Hey, bestieeeeeeeeee :) first fic request KINDA NERVOUSSSS Feel free to ignore this ask if this idea is not really your cup of tea, btw. No pressure! :)))))
To sum it up, I was thinking about a fluffy Cook fanfic where he and reader don't like each other (at all) for some silly reason. You can change it, but maybe it's because they are both friends w Freddie, y'knowwww what I mean? So there's always some idiotic competition going on between them to see who Freddie likes more etc. Reallyyyy childish stuff lol.
However, of course Freddie is fed up with their stupidity and eventually goes "How can I get these two to understand each other?"
So there's two options for that to happen:
1. Knowing that both Cook and reader are soooooooooo annoyingly competitive, he challenges them to spend an entire day without insulting or arguing with each other. Just the two of them. Somewhere where they can't distract themselves with other stuff, so they're basically forced to talk and learn more about each other (evil giggling).
2. Freddie suddenly calls both of them separately. He tells Cook that he needs help and asks if he can come over real quick. Then, he proceeds to do the same with reader. When they arrive, SURPRISEeeee, Freddie's not there lol. Just a note or whatever saying that "something unexpected happened and he'll be back soon so they should wait there" (a lie, of course). So idk maybe there's this awkward energy where both of them are like "I don't wanna be the first to chicken out 🙄" so they stay there and eventually start to talk with each other out of boredom.
So, yeah, basically, after that, maybe Cook would get vulnerable after accidentally mentioning his personal struggles, like family stuff, etc. He'd obviously try to laugh it off, but reader gets empathetic about it real quick and y'knowwww comforts him and cutesy stuff happens. I fully believe all Cook needs is some love, so I don't think he'd mind being hugged and pampered a little bit ;))))
I'll let your imagination flow, bestie. You can keep it platonic or make it romantic. I don't mind. I trust you. Your writing style is amazing and I'm sure you'll do an amazing job if you decide to write this! <3 So sorry for the long ask btw lol just wanted to give it some context :))))
🥰🥰🥰🥰
Pairing: James Cook x Reader
Summary: Years long of a sick rivalry because of Freddie, it wasn't simple, Freddie had to pick one. Cook or you. It couldn't be both, matter of fact, you'd both would rather it be neither and have to pick each other.
Disclaimers: "Enemies" to lovers kinda thing but more platonic, fluff, very crude language, long standing rivalry, mutual obsession over each other, platonic besties
w/c: 3,688
a/n: Yk, I've never really thought of Cook as a fluffy kinda cute kind but then I have to remember how he was with Pandora. Even if he was only nice to her to get his dick wet, still. This one was kinda hardddd, but I'm always up for a little challenge to get "better" and I did enjoy making Cook a little soft.
P.S: I got a little sloppy towards the end, I've been working on this since 10am nodding in and out bc I'm sick rn so please discard if its bad.
"You only have to do one thing." Freddie raised his hand like he was trying to reason with the both of you, standing in front of the futon like a disappointed primary school teacher.
Cook was lying across one end of it, you occupied the other end. You both stayed as far away from him as physically possible without morphing into the arm of the futon.
"One thing," Freddie repeated. Neither of you answered, Freddie pinched the bridge of his nose. "You know what? Forget it."
"No, go on," Cook grinned. Excited to hear whatever "bullshit" Freddie was about to pull out of his ass. "This'll be good." You huffed, immediately rolling your eyes and Cook pressed his shoe into the side of your thigh. "There he goes."
"What?" Cook played in your face, pretending he was clueless to what you were saying.
"There." You say, pointing, scowling in the direction of Cook which makes him grin wider, the shit-eating grin curling wickedly up until the bridge of his nose creased. "That thing you do."
'What thing?" He continued. "The thing where you're already annoying before you've even opened your mouth." Cook looked delighted. Freddie looked like he'd rather parish. (no pun intended, his death ruined me.)
"See?" Freddie threw his hands into the air. "THIS."
"You're both impossible." He groaned, collapsing slump in the chair across from the futon.
"We're not impossible." Cook argued. Pointing at the side of your head, your eyes squint as you hold back balling your fist right into his stupid, smug face like he dissevered. "She's impossible."
You immediately raised your hand, your balled fist not even making him flinch, your finger jutted out at him, you jabbed it towards him. "He's a dickhead!"
"See?" Cook echoed your words, acting like he was in disbelief. You could make a list of things about James Cook that made you ache with rot from the inside out.
1. His laugh, he couldn't like a gaggle of geese. Worse, he only laughed when it was at someone else's expense.
2. His stupid hair, at some point during childhood he'd had a fringe. He said it wasn't but it was. Straight across his forehead just like the word "STUPID"
Cook was sprawled out across JJ's bedroom floor staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars and planets stuck and scattered across the ceiling. Mot of them barely glowed anymore. The stickers had been there for years. Back when sleepovers meant staying awake and letting JJ talking about aliens instead of getting drunk.
His phone buzzed. "Freds." The screen lit, Cook groaned, answering. "What?"
"Bit rude." Freddie chimed back right after Cook finished. "What'd you want?" A pause. Too long. Cooks eyes narrowed, "What've you done?" Cook asked and Freddie audibly opened his mouth to speak but only air came out. "I haven't done anything."
"You're lying." Cook pushed. Determined to get Freddie to admit to something. "I'm not." Freddie pushed back.
"You are." Cook pushed again, a smirk starting to curl against the corners of his mouth. Another pause. Cook sat up. "There it is, Freddie-kins."
"What?" Freddie said, genuine confusion. "The guilty silence." Freddie sighed. "Just come by the shed tomorrow." Cook let out a laugh, "Not a chance."
'Cook."
"No." Cook laughed it out. "Please." Freddie begged. "Definitely not."
Dead silence before a sigh. "Three o'clock." The line went dead. Cook pulled the phone back from his ear and and stared at it. He laughed to himself. "He's definitely done something."
You were lying in bed, the only light was the white street lamp shining through your billowy curtains, the wind blowing them slightly from your open window. Your phone buzzed beside your pillow, you force yourself to roll over and grab it with a groan. "Fredz <3"
You answer, pressing it to your ear. "What?"
"Hello to you too." Freddie said, his voice a little too light. "Its late." You excused. "Right."
"What'd you want?" Freddie sighed dramatically. "I wanted to spend time with my favorite person." You froze up immediately, sitting up at the sound of his words masked behind a smile. "No." You laughed.
"What?" He sounded offended. "You want something?"
"I don't."
"You do." You laughed again, not believing for a second he'd ring you up at midnight talking about some "favorite person". A pause follows, you wait, your very own dumb smiling cursing your cheeks. "You absolutely do,"
"Maybe," He laughed. "Just come to the shed tomorrow."
"Why?" You asked, tucking hair out of your face. "Because I asked." You chewed on your bottom lip, "What's the catch?"
"No catch."
"Freddieee," You drug out. "Whattt. I mean it, no catch." His words sounded promising enough to convince you, but still you sighed, laughing. "You're lying."
"Yeah, I love you too." The line disconnects and you pull your phone back, staring at it. Tucking your phone under your pillow. "He's definitely lying." You murmured to yourself.
You'd gotten ready for whatever Freddie had planned with far more effort than you'd ever admit out loud. Not because it was Freddie, but, because it was Freddie. And that made sense to you somehow.
You'd spent nearly ten minutes deciding whether or not to change your skirt before finally deciding you couldn't be bothered. By the time you were leaving, the only thing you'd really committed to was slipping on your favorite pair of shiny black Mary Janes.
The sock on your left foot bunching up beneath your heel, you knew it would make the walk a pain because it was already uncomfortable. "Brilliant." You sighed, You shoved your foot against the floor a few times before giving up. The problem could wait. You slung your bag over your shoulder and stepped outside. The weather was strange, it always was. Muggy enough that your skin felt damp like but cold enough that you wished you'd brought another layer. Typical Bristol.
The streets were quiet as you walked. Puddles from yesterdays rain still sat in cracks and dips along the pavement. The sky hung low and gray overhead, threatening another shower before the evening was through.
You followed the route without really thinking. Pat the corner shop, past the bus stop, past the row of houses across from the park where Freddie, Cook and JJ had spent half their childhood causing problems.
Your feet knew the way before your brain did, that happened a lot. You'd all grown up together, well, sort of. As much as anyone grew up around James Cook. The thought made your eyes roll, James fucking Cook. You couldn't remember a time he wasn't somehow lingering around the edges of your life.
Always there, like an annoying heat rash during summer. Or mold, or disease. You frowned. That seemed a bit harsh, even for Cook. He wasn't a disease, maybe more like a splinter, a burr stuck in your side under your saddle. Painfully irritating. Impossible to ignore, you sighed, because you knew that's what he wanted.
The problem was that if somebody asked why you couldn't stand him, you weren't sure you could answer anymore. Years ago it had made sense. Everything somehow became a competition. Who Freddie called first, who he sat beside. Who he'd invited somewhere. Who knew what was happening. It was stupid. But neither of you seemed capable of stopping.
Every conversation turned into an argument. Every argument turned into a contest. Every contest ended with Freddie looking exhausted and not wanting to see either of you. And it just became a normal part of the routine.
You kicked a loose stone down the pavement, Cooks stupid face immediately appeared in your head. The grin, the laugh, the way he acted like every terrible idea was worth trying at least once.
You groaned, why were you thinking about him? You didn't Veen like him. Well, that wasn't true. You liked him, you just couldn't stand him. There was a difference. A very important difference. Probably.
You thought back to the list you'd started mentally making the day before.
1. His laugh, like a gaggle of geese.
2. His hair. He 100% had a fringe in primary even though he denied it, it ran straight across his forehead.
3. ...
You paused because suddenly the list wasn't coming as easily anymore. Which was annoying, there had to be more. There definitely were more.
: His stupid confidence, he seemed uncomfortably comfortable in every room. The way he'd sit on the common room couches before college with a crown of girls sitting around him. How him and JJ would linger outside your house every morning before middle like they were waiting, even though every time you asked, Cook insisted they weren't.
You smiled despite yourself, then the drowning frown. No, absolutely not. You couldn't catch yourself smiling at the thought of James Cook. That seemed ridiculous. You shook your head sharply. As if physically throwing the thoughts out might help. By the time you looked up, you'd already turned down the familiar alley beside Freddie's house. Your stomach sank immediately, because that meant one thing. You'd spent the entire walk thinking about Cook. Again.
"Brilliant." You groaned. The hanging vines brushed against your shoulders as you ducked beneath them. The shed sat waiting at the end of the garden. Exactly as ugly as always. Exactly as Freddie had left it. You climbed the small step and wrapped your hand around the doorknob. For a second you hesitated. A strange feeling settled in your stomach.
Not nerves. Just suspicion. Freddie had sounded far too pleased with himself on the phone. That never ended well. You narrowed your eyes at the door. "What're you up to, Freds?" No answer came. Obviously. With a sigh, you pushed the door open.
And immediately wished you hadn't. "What're you doing here?!" James Cook looked up from the futon. Equally horrified. "Oh, you've gotta be fucking kidding me." He chimed.
"What're you doing here?!" you blurted.
Cook sat up so fast he nearly knocked his head against the wall behind the futon.
"What am I doing here?" he shot back. "What're you doing here?"
The disgust in his voice mirrored your own.
You pointed accusingly.
"Freddie asked me to come here."
Cook immediately pointed back.
"No, he asked me."
"He asked me."
"He asked me."
You stared at each other.
Neither willing to back down.
The silence stretched.
Then both your eyes landed on the folded piece of paper sitting on the chair opposite the futon.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
Cook groaned.
You snatched up the note before he could.
The familiar messy handwriting made your stomach sink.
Gone to help Karen.
Behave yourselves.
We'll be back later.
-- freds
You stared.
Then read it again.
Then a third time.
"No."
Cook dragged both hands down his face.
"No, no, no."
"He set me up."
"He set us up."
You looked at him.
He looked at you.
The horror was mutual.
You slowly lowered yourself onto the opposite side of the futon.
As far away from him as physically possible.
The shed felt smaller than usual.
The silence felt louder.
Outside, somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.
Inside, all you could hear was Cook breathing.
You immediately hated that you could hear Cook breathing.
After nearly five minutes of silence, Cook finally spoke.
"I reckon Freddie's lost his mind."
"Probably."
"'Go a day without arguing.'"
You mimicked Freddie's voice perfectly.
Cook laughed.
"Sounded exactly like him."
"I know."
"He genuinely thinks he's helping."
"He genuinely is an idiot."
"Also true."
The silence returned.
Slightly less awkward.
Not by much.
You picked at a loose thread hanging from the arm of the futon.
Cook bounced one leg.
The shed door rattled slightly when a breeze hit it.
Neither of you moved.
Eventually Cook groaned.
Loudly.
Dramatically.
You closed your eyes.
"What now?"
"I'm bored."
"It has been six minutes."
"It's been years."
"It hasn't."
"It feels like it."
You rolled your eyes.
Cook threw his head back.
"See this?"
"What?"
"This is why we argue."
"You started it."
"No, you did."
"How?"
"You existed."
You stared.
Cook grinned.
You fought the urge to smile.
Unfortunately, you failed.
His grin widened.
"Look at that."
"Don't."
"You smiled."
"I didn't."
"You did."
"I absolutely did not."
"You absolutely did."
You hated how pleased with himself he looked.
Hours seemed to crawl by.
At some point the arguing stopped being real arguments and became something else.
Petty observations.
Stupid stories.
Complaints about Freddie.
Complaints about teachers.
Complaints about Bristol weather.
You learned Cook had once accidentally set fire to a microwave.
Cook learned you'd gotten detention in Year Eight for telling a teacher she dressed like a curtain.
Neither of you stopped laughing for several minutes after that one.
"She did."
"You can't say that."
"She did though."
"You got detention."
"Worth it."
Cook nearly fell off the futon laughing.
For the first time all day, you forgot you were supposed to dislike him.
Then his phone buzzed.
The sound cut through the room.
Cook's smile immediately disappeared.
You noticed.
Of course you noticed.
He pulled the phone from his pocket.
Looked at the screen.
Locked it again.
Your eyes narrowed.
"Who was that?"
"Nobody."
"That's not a person."
Cook sighed.
"It's nobody."
"You looked like somebody."
"I looked like somebody?"
"You know what I mean."
"No clue."
You held your hand out.
"Give me the phone."
"No."
"Give me the phone."
"No."
"Cook."
"No."
You lunged.
Cook yelped.
The phone disappeared behind his back.
"Oi!"
"You made it suspicious!"
"It wasn't suspicious before!"
"It absolutely was!"
You both nearly tipped off the futon.
Eventually you gave up.
Folding your arms.
"Fine."
"Good."
The silence lasted all of ten seconds.
"It was your mum, wasn't it?"
Cook's jaw tightened.
You immediately knew you'd guessed correctly.
"Oh."
The playful mood vanished.
Just like that.
Cook stared at the opposite wall.
The muscles in his jaw worked.
Once.
Twice.
You suddenly wished you'd kept your mouth shut.
"Forget it."
"No."
"Cook."
"No."
He laughed.
Except there wasn't anything funny about it.
A sharp sound.
Bitter.
"Why?"
You frowned.
"What?"
"Why're you interested?"
The question wasn't hostile.
It sounded tired.
You weren't used to tired from him.
"You looked upset."
"I'm not upset."
"You are."
"No."
"You are."
Cook scoffed.
Shook his head.
Looked away.
Then suddenly the words started spilling out.
About Ruth.
About never knowing which version of her he'd get.
About feeling forgotten.
About feeling like everybody only wanted him around when he was entertaining.
When he was loud.
When he was funny.
When he was useful.
You didn't interrupt.
Not once.
You simply listened.
And somehow that seemed to make it worse.
Because nobody ever just listened.
Not to James Cook.
He finally stopped talking.
The room fell silent.
Cook's eyes found yours.
Suspicious.
Almost uncomfortable.
"Why're you looking at me like that?"
You shrugged slightly.
"Just listening."
"Why?"
The question sounded genuinely confused.
You blinked.
"Because you're talking."
Cook stared.
You continued.
"And because somebody should."
His expression faltered.
Just briefly.
"We don't listen to you enough."
A humourless laugh escaped him.
"'We.'"
"You know what I mean."
"No."
"You do."
Cook looked away.
You could practically see him building another joke.
Another defence.
Another wall.
Anything to avoid taking the conversation seriously.
But for once you didn't let him.
"If anybody gives a shit about you, Cook, it's us."
He scoffed.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Could've fooled me."
"It shouldn't."
Cook rubbed a hand across his face.
Exhausted suddenly.
Older than he normally looked.
The silence settled again.
This one different.
Heavier.
More honest.
You looked over at him.
At the boy you'd spent years competing against.
Years arguing with.
Years pretending not to care about.
And suddenly the thought felt ridiculous.
"You absolute idiot."
Cook looked up.
"What?"
You shook your head.
A smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.
"I care about you, Cookie."
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
For once.
James Cook had absolutely nothing to say.
"You really mean that?"
The question came out so quietly you almost missed it.
Not because Cook was soft spoken.
God no.
James Cook was many things. Loud. Obnoxious. Infuriating.
Quiet wasn't one of them.
Yet somehow those four words barely made it across the space between you.
Your chest tightened.
"Course I do."
Cook looked away immediately.
You weren't sure if it was embarrassment or disbelief.
Maybe both.
His fingers drummed against the cigarette pack resting on his thigh. A nervous habit you'd noticed years ago but never pointed out. He only did it when something got under his skin.
Or got to his heart.
The realization startled you.
Cook had spent so many years acting untouchable that sometimes you forgot there was a person underneath all the bravado.
A lonely one, apparently.
He cleared his throat.
"You're weird."
You barked out a laugh.
"There he is."
"What?"
"Thought I'd lost you for a minute."
"Fuck off."
A smile tugged at your lips.
Cook's mouth twitched too.
The tension cracked slightly.
Not gone.
Just softer.
Easier.
Outside, rain had started tapping lightly against the shed roof. The steady sound filled the silence between you.
For once, it wasn't uncomfortable.
You sat back against the arm of the futon and looked over at him.
His head was tilted back.
Eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Like he was afraid to look directly at you.
"You know," you started.
"Uh oh."
"I'm serious."
"That's never a good sign."
You kicked his shoe.
He kicked yours back.
Childishly.
Predictably.
You hated how much it made you smile.
"When we were little, I thought you were dead cool."
Cook's head snapped toward you.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"No."
He pointed.
"No, repeat that."
You groaned.
"Forget it."
"No chance."
A grin spread across his face.
"Say it again."
You buried your face in your hands.
"I hate you."
"No you don't."
"Right now I do."
Cook laughed.
That stupid laugh.
The one that always sounded like he found the world funnier than everyone else did.
You hated that you liked hearing it.
"You thought I was cool?"
"We were twelve."
"Still counts."
"It absolutely does not."
"It does."
"It doesn't."
Cook sat up straighter.
"It does."
"It doesn't."
"It does."
You shoved his shoulder.
Cook nearly fell sideways laughing.
"Look at you."
"Shut up."
"You had a crush on me."
Your jaw dropped.
"WHAT?"
"You absolutely did."
"I absolutely did not."
"You thought I was cool."
"Everybody thought you were cool."
"No they didn't."
"Yes they did."
"No they didn't."
You stared at him.
Then burst out laughing.
Because the most ridiculous part was that he sounded genuinely confused.
Like he honestly didn't understand why anyone would've thought that.
Cook slowly stopped laughing.
The grin slipped from his face.
"Nobody really did."
The words landed heavily.
You frowned.
"What?"
He shrugged.
The movement looked forced.
Like he'd immediately regretted saying it.
"You lot did."
"What lot?"
"You. Freddie. JJ."
His eyes dropped to the floor.
"Only ones who stuck around."
Something twisted painfully in your chest.
Because suddenly you could see it.
The reason Cook spent every waking moment trying to be the loudest person in the room.
The funniest.
The wildest.
The most reckless.
If he kept everyone entertained, nobody could leave.
Nobody could forget about him.
Nobody could choose somebody else.
And wasn't that exactly what your rivalry had always been?
Not hatred.
Fear.
Fear that Freddie liked the other one more.
Fear of being left behind.
Fear of being second choice.
You looked over at him.
Really looked.
The stupid hair.
The crooked grin.
The cocky attitude.
The boy you'd spent years arguing with.
The boy who somehow ended up woven through nearly every important memory you had.
"You know what your problem is?"
Cook groaned dramatically.
"Here we go."
"I'm serious."
"Dangerous."
"You think everyone hates you."
"I don't."
"You do."
"I don't."
"You absolutely do."
Cook rolled his eyes.
You leaned forward.
"Any time somebody cares about you, you make a joke."
"No I don't."
"You literally just did."
"No I didn't."
"You did." Cook opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Then pointed at you. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Make sense."
You burst out laughing. His face immediately split into a grin too. The rain outside got heavier. The shed felt smaller. Warmer. Comfortable.
A place that somehow existed outside the rest of the world. Cook shifted slightly closer. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough.
You noticed anyway. Neither of you acknowledged it. "Can I tell you something?" He narrowed his eyes.
"Depends."
"It's nice."
"Absolutely not."
You laughed. "Cook."
"What?"
"I'm glad Freddie tricked us."
His face immediately twisted. "Don't say that."
"I'm serious."
"It was awful."
"It wasn't."
"It was."
"It wasn't."
"We've been trapped in a shed for three hours."
"And?"
"And you're here."
You stared at him. Cook stared back. Then realization hit. “Oh."
"Yeah."
"Oh." For the first time all afternoon, Cook looked completely speechless. You smiled. Because honestly you felt a little speechless too. The rivalry suddenly seemed stupid. Years of arguments. Years of eye rolls. Years of pretending you couldn't stand each other.
For what? Because Freddie had been friends with both of you?
Because neither of you knew how to admit that maybe you'd wanted each other's attention too?
Cook rubbed the back of his neck. A nervous gesture.One you'd never seen before.
"Y'know." He started,
"What?"
His eyes met yours.
Then immediately darted away again.
"I don't reckon I'd be me without you either."
The words hit harder than they should've.
Maybe because you knew how difficult they were for him. Maybe because they were true. Neither of you spoke after that. You didn't need to.
The rain continued against the roof.
The shed creaked quietly around you.
Cook stretched his legs across yours again.
This time you didn't complain.
Didn't shove him away.
Didn't even move.
And when his shoulder eventually bumped against yours, neither of you mentioned that either.
Because some things were better left unsaid.
At least for now.
You weren't sure when the conversation had stopped.
One minute Cook had been rambling about some story from primary school involving him, JJ, a shopping trolley and a pond.
The next, neither of you were talking.
Rain tapped steadily against the shed roof.
The afternoon light had faded from the small dirty window.
The shed sat in comfortable silence.
A dangerous thing.
Comfortable silence had never existed between you and James Cook before.
Your shoulder rested against the back of the futon.
Cook sat beside you, slouched low enough that his head had fallen against the cushion.
His legs were still draped over yours.
At some point you'd stopped caring.
At some point he'd stopped pretending he didn't like talking to you.
You blinked slowly.
Tired.
The room felt warm.
The rain sounded nice.
Cook's voice had become quieter.
Slower.
"...and then JJ starts crying."
You laughed.
"He did not."
"He did." Cook nodded, holding back a laugh.
"He didn't."
"He absolutely did."
His words slurred together slightly.
You looked over.
His eyes were half shut.
"Tired, Cookie?" You tease. "Fuck off." You smiled. "Thought so." He nudged your shoulder weakly. A few minutes passed. Then ten. Then twenty. The rain continued.
Neither of you noticed yourselves drifting off.
Freddie practically skipped across the garden.
Karen had accused him of being up to something. His asked him why he was smiling so much, neither understood. Today was the day.
Today his stupid plan worked. Or at least he hoped it had. Maybe. Possibly. There was a fifty percent chance one of you had murdered the other.
Freddie pushed open the shed door.
The triumphant grin already spreading across his face. "Alright, which one of you cracked fi—" He stopped. Completely. The words died on his tongue and he swallowed them back down. The grin froze. Cook was asleep. You were asleep too.
Curled against the arm of the futon.
Somewhere during the afternoon, Cook had slumped sideways.
His head rested against your shoulder.
One arm crossed his stomach.
Your head leaned lightly against his.
Neither of you had moved.
The shed was completely silent.
Freddie stared.
Then stared harder.
Then slowly looked toward the ceiling. "No fucking way." A laugh escaped him. Quiet this time. Disbelieving after years, years of listening to you both bitch about each other. Years of arguments. Years of making him pick sides.
The two people he'd spent most of his teenage life trying to keep apart had fallen asleep together in his disgusting shed.
Before Freddie could, Karen was behind him snickering, snapping photos, “Karen.” He snapped, “What? Facebooks gotta see this one…” she bit her tongue, holding back a laugh.
Because obviously.
Freddie pulled out his phone next and snapped a picture, then another.
Because the first one was blurry. Cook shifted slightly. Freddie froze. But neither of you woke up. He looked at the pair of you again. At how peaceful you both looked.
At how neither of you seemed remotely interested in fighting anymore.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"About fucking time."
Then, because he wasn't completely evil, Freddie quietly shut the shed door again and left the two of you alone.
JACK CHARACTERS FUCKING YOU IN A DELICIOUS HEADLOCK BLURB ⋆𖦹⋆ˎˊ˗
eighteen plus, minors do not interact!!
remmick loves the game of it all. he wants to see how much of those inky black dots he can get you to see before completely passing out, see how stupid he can get you. his arm is iron around your throat, a vice of muscle and possessive intent that locks you in place as he fucks you like he’s trying to brand you from the inside out. your nails dig uselessly at the forearm caging you, at the slick heat of his skin, but it only makes him grunt—low, filthy, approving. each thrust is brutal, dragging you back against him, forcing out strangled sounds you can’t hold in. his lips ghost your ear, a rasping, dangerous purr, “feel that?” the words rough against your ear as his arm cinches tighter, forcing a gasp from your lips. “that’s me holdin' ya here. makin' sure you remember who you belong to. 'cause when I let go—if I ever let go—you won’t be walkin' away. you’ll be beggin' for me to put you back where you fuckin' belong.”
lion kaminski gets more whiny when he gets you like this. it's addictive and almost rewarding that his strength is being used to please you and the thought alone has his brain fogging up. his free hand is fisted in your hair, dragging your head back just enough for his mouth to hover over your ear, breath hot, unsteady. he’s fucking into you like a man starved—deep, rough, punishing in the way only he can be, like he’s trying to bury himself somewhere no one else will ever reach. “mine,” he rasps, voice breaking on the word, “you hear me? nobody else gets this. nobody else gets you.” his other hand brands your hip, holding you still as if the thought of you slipping from him—here, now—might kill him outright.
roy goode adores how you take it in this position, so much so that a part of him gets sentimental. he makes it a point to make you aware of it, even in your fucked out state. his forearm cinches around your throat, hauling you back into the solid wall of his chest as he drives into you, each thrust rougher than the last. his breath is hot and uneven against your ear, words spilling out like he can’t hold them in anymore. “look at that doll,” he rasps, voice frayed. “that’s me—holdin’ on for dear life. ‘cause if I lose you…” his jaw tightens against your temple, the sound he makes raw and near broken, “…if I lose you, there ain’t nothin’ left worth stayin’ alive for.” his hips slam forward hard enough to rattle the boards around you, and his arm tightens until you can’t do anything but take him, trapped in his need. “so don’t you dare leave me. don’t you dare.”
patrick sumner breaks with every thrust, not used to the closeness and trust of this position. he's talking through it all, desperate and devastatingly pathetic. his forearm braces tight under your jaw, hauling you back into the hard line of his chest, his hips driving up into you with a pace that feels like punishment—on you, on him, on everything he can’t control. his breath is ragged against your ear, almost a snarl as he forces the words out, “you think I’d survive without you?” his voice cracks, guttural, as if the thought itself is poison. “i wouldn’t. i’d rot. i’d beg for death before i’d watch you walk away.” his grip tightens fractionally, a shiver running through him as if the confession cost him blood. “stay right here, with me. i’ll never let you go.”
ˋˏsummary: you noticed your husband’s strange behavior, but nothing could’ve prepared you for what it actually was.
this has literally been in my drafts gou for GOD KNOWS how long but like need jack in a robert eggers film stat
✧warnings : MDNI 18+, DARK LIKE HORROR THEMES, graphic violence & gore, blood, injury, animal death, body horror, monster creature sexual content, rough sex, oral (fem. receiving), biting, creampie, #BUSH
He went missing again.
Oscar had been a gift from Patrick after the two of you married. You frequently let him roam around outside, because most of the time, the tabby cat would return just a few hours later. He didn’t this time. A week passed, still no return.
With a heavy heart, you grabbed the bowl filled with cat food off the porch, you hoped it would lead Oscar back home. The door creaked as you opened it and slipped back inside, moving back towards the kitchen.
“..He still hasn’t come back.” You murmured as you emptied out the bowl into the trash.
“He’s somewhere out there.” Patrick sat at the table in his chair as he read from his book, his reading glasses perched on his nose. he didn’t look up at you yet.
Patrick sighed quietly, taking off his glasses and placing them on the table. He turned to face you, giving you his full attention. “I think, you’re worrying yourself too much about it.” It was quiet for a moment, he continued, “Oscar always wanders off for a few days and comes back.” His gaze was unwavering as he took you in, his voice going softer, “You know this.”
You finally looked away from the window and back at Patrick. You spun your wedding ring on your finger with a soft whisper of, “..Perhaps you’re right.”
For a moment, the gentle drops of rain and the trees tapping against the windows was the only sound in the small kitchen as he watched you. He sat up fully in the chair, holding his hand outwards, “Come here.”
You stared at his outstretched hand for a second, before moving across the kitchen and placing your hand in his. His large hand wrapped around yours, pulling you closer towards him so you stood between his legs. He brought your hand towards his face, pressing a lingering, soft kiss to your knuckles. “..He will come back." Another kiss.
Your heart fluttered as you watched him, gingerly pulling your hand out of his, “..I do hope you’re right.” You let your hands rest on his face instead. His eyes closed and he let out a soft sigh at the feeling. Instinctively, he leaned into your hands as they gently scratched through his beard, just holding each other close for a moment. After a moment you did pull away, moving around the kitchen as he sat back again.
He ran his hands over his trousers, looking back up when he heard the gentle thud of something on the table. A bowl filled with broth and some other vegetables, what caught his attention was the meat inside of it. “What’s this?”
“Something last minute.” You turned to grab cutlery for both of you.
He went quiet as he stared at the soup. It was as if it was as if everything went hazy besides the bowl in front of him, he could feel his ears started ringing—an intense feeling washed over him, something unexplainable. As the smell of the soup hit his nostrils, he felt the bile rise from the back of his throat. He gagged as he stood, his chair dragging across the wooden floors as he moved away from the table, covering his mouth.
The sound immediately made your head turn, your brows furrowing as you moved towards him, placing a grounding hand on his back, “Patrick, are you alright?”
He moved towards the water pitcher as he poured a generous amount of water into a glass. Taking a deep breath he nodded, “I’m fine.” His answer was gruff. He drank the water quickly, then exhaled. “..I’m fine, I’m fine. I’m just..not feeling very well, love.”
That was an understatement. For weeks now Patrick had been acting strange. He’d be more irritable recently, then it was the food, then the unusual amount of hair growth in..all areas (you’d noticed when he was changing one evening, not that you were complaining.) Leaving in the middle of the night was a recent development, but you were no fool, you knew he was doing it. Some nights you could feel him slip out of your shared bed and close the door behind him, you just didn’t know what was wrong or what he had been doing.
It wasn’t as if he would tell you anything either. Patrick had always been quieter, more reserved, not that you minded of course. You knew the things that he’d been through, but even then sometimes you’d wished your husband would just open up more.
You placed a placating hand on his shoulder, “..Are you sure you’re alright? Do you need anything? I can grab that medicine from the cabinet if you’d like—“
“I told you I’m fine!” He practically growled as he stepped away from you to lean his hands against the table. Instinctively, your hand pulled away from his shoulder, resting back down on your dress as you tried to ignore the small pang in your heart.
The room was silent besides the ticking of the clock in the hallway. After a moment, you’d heard Patrick sigh, running a hand over his beard as he murmured softly, “..I’m sorry love, I—“ He turned his head slightly, “I didn’t mean to lash out like that, I’m very exhausted.”
Your hands fiddled with eachother, “..I know.” You said quietly, looking back up at him and putting a small smile on your face. you still didn’t move closer.
He nodded once, before standing up straight and taking a deep breath, “I’m going upstairs.” He moved out of the kitchen.
It was silent in the room again, you knew not to follow right away—another time you might’ve, but at this moment you knew your husband just wanted to be alone for a couple minutes. You quietly moved downstairs, moving to empty out the uneaten bowls outside before moving back into the kitchen to put the porcelain into the sink. You finally moved back upstairs.
As you slowly opened the door, you’d noticed Patrick was turned on his side asleep in your bed. He was asleep, or at least looked to be. With gentle steps, you moved towards your wardrobe, starting to take off your dress with much effort. Usually, Patrick would’ve helped you with the complicated process of helping you rid of all the layers underneath your dress. But, you could do it yourself, not as quickly.
Eventually you were able to slip into your nightgown and place all of your things back into your wardrobe. You lifted the covers and moved into bed beside Patrick. Recently the house had been cold in the evening, so you moved in close to him in hopes of some of his warmth seeping into you. Time mixed together as you drifted off, your face pressed into your husband’s back.
A loud clatter interrupted your sleep.
You shot up at the sound. Your hands pulled the blankets closer towards your chest, “..What was that? Patrick? Patrick—“ The spot beside you was empty, Patrick had left again.
“..Patrick?” You called out again, not as loud as you would’ve liked it to have been—it came out as more of a squeak. Another loud sound from downstairs.
If Patrick was beside you he would’ve held you closer and told you it was just the house itself. The house was somewhat old and noises were a frequent thing coming from the walls or floorboards. But this wasn’t a sound from the home, it was something else.
Your hands reached towards the bedside table for the box of matches. With trembling hands and a few fails, the flame finally caught and you grabbed the candle.
You were mindful of your steps, keeping them light as you moved down the stairs, holding onto the candle tightly. Everytime you moved down a step the wood creaked and you winced.
“Patrick?” You hissed as your feet fell onto the carpeted floor at the bottom of the stairs. A crack of lighting made you jump. The wind and rain had gotten stronger, rattling the windows. There was another clatter, your head whipped towards the sound. It was coming from the cellar.
You never went down into the cellar in fear of what may be down there: bugs, rats, cobwebs. The mere prospect of going down into the cellar caused your already pounding heart to increase even more. But something was down there.
The door made a long creaking noise when you opened it. You stared down at the darkness. For a long moment you tried convincing yourself that when you’d walk down those steps nothing would be there. Or, that you would wake up in your warm bed and your dear husband would be beside you telling you it was ‘just a nightmare.’ Yes, that’s exactly what would happen.
Except that was not the case.
Your heel hovered over the first step before stepping down. The steps were cold, you could feel your breathing getting quicker. With each step the smell of the cellar filled your lungs—the smell of mildew and humid air. But there was another strong scent too, something foul, something that shouldn’t have been down there. Your hand shot up to cover your mouth as you gagged, tears immediately pricking at the corners of your eyes. It was the strong smell of decay, and of blood.
Reaching the last step your eyes moved around the cellar—that’s when your eyes caught the crouched figure in the corner. Although you had a candle in your hand, it was still quite difficult to really see what or who it was, you’d have to get closer.
You held the candle out further as you inched closer. Your eyes could just makeout a head of dark brown hair and the pale skin of someone’s back. Thin and thick scratch marks were littered across the skin, whoever it was seemed to be naked. The smell of blood became more apparent as well as an unnerving wet sound.
That was when you realized this wasn’t just some man.
“..Patrick?”
The wet-fleshy sound stopped and his head slowly turned.
His usually styled hair was tousled and damp as it stuck to his face. His entire beard was drenched, covered in blood and thick drool that fell to the stone floor beneath his feet. In his hands, he held something—intestines were hanging out of it’s stomach, a fistful of them in Patrick’s large hand. The fur was speckled black and white. You could’ve recognized that pattern from anywhere.
Oscar.
Before you could even cry out, the sound of shifting and cracking made you jolt as you tried your best to keep your grip tight around the candle still in your hand. “..Patrick? Patrick—“
He practically roared as he fell forward onto his knees, his hands clenched into the ground. The feeling of helplessness washed over you as you could only watch in horror as his bones shifted and cracked underneath his skin, dark, fur began to grow from out of his spine, spreading across his whole body—causing even more agonizing pain.
It finally stopped, your breath hitched.
His eyes found slid up to meet yours from the floor again, gods those eyes—so familiar and yet so different. His now clawed hands dragged against the floor, leaving thin white scratches in the stone as he dragged himself towards you.
“..Patrick, no—Patrick.” Your voice trembled as he got closer, until you felt a sharp stinging on your hand. The candle’s wax had melted onto your fingers. On instinct your hand recoiled back and the candle landed flat onto the floor. The room would’ve been pitch black if not for the small window in the cellar, the moonlight shining through it.
Your breathing was ragged as you stared at him, he looked as if he wanted to rip you apart—which would’ve felt impossible a few days ago, this was Patrick, your husband.
Perhaps that’s why it kept you from running back up the stairs and locking the cellar door tight, because despite the fangs and claws and fur, it was still Patrick.
“..Patrick, it’s—it’s me.” You tried for a gentle tone, but he was still moving closer. “You remember me don’t you? Oh, you must.” That did not seem to be the right response, he moved from off of his legs to stand tall in front of you, his chest rising up and down.
Something deep inside of you made you want to reach out and touch the dark fur covering his chest. But you hadn’t moved, yet.
His head tilted lightly, inside of his mouth—you could see each sharp tooth, the teeth that could oh so very easily rip out your throat if he wanted. But he didn’t do anything yet, perhaps Patrick did recognize you even in the state he was in.
He inched even closer and you closed your eyes. You could feel the warm press of his breath against your cheek and that metallic scent of blood, a thick rivulet of drool dripped down his chin. His clawed hand was moving up the front of your nightgown, the movement somewhat gentle.
A hot rush moved through you as his big, clawed hands traveled over your nightgown. In this very moment, fear may have been the last thing on your mind—perhaps it was the adrenaline. But that couldn’t explain the dampness you’d felt forming between your legs.
He was breathing heavily through his nose, before his hand suddenly moved and wrapped around your jaw.
You gasped softly at the feeling, it wasn’t forceful or rough, he just slowly tilted your head back. The blood from his hand smeared against your jaw and cheek. He pressed his nose against your pulse point as he inhaled deeply. You could hear a low rumbling sound from the back of his throat.
“..Yes—yes, it’s me. Patrick.” You coaxed, moving your head forward slightly to catch his eye. Then you felt the slick, slimy press of his tongue against your skin as he dragged his tongue from your collarbone to your upper jaw and you shuddered as goosebumps started rising on your skin and your cunt started getting wetter.
With trembling hands you moved to unlace the front of your nightgown, keeping your eyes on him—he hadn’t looked away, his chest still heaving with deep breaths.
You let the nightgown slip off of your body and into a pile on the ground. The cold air immediately made you shiver, your nipples hardening.
Before you could even really react two large clawed hands covered your breasts, squeezing at the soft skin and prodding at your nipples. You sucked in a sharp breath, trying to keep yourself still as you stared at him. Your eyes followed the thick string of drool that dripped from his mouth and onto your chest, sliding down your body.
You grabbed his hands in your trembling ones, gently guiding them down your body. You could feel the sharp edges of his claws graze drag down your body before finally reaching the tuft of hair between your legs, sliding his fingers between your damp folds.
Patrick seemed to falter for a moment, even in the state that he was in. His gaze was locked down on where his hand was, he could smell your arousal clearly.
“..Please, Patrick.” The sound of your voice brought his attention back to your face, his eyes darting quickly back and forth over your face. Although your husband was not fully himself, he was still aware enough to know who you were. He slowly dragged his hand back up your body, the blood on his hand leaving small streaks as he trailed his hand up, before stopping at your mouth. Instinctively, your mouth opened, your tongue flicking out to lick at them. You moaned softly at the taste, a mix of your arousal and the heady taste of blood.
“..Please.” You gave him the best look you could muster, your lips pressed against his fingers—anything to keep Patrick from tearing you apart right here.
And it seemed to be working.
He let out a low growl before he was picking you up and pinning you down against the damp stone floor, knocking the wind out of you for just a moment. You stumbled slightly as you tried to sit up, before his hand wrapped around your ankle and you yelped. He pulled you back towards him as he moved onto the ground above you, you could feel his cock pressing against your thigh.
His claws dug into the skin your thighs as he pulled you forward, pushing your legs back, “Patrick wait—oh!” But you were cut off when his head moved between your thighs and you whined.
His tongue moved across your pussy in frantic strokes, the foamy, thick spit dripping from his mouth mixing with your arousal. Your hips bucked around his mouth and you let out a squeak as you felt his sharp teeth brush over your clit, the feeling soothed away by the circle of his tongue over the bud—before taking it into his mouth.
“Oh! Oh gods, Patrick—” You mumbled out, moving one hand to grip at the damp strands of hair on his head, the other fumbling to press against the blood slicked floor beneath you. His movements were feral, as if he was trying to completely bury himself in the taste and scent of you. Instinctively, your hips began to buck up against his mouth, the coarse hair of his beard creating a delicious friction against your pulsing bundle of nerves. Your orgasm was rapidly approaching and all you could do was whine and squirm underneath your husbands mouth.
You knew that he could feel you getting close and he redoubled his efforts. The ground beneath you was wet with your juices, blood, and the spit from his mouth, yet this didn’t stop Patrick. You could hear him growl faintly, but nothing could’ve prepared you for his tongue sliding inside of your entrance, pushing and prodding at your inner walls.
“Oh my god!” Your orgasm washed over you suddenly and you cried out, your thighs clenching tightly around his head as you rode out your orgasm, pushing at his head when he continued licking at your cunt.
He finally pulled away, a thick strand of saliva connecting his lips to your cunt, before it broke away. His beard was drenched and his eyes were dilated. His hands tore into the remnants of his pants, ripping off the fabric completely.
Your insides clenched as your eyes followed the thick trail of hair that lead to his cock.
It stood proudly against his stomach, precum coming out the rosy tip in small spurts. It pulsed once, twice. Patrick had been a gifted man to begin with—but now, his cock looked almost intimidatingly big. You swallowed thickly, but didn’t ignore the way your clit pulsed at the sight.
He dragged your thighs to rest around his hips, which, you quickly surrendered to, moving to wrap your own arms around his back. The swollen tip of his cock pressed against your entrance and you squirmed.
And then he pushed inside of you and your brain melted.
His tip stretching inside had been enough, but now Patrick was fully inside, and the feeling was overwhelming. He hadn’t even given you a moment to adjust as he started to slam into you.
Intercourse with Patrick had always been a slow and gentle process. Your husband was ever dutiful when it came to you and your pleasure, putting it before his. A stark contrast to the rough fucking that you were receiving right now, this was hardly Patrick at all—just some savage beast taking what he wanted from you.
And yet you couldn’t bring yourself to care, not with the copious amount of pleasure you were experiencing in this moment.
You were flushed, head was thrown back with your hair in disarray around you, and your stomach and chest were heaving desperately as you were being pounded into with a force that was inhuman. “Oh, oh yes, Patrick, please—” You could barely even focus in the moment, not on the gorey scene around you, or the feeling of his sharp claws digging into the sensitive skin of your hips as he moved you back and forth, the only thing you could focus on was the feeling of his cock dragging in and out of you and his balls wetly slapping against your ass after every thrust.
You could feel your orgasm rapidly approaching as his cock hit your cervix with every deep stroke. Deep, vicious growls came from Patrick’s clenched fangs, some of the drool dripping from his mouth and onto your breasts.
When the tip of his cock brushed against the sensitive spot inside you one more time, you shattered around him and screamed.
You clenched around his cock as he continued thrusting into your spasming walls, eyes rolling into the back of your skull. Your hands fumbled to find the fur on his back, digging into it as you pulled your trembling body closer to him.
His pace didn’t falter as he continued rocking into you, but you felt him twitching inside of you, a telltale sign of his impending orgasm.
“Please, give it to me—I want it, please, please, my love—” You babbled, the skin of your back scraping harshly against the rough floor beneath you. All of your senses were overpowered by the raw pleasure your husband was giving you.
And within a few more thrusts, you felt hot, thick spurts of his cum fill you completely, some overflowing and creating a creamy circle where his cock connected with your cunt.
You were finally able to breathe again.
Then Patrick’s mouth sunk into the skin just above your nipple and all you felt was the pressure and searing pain. His jagged fangs sunk in deep into your skin, tearing right through your flesh. Blood immediately spurted from the wound. You screamed.
But nobody heard you from inside the cellar. Of course they hadn’t.
If a passerby did hear it, they might’ve just mistaken it for a drunken person.
It was just another person fooling around at night trying to scare people, that was all it was.
If anybody has any requests please slide them over… I beg. I have no ideas and am desperate for some writing and have to entertain my people so I must ask what the people want.
ur Lion Kaminski x single mom reader was SO good had to let ya know, k bye xoxo
🥹 AWEEE tysm, idk what to really say but thank you! You’re super sweet!! The support is a push for me to continue to post, I still have a Lion draft I’m “trying” to work on, stay postedddd!
