodbye at the end of the school day knowing you won’t talk to them until the next class… talking to them about a crush… it just wasn’t your relationship.
Not to mention that crush being on the James Cook, you hadn’t lied when you told him you didn’t think you were better than him but, you definitely knew most people at school thought so, at least the ones you talked to. It wasn’t fair, they didn’t know him…
At the same time, he had done some very messy very public things during the year.
‘It doesn’t matter’ You decided shaking your head. Those things are him sure, you weren’t under the impression his only honest time was around you during tutoring. You knew he was wild and chaotic and full of energy he was willing to hit everyone around him with, in whatever form it came out, hell the consequences.
But you also knew he was delicate, you knew how insecure he really was inside, how he assumed he had no future so why would he bother with boring stuff in the present that would ultimately not help him in the long run. He was scared, and trying his best to distract himself from that.
How were you supposed to make him see that wasn’t the case? How were you meant to tutor him if he thought it was a waste of time? And how were you meant to apologise if he would keep skipping class, and when he did come, ignore you like you were never even there?
Because that was the new thing.
Suddenly the guy whose eyes would always find their way back to yours during class distracting the shit out of you. The guy who would find a way to sit close by enough you could hear all his stupid jokes and comments about whatever he was thinking about at the moment. The guy that would bump into you in the hallways and help you pick your books as if you didn’t know he did it on purpose. That guy was now ignoring you.
You didn’t expect his absence to be just as distracting without any of the warm feelings you’d purposely ignored he gave you.
You had to do something, something big, something impossible to ignore. You had to do something Cook-like.
You thought back to his words from that day for what felt like the hundredth time, and for the first time, you grinned. You had your big move planned.
Cook's POV
He wasn't sure whose party this was, but it wasn't like it mattered anyways, he knew the basics, there was a party and it wasn't at his lonely room back at the college, so here he was. Ready to have a good time no matter what he had to do to get it.
He was jumping and dancing with a drink in his hand. All the bright lights blurring together making the room spin. Or maybe it was the alcohol in his system making him dizzy, who knew. All he needed to know was that the girl grinding on him this second was fit.
She probably wouldn't listen to him talk about why the college system was bullshit. She probably wouldn't argue back about how the rules are important to know how to survive in the real world. She absolutely wouldn't call him James like the idea that he could be more than Cook was anything remotely close to reality. She-
She was fit, and she was there. That's all he needed right now and it's all he would need tomorrow too.
He didn't miss some stupid forced tutoring sessions that made him feel he had something more going for him than he did.
Of course it wasn't the actual sessions that had done that, no, it'd very clearly been you.
Since the last time, maybe he'd try to open a book and do some homework, not that he would ever admit it to anyone. When JJ had walked in on him all shocked at seeing him reading notes you'd left for him for the last assignment, he'd barely managed to convince him it was a prank, that he'd heard JJ walking by so he'd opened some bullshit to see his reaction.
The point was, reading and actual to God trying by himself sure hadn't left him with the same butterflies feeling in his chest that he'd obtain when you'd smiled at him after getting something right. If JJ hadn't walked in he would have ended up burning all the notes out of frustration and embarrassment anyways.
Why was he still even thinking about this, about you? He had everything he needed right here, a hot chick whose neck was getting properly treated by his mouth thank you, and a cold beer he was taking sips from whenever she danced a bit too far away.
Yeah, Cook was living his best life, and he had no need to read some, he now knew was Shakespeare, to pass the time and answer some shit questions all so some pretty girl would smile at him and make him feel he wasn't screwing everything up for once.
With that in mind he continued dancing/grinding ignoring the empty feeling in his chest every time he caught a glimpse of the girl's face or every time she moaned out “Cook” instead of James.
Ignoring how he just called you pretty in his head.
Your POV
‘This was a bad idea’ you thought for the millionth time while adjusting the length of your dress so it would cover a bit more of your ass for about two seconds before your hands let the fabric go.
“But it's necessary.” You whispered back to yourself. Putting your shoulders back and letting your chest be more visible than it usually was to the world. With a confidence that was more fake than you wanted it to be you entered the house.
Music you could already hear from the outside burst into your eardrums. You forced yourself not to flinch. The place was dark with some really shining, appearing out of nowhere, coloured lights reflecting the people dancing everywhere. You walked through the hallway where some couples (you assumed were couples) were making out. (You hoped was just making out)
You did not belong here on a good day. And it felt like everyone was going to notice any second now. The music would stop and everyone would turn to point and yell at the prude who wasn't even properly invited until she left as quickly as possible.
You took a deep breath. You refused to let your fear drive you away from this. You kept walking inside until you saw him.
James Cook was in the center of the room, a place he clearly belonged in. He was stealing attention, jumping around, laughing loudly with no care in the world. It was like every pair of eyes at some point turned to look at him, whether it was to admire or judge didn't matter. It was all attention and that was all Cook needed to relish in.
You notice with some difficulty and a pang in your chest the beautiful girl he was dancing with. Practically dry humping in front of everyone. It drove heat to your cheeks to see him making out with her neck. At some points, the beat of the music would drop and the people around would stop shrieking with abandon. In those moments your trained ears fixated on him could even make out some moans coming from him.
You really shouldn't have come.
You wondered whether to just leave while you could when suddenly it was too late. He'd spotted you. You watched slowly his eyes widened and his mouth stopping its um actions to stare open mouth at you instead.
The girl he was ‘dancing’ with clearly didn't appreciate the pause, turning to look at him. Which for some reason staring at her made him wince in response before he said something you couldn't hear. Then she shrugged and continued dancing while Cook moved quickly towards you.
You saw his eyes glancing up and down your body, clearly surprised at the outfit you'd put on to blend in. His eyes showed something else but you couldn't figure it out with your panic.
You ignored your brain screaming at you to flee, instead you stood straight, watching calmly the man you liked approach you.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
You forced a casual air and shrugged lightly. “Oh you know, just enjoying the evening.” You mentally hit your face repeatedly.
“Enjoying your- what the fuck are you on about” He's clearly frustrated, his voice raised enough few people turn to look.
You try not to blush in embarrassment, you keep your casual air. Though you let some tension sweep into your tone. “I'm just here to have a good night Cook, why is that a problem?”
He seems hurt by something “So it's Cook now eh?” Damn it, you figured he'd like that. “Besides, since when do you have good nights?” He jokes.
You refuse to let slight hurt seep in. You shrug again. “Since I have free time from my tutoring I guess.”
You see him hide a wince, but he recovers quickly.
“You're not gonna make me feel guilty over that sweetheart.” He defends, then attacks. “Guess I'm just too cowardly to continue.”
You don't hide your wince, but you take the chance to do what you've been trying to do for days now. “I'm… sorry about calling you that, I got too angry which I partly blame you for, but I should have handled myself better, besides I was wrong, you're not a coward Cook.” You look into his eyes so he can see the sincerity in yours. “You're anything but.”
You see him soften inside, like he's been carrying tension you just took from him.
He looks at the floor embarrassed. “Whatever, it didn't matter.” He pauses for a second then looks up at you again. “Just like the things I said.”
It's the closest you'll get to an apology and you let it warm your chest.
He suddenly points at your outfit up and down “Is that all you came here to say because you didn't have to dress like that and come here for that.” He jokes, his signature smirk back on his face.
You smile back kindly. “I already told you, I'm here to have a good time.” You let him look confused for a few seconds longer before admitting. “Though it's not without its nefarious purposes.”
“What?”
Your smile turns sly. “Don't remember? ‘The only thing less likely than me getting a passing grade is seeing you at a party actually enjoying yourself.’”
You see his eyes widen in recognition before clouding again in confusion. You take a deep breath while looking into his eyes, ready to be more vulnerable than usual, if someone deserves that from you, it's him.
“I'm not letting you go so easily, Cook, I figured I would take the challenge.”
Yours words do something to him though you're not sure what, something heavy lies in his eyes.
“That wasn't a challenge princess.” He argues. Then counters before you can say something. “Besides we both know this isn't your scene.” He smiles sarcastically at you.
You snap back. “Well I'm making it a challenge, no.” You shake your head. “I'm making it a bet.”
He leans in interested.
You smile then explain. “I last longer than you enjoying myself tonight and you take your tutoring sessions back up, and I prove to you you can get a passing grade for any subject.”
“You think you can last longer than me here, tonight?” Cook clarifies, his tone shocked.
You nod.
He barks a laugh while shaking his head. “Fine, you're on princess, but on one condition.” He narrows his eyes while looking straight at you. Then he smiles. “You start calling me James again.”
This started as some headcanons and ended up a two parter because I have no self-control.
Summary: The moments of you tutoring the infamous James Cook.
Your POV
Your life at college was going as well as it could. Considering the first day started with a guy showing the world his cock, so far college hadn’t been as bad as you had been expecting. It probably had to do with the fact that you were pretty much no one, a nobody who didn’t get involved with the main group of drama and chaos.
No matter how hard the universe was trying to make it happen.
You should’ve listened to your gut, and when your english teacher asked you to tutor James freaking Cook, you should've said “absolutely no” but thinking of standing up for yourself gave you an uncomfortable feeling, not to mention how good it would look in your search for universities if you started tutoring.
So you end up saying yes, I mean what’s the worst that could happen right?
Mostly he showed up late, when he did appear he was clearly high/drunk, not really giving a single fuck about Hamlet and the themes of the play. You figured he would at least read some summary of the play or watch part of a movie adaptation, pretend he was trying when clearly not. But it seemed even you had given the boy too much credit, when he first named the author as Dickens you really thought he was joking, but no, he clearly had payed fuck all attention in class.
This was going to be harder than you thought.
“Come on James, you know this we’ve been over it” You tried keeping the frustration out of your voice to some but not enough success. “What are the themes of Hamlet? You don’t have to say all the teacher was listing in class, just say two or three you can expand on.”
“Look babe I know that you really care about this” He started with that tone of voice that irked you so badly, the humorous ‘This is hilarious for me even if you can’t see it’ tone, that made everything into one big joke for him. “And don’t get me wrong, it’s cute! You truly care about this bloke and his daddy trauma, but, and no offense with this, some of us have better things to do with our day than focus on some dickhead’s revenge and how girls go crazy and kill themselves.
You took a deep breath, ignored the tosser parts of what he’d just said, how he implied you didn’t have a life and how funny he considered the idea of caring about something, and focused on the hopeful parts.
“Thank you.” You struggled to reply.
He dropped his dopey smile and looked at you confused. “What?”
“Revenge, suicide and of course the articulate ‘daddy trauma.’” You recited then explained. “Three themes you clearly are aware of enough to judge therefore enough to expand on about the play Hamlet. Now all you need to do is tell me a little bit about each and we’re done for the day.” You looked up at him and smiled tiredly but happy nonetheless.
You saw his expression slowly drop the confusion as he realised he’d done something right. His eyes lit up while his smile from before came back tenfold. No longer a smile formed from mocking you and the world at large or whatever narcotic he’d taken this time, but a smile inspired by pride at himself.
“Ooookay let’s not get too cocky just yet, you still have to word them better next time and prove you understand right now.” You tried to be tough but seeing him actually getting some joy from studying… Well, it was nice to see someone understanding they could do something they previously had zero hope for.
Someone, anyone, not this man in particular, no sir.
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Cook’s POV
It took a few lessons, but Cook quickly realised he was wrong about his assumption of you. He figured you were like every other nerd he’d met, some studious ‘I’m too good for this place and definitely too good to talk to you’ brainy person, who needed a reality check probably in the shape of a fist to realise the world was a joke, and taking it and yourself so seriously would only hurt you more in the long run.
Was Cook projecting a bit? Maybe, he’s not entirely sure what the word means anyways.
But he was wrong. Sure, you clearly care way too much, and you're too busy studying all the time to enjoy any aspect of life, but, he never catches you judging him too harshly. He never sees you up on a pedestal of your own making, too busy feeding your high horse to help him understand whatever it is you're trying to get him to read this time.
You don’t roll your eyes when he questions something, only when it's clear he's not paying attention, if anything him questioning things thrills you? It makes no sense. But he's happy enough to not be saddled up with a judgy person to care too much.
More than a few times you’ve made him genuinely laugh with your comments on whatever bullshit you’re reading now for English or how the teacher is doing with the class.
He even gets things right sometimes! You're very good at grabbing whatever it is he said or did correctly for once and help him shape it into something the teachers of this place would have no choice but to pass as correct.
It's kinda fun to see you work, not nearly as fun as it is to watch you get frustrated though.
“You're thirty five minutes late!” Your voice immediately starts the second he walks into the classroom. Shrilly in that way it seems only he can make it. “We only have ten minutes before the period is over, what is wrong with you?!”
Cook holds his hands up in a sign of innocence, though the smirk rising on his lips defeats the purpose. “Woah there sweetheart, I just came in, no need to shout so loudly, there's people studying next door you know.”
You frustratedly heave a sigh, letting out an adorable little growl instead of whatever yell you had prepared in the time he was gone no doubt. If you were a cartoon you'd be tearing your hair out right now, which would be a shame considering how nicely it suits you.
Wait what?
“We don't have time for your jokes today James, we're supposed to be studying. There's a final in our near future, a final that counts for 35 percent of our grades, ring any bells?” You're clearly trying your best to let out each word slowly but sure of itself, not too angry, for you know by now he only finds it more hilarious and less important when you show how rageful he's made you.
“Why do you do that?” He suddenly asks, surprising even himself.
You're clearly caught off guard and scrunch your face (cute) in confusion. “Do what?”
Cook wasn't planning to get into this with you but it has been on his mind he guesses. “Call me James.” He explains.
“Oh.” You're clearly surprised by the turn of the conversation, looking to the side like you're trying to figure out yourself why you do that. “Well it's your name isn't it? Why is it weird that I call you that?” You sound unsure of yourself, something quite rare, Cook is displeased to find he doesn't feel pleasure in making you sound like that. “Unless you'd rather I didn't?”
He's also a bit disappointed by the answer and quick to reply. “Nah you can keep calling me that, just not used to it I guess…” he trails off thinking about the time he beat up a kid in year 4 that refused to stop calling him James, and that fit girl he stopped sex with midway through it once because she kept moaning it, and every teacher he'd had that he'd explain his name was actually Cook.
He despised people calling him James. And yet, there was something about you saying it, he didn't mind so much. Probably the tight angry way it was usually uttered amused him. Plus the fact that no matter how badly he screwed up an answer it was never uttered with any real disappointment, like he'd fucked up too much.
Yeah, that must be it.
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Your POV
“You know what your real problem is?” Okay so you were done. This had been an infuriating session, more than usual. It seems Cook was in a really bad mood and was doing his hardest to drag you down to his level. It wasn’t like usual where he would find which buttons were funnier to push, no, this was just mean. Even he wasn’t finding this amusing. It was like he was just mocking you to punish you for dragging him to study today.
So you were done.
“You think you’re so cool, and bad, from doing the most random dangerous stupid shit possible every day. You think caring makes you an idiot and not trying makes you a god because you’re living life without worries.” You copied his usual sardonic smile. “Well guess what asshole, children don’t have worries, after a while you grow up and realise that Shit. Changes. nothing stays the same and the only way to control something is to care enough to try.”
You took a deep breath, trying to regain it after finally saying something you’d wanted to since maybe the first time you really saw him. Maybe this is what he needed, someone to see him and push him, you’d tried to be the nice tutor, the fun tutor, hell you’d tried bribing him before just to give you the correct answer you’re sure he knew. Maybe the tough tutor was something he’d respond to.
And respond he did.
You wish you could see what he was thinking/feeling in that moment, but all he was giving you was a condescending sneer. “You wanna know what your problem is?” He started copying your question from before.
“You think you’re better than us peasants because you’re so grounded and caring. You think if you try hard enough, if you focus just enough you can control everything around you. Well guess what princess, you just said it, ‘shit changes, nothing stays the same’ and there’s not enough books to read that will change that.”
Cook laughs, a mean spirited laugh. “What the fuck is the point of caring and making yourself miserable when you can stop and actually have fun? You think being this sour all the time is so profound but when’s the last time you actually had a good time?”
You couldn’t answer his last question so you focused on the other thing that most bothered you.
“I don’t think I’m better than anyone! I don’t even think I’m better than you! The guy who still can’t even bother to write his name on his essays but tattoos it fine on his hand for eternity. You want to know why?”
You throw your hands in the air and finally get to the root of your problem with him. The real reason him not trying gets your goat so badly.
“Because you have so much potential!” His sneer drops, but you’re too heated to stop now. “Potential you’re just actively throwing away, you forget unlike most, I've seen you try! You could be good if you just took the time to focus and organize the thoughts in your head but you don't because it's easier to not even try and always fail than actually attempt to succeed for once, you're not a rebel, you're a coward.”
You may have gone too far.
For a second he looked stunned. Then his sneer came back, just a bit turned down, like you’d sucked a bit of his energy out.
“Well, sorry not all of us can be the weirdo with no friends that tries too hard all the time. Sorry some of us don’t get all horny in our panties from being the sad loner who never leaves her house at night.”
You could feel an angry and embarrassing blush crawl up your cheeks. “I don’t-”
“I think it’s for the best if we stop these studying sessions, yeah?” Cook cuts you off. “The only thing less likely than me getting a passing grade is seeing you at a party actually enjoying yourself besides.” He smiles once more but this time the coldness of it chills you. “We both knew this was a waste of time anyways.”
He leaves the classroom while you’re too busy staring hurt and upset back at him.
Please let me know if you want a part 2 where they fix things, also if you checked out my Remmick Inmortal!reader story and want me to continue that first lmao
current fan creation landscape is kinda like if you went to a party with a homemade cake and everyone takes a slice and silently thumbs up at you with no attempt to start a conversation except for occasionally some guy sits in the corner with a tape recorder critiquing the cake as though he was a restaurant critic and another guy is handing the cake to an uber driver like "yeah i need you to find a restaurant that makes cake like this so i can have more of it" and the only person that's talked to you in 30 minutes is a very sweet little guy who was like "hey i liked your cake" and then ran away apologizing for bothering you the moment you said thank you.
someone brought a cake analysis robot to feed the cake into to determine the exact ingredients and supposedly it can spit out the exact same cake. and if you're like dude. what. then they're like well if it bothers you you should have made more cake. i'm hungry and i deserve cake. and you're like dude we're at a party.
Three months later you find out that fifty people locked themselves in a room to discuss how much they loved your cake and how they wished you made more. None of them ever told you.
Unfortunately now, there's also: Someone comes up to you after eating your cake and you get excited, but then they start yelling at you about how you suck and your cake sucks and you should just die. And then you just realize it is the cake analysis robot wearing a mask.
