#james cook

[triumph-of-adaptation]

[spikedfearn]

⊝ pairing: James Cook x fem!reader

⊝ summary: He said ass, gas, or cash. You didn’t have the cash and he didn’t need the gas. Now your dealer’s fucking you harder than your degree ever could.

⊝ wc: 4k

⊝ a/n: That’s probably the most direct fic title and summary I’ve ever written lmao. Dedicated to Kat (@/sumnerslove on twitter) who said we needed more dealer Cook—this one’s for you, girlypop!! might turn this into a series tbh. thank you @scrprints for the photos of Cook.

⊝ warnings: drug use (weed/adderall), unprotected sex, explicit oral sex (m!receiving), face-fucking, gagging, choking, spit kink, degradation kink, creampie, breeding kink, masturbation, coercive dynamics, rough sex, cock slapping, messy/blowjob drool, reader gets called a slut (lovingly), size kink, begging kink, possessive behavior, overstimulation, fingering, dirty talk, reader pays for drugs with sex, dealer!james cook

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

⊝ Part II / Masterlist

Part I: Short Changed

You knock twice on the busted door before just letting yourself in. Cook’s never locked it—not once in all the times you’ve come here, and it creaks open with the same stubborn groan as always.

Inside smells like weed and something fried. Maybe both. You don’t really care.

“Oi oi,” Cook calls from the kitchen. “Back for more already? Didn’t even miss me, did ya?”

You shoot him a look over the open counter. “Missed the Adderall, not you.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he grins. “That’s what they all say.”

He’s got a pan in one hand, spatula in the other, like he’s been halfway through making god-knows-what when you showed up. Shirtless—of course—but at least this time he’s wearing jeans.

“Left it on the table,” he nods toward the squat coffee table in the living room, already littered with rolling papers and stray crumbs. “Same as always.”

You dig into your hoodie pocket, fingers curling around the folded cash.

“Twenty short,” he says before you even pull it out.

You freeze. “What?”

“Price went up,” Cook says easily, flicking off the burner like this is just casual conversation. “Inflation, innit? Economy’s fucked. Gotta adjust.”

You blink. “You’re charging more for the same shit you’ve always sold me?”

He leans in the doorway now, arms crossed. Smirking. “What can I say? Demand’s high. Product’s tight. And you’re not the only pretty little thing beggin’ for a pick-me-up.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you snap, but you’re already counting again. You really are twenty short.

He shrugs, like this is all the same to him. “Ass, gas, or cash, yeah? And I don’t need petrol.”

You stare at him.

He doesn’t blink.

“…You’re joking.”

“Am I?”

There’s that little glint in his eye—the one he gets when he knows he’s said something that’s gonna push a button. The worst part is, he’s not even smug about it. Just calm. Lazy. Like this isn’t the first time someone’s come up short, and it isn’t the first time he’s offered…alternate forms of payment.

“Jesus,” you mutter, stepping back. “You’re actually serious.”

Cook uncrosses his arms, slow like he’s stretching, and tilts his head. “Look, I’m not makin’ you do anything. You can always go. Find some other dealer. Maybe they’ll let you Venmo.”

You hesitate. Just for a second.

His grin spreads like he’s caught it. “Oh. Oh, I see. You want me to be joking, but part of you’s thinkin’ about it.”

You don’t say anything.

He steps closer, that lazy swagger in his walk, eyes fixed on yours like he’s reading every thought. “How long you been buyin’ from me now?”

“Couple months.”

“And every time, you come in here, givin’ me shit, mouthin’ off—”

“Because you’re a dick.”

“—and yet you always come back.” He stops in front of you. Close. Too close. “You ever think maybe you like me talkin’ to you like that?”

You scoff, trying to step back, but the coffee table’s right there.

“Or maybe you just like the idea of me bendin’ you over it.”

“Fuck off,” you snap, but your voice is tighter than before. Your hands won’t stop twitching.

Cook raises his brows. “All right then. Fuck off it is.”

He backs away—but not far. Just enough to give you space to think. To breathe. The pills still sit on the edge of the table, just out of reach. He watches you with that maddening calm, like he knows exactly how this ends.

“Could’ve just told me before I came over,” you mutter, half to yourself.

“But then I wouldn’t get to see you squirm like this.”

You glare at him.

He licks his teeth. “C’mon. You got a smart fuckin’ mouth. Put it to use.”

Your stomach drops.

Cook catches it—lives for it—and steps back into your space. “Unless you’d rather bend over for it. Up to you. You get your meds either way.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“I’ve been called worse,” he says, voice dropping low now. “But let’s not pretend you’re not soaked just thinkin’ about it.”

Your face burns. Your pulse is loud in your ears.

And the worst part is…he’s not wrong.

You don’t know when your mouth goes dry.

Maybe it’s when Cook steps closer again, all that lazy swagger gone from his walk—replaced with something heavier. Hungrier.

Or maybe it’s when he reaches down, palms the bulge in his jeans, and says it like a goddamn punch to the throat:

“Get on your knees.”

You blink up at him. Staring. Heart pounding.

“You want the pills?” he says again, voice softer now, lower. “Show me.”

You hesitate—but only for a breath. Then your knees hit the carpet with a soft thump.

Cook groans, head tipping back like just the sight of you down there is enough to make him hard. One hand drags through his hair; the other drops to his zipper.

“Fuckin’ knew it,” he mutters. “Knew you’d look good on your knees. Should’ve charged you short weeks ago.”

You open your mouth to snap back, but the words never come.

Not when he frees his cock from his jeans—already thick, already hard—and strokes it once, slow and heavy, just to watch your lips part again.

“Yeah?” he grins. “Got nothin’ to say now?”

You glare up at him. He chuckles and taps the head of his cock against your cheek. Just once.

Then again—slap—a little firmer.

Your breath hitches.

Cook’s grin widens.

“Look at that. All that attitude, gone. Where’s that mouth now, sweetheart?”

You narrow your eyes—but your thighs press together.

He knows.

The next tap lands right on your lips. Then again, firmer. The head of his cock glistens with precum now, and he watches it smear across your mouth with something damn near reverent.

“Open up.”

You hesitate.

He grips your jaw—not hard, just enough to tilt your chin.

“Don’t make me ask again.”

You open.

And he moans—a low, raw sound that punches straight to your core.

“Good little slut.”

His cock slides past your lips slowly, dragging across your tongue inch by inch. You try to breathe through your nose, try to pace it, but he’s thick and heavy, and your eyes start to water before he’s even halfway in.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Cook groans. “Take it, yeah? Knew that smart little mouth could do more than just talk shit.”

You try to glare up at him, but your mouth’s too full.

He pulls out almost completely, just enough to let you catch your breath—and then taps the tip of his cock against your tongue. Slap. Slap. It’s wet and obscene and filthy and he’s watching your drool drip down your chin with a look that says he might actually cum just from the sight.

“Messy girl,” he murmurs. “Didn’t even get started and you’re already fuckin’ drooling.”

He fists your hair, tugs gently. You moan around him, and that makes him twitch in your mouth.

“Oh, you like that,” he laughs. “Course you fuckin’ do. Bet you’re so wet it hurts.”

You don’t answer—you can’t—but your thighs clench again, and Cook notices.

“Touch yourself,” he says, voice gone ragged.

You hesitate. He pulls your mouth off him with a wet pop, cock glistening.

“Did I stutter?”

Your hand slides down, trembling.

Cook watches like a man possessed, stroking himself with your spit as you slip your fingers between your legs, under the waistband.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he groans. “Don’t stop. Put that mouth back where it belongs.”

You take him in again—deeper this time, throat burning, spit stringing from your lips down to your chin. He starts thrusting now, slow at first, then faster. His hips roll forward, lazy but relentless, and your jaw aches from the stretch.

“You wanted this,” he pants. “You knew you’d end up here. Wanted to act all high and mighty, pretendin’ you weren’t thinkin’ about suckin’ my cock every time you knocked on that door.”

You moan around him.

“Yeah. Just like that. Fuck—fuck—you’re good at this.”

Your fingers move faster. You’re desperate now, soaking wet, and he knows. He can see it in your eyes.

He fucks your throat a little deeper—just enough to make you gag once—and your hand jerks between your thighs, your hips twitching. You’re so close.

Cook groans, pulls back, and fists his cock again, the tip red and glistening.

“You close?”

You nod, mouth open, drool running down your chin and onto your chest.

He laughs—low and dark and fucking feral.

“You wanna cum, you better earn those pills.”

He slaps the head of his cock against your cheek again. Wet, sticky sounds echo in the room.

You open your mouth again, tongue out, obedient now.

He thrusts back in.

Cook grabs a fistful of your hair, wraps it tight, and slides his cock back past your lips like it belongs there—like you were meant for this. His hips start to move, lazy at first, just letting the head of his cock drag across your tongue again and again. Salty. Heavy. Leaking. Every pass makes your eyes water worse, drool spilling in hot ropes down your chin and onto your hand, still working between your legs.

“Yeah,” he rasps. “There you fuckin’ go.”

You moan around him, gag once when he pushes deeper—and that just makes him groan. His grip tightens. His pace picks up.

“Fuckin’ perfect mouth,” he grits out. “You were made for this.”

Your jaw’s aching now, throat raw, spit absolutely everywhere. It’s dripping from your chin, smearing down your neck, pooling at the corners of your mouth—but he doesn’t care. If anything, he’s inspired by it.

He pulls back just enough to tap the soaked head against your tongue again. Slap. Slap. Your tongue lolls out like instinct, chasing it. He smirks, dark and satisfied.

“Look at you,” he croons. “Didn’t even have to train you. You’re just a natural little cockslut, aren’t you?”

You can’t answer, not with your mouth stuffed again. Not with the way his pace starts to pick up, rougher now, needy. He’s fucking your mouth—no other word for it—driving his cock in and out of your throat while you drool and gag and moan like a fucking porn star.

“Bet no one’s ever used you like this before,” he pants. “Bet you’ve never had someone own your fuckin’ mouth.”

You whimper. Loud.

Your fingers are frantic between your legs now, hips twitching, your whole body humming with it—heat crawling up your spine, pooling low, winding tight. You’re so fucking close, and he knows it.

“Don’t stop,” he growls. “Want you to cum with my cock down your throat. Wanna feel it when you fall apart.”

He keeps fucking your mouth, relentless, his hips slapping into your face, cock hitting the back of your throat over and over until your eyes blur with tears. You can barely breathe—only catch short gasps when he pulls back enough to let you—but that pressure just makes the heat spike higher.

You moan around him. Loud. Desperate.

“Yeah?” he pants. “That’s it—fuckin’ cum, you filthy little thing. Rub that needy little cunt raw for me.”

That’s all it takes.

You cry out around his cock, fingers soaked, body wracked with tremors as the orgasm crashes over you. It’s messy. Shaky. Loud. You’re gasping, drooling, thighs twitching as you grind through it, moaning so loud that Cook shudders.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he hisses. “Knew it. Knew you were a fuckin’ mess under all that mouth.”

You try to pull back—just to breathe—but he holds you there, both hands in your hair now, fucking your mouth harder. Sloppier.

“Not done,” he growls. “Don’t you fuckin’ stop now.”

You choke again. He groans.

“I’m close,” he warns, voice rough and frantic now. “Gonna cum down your throat if you don’t—fuck—don’t move—don’t—”

His hips stutter.

You brace for it—

And then he’s moaning, loud, cock twitching as he spills down your throat without warning, without pause. It’s hot and thick, and you’re too slow to react, already swallowing before you can even think about it. He doesn’t pull out. Not right away. Just holds you there, cock still pulsing, his grip tight in your hair as you whimper against him, throat working.

“Fucking hell,” Cook pants. “You’re unreal.”

When he finally pulls out, your mouth is a mess—lips swollen, chin glistening, strings of spit and cum still connecting you. You gasp for breath, wiping your mouth on the back of your hand, but he just tucks himself back into his jeans like this is the most normal thing in the world.

He leans down.

Takes the bottle of pills off the table.

Drops it into your hoodie pocket.

“You earned it.”

You look up at him, chest still heaving.

Cook grins.

“You come up short next time too, yeah?”

You’re still on your knees.

Still breathing like you just ran a mile. Legs shaking, mouth sore, jaw slack. Your hoodie’s pulled crooked, hands still sticky from where you came on your fingers. And you can feel it—the mess in your throat, the ache in your thighs, the heat still pulsing low in your belly like you never came down from it.

Cook sits back on the shitty couch like nothing just happened. Like you didn’t just let him fuck your throat until you came and swallowed every drop.

He’s grinning, of course.

Flicking his lighter to spark the half-dead joint sitting in the ashtray like this is a regular Tuesday afternoon.

He takes a long drag. Exhales. Then leans forward, lazily resting his elbows on his knees, watching you with that look—cocky, possessive, hungry even though he already came.

“You look wrecked.”

You don’t say anything. Can’t. You’re still catching your breath, blinking through the aftershocks.

Cook grins wider. “That good, was it?”

You roll your eyes and try to get up—but your legs don’t wanna work.

“Oh my god,” he laughs, voice full of wicked delight. “You can’t even stand?”

“Shut up,” you rasp, finally managing to push off the carpet. Your knees pop. Everything aches.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, but there’s a different note under the teasing now. Something warmer. “C’mere.”

You hesitate—but only a second. Then you drop beside him on the couch, still flushed and loose-limbed, the afterglow still clinging to your skin like sweat.

He offers the joint.

You take it.

One drag in, and your head tips back against the wall with a sigh. Cook watches you, eyes flicking over your face like he’s trying to burn it into his memory.

“You ever sucked someone off for drugs before?” he asks, too casually.

You give him a side-eye. “No.”

“Yeah?” he smirks. “Could’ve fooled me. Took to it like a fuckin’ champ.”

You exhale smoke, blow it in his direction. “You’re an asshole.”

“And you’re filthy,” he shoots back. “Droolin’ all over yourself, fuckin’ whimperin’ on my cock. You’re lucky I didn’t bend you over and fuck you stupid after.”

You clench your thighs at that—he sees it—and his grin turns feral again.

“Next time,” he murmurs. “If you’re short again…”

You don’t respond. You don’t need to.

Because your phone buzzes in your pocket.

You check it.

Reminder: Chem Lab - Friday @ 11AM

Cook sees you looking at your screen. Sees the wheels turning. His smile goes lazy.

“Friday, then?”

You arch a brow. “That’s assuming I’ll be short again.”

He snorts. “Babe. You will be.”

You don’t argue. Not really. Just slide your phone back in your pocket, stand slowly—your thighs still shaking a little—and head toward the door.

“Leave it open,” he calls after you.

You pause. Look back. “What?”

“I said don’t close it,” he says, already leaning back, joint between his teeth. “I like the idea of someone walkin’ by and knowin’ what I do to you.”

You don’t answer.

But you don’t close it either.

You’re halfway down the stairwell when your phone buzzes again.

Cook: I’ll be hard by the time I buzz you in.

You stare at it.

Then you type:

You: I’m gonna be short again Friday.

Send.

You knock once this time.

Not twice. Not loud. Just enough to let him know you're here.

The door creaks open a second later—Cook’s already there, shirtless, joint in one hand, jeans slung so low they might be falling off.

His eyes drag over you once, slow.

Then he leans against the doorframe, exhaling smoke through a grin.

“Well, well, well,” he says, voice low and smug. “Look who remembered Friday.”

You shrug. Try to act cool.

He doesn’t move. Just tilts his head and waits. “You got it?”

You blink. “Got what?”

“The cash.”

You pat your hoodie pockets like you just realized something. “Shit. I think I…left my wallet.”

Cook stares at you.

And then he laughs.

Full belly laugh, eyes crinkling, tongue against his teeth like you just told him the funniest thing in the world.

“Forgot your wallet,” he repeats, shaking his head. “You are so fucking full of it.”

You cross your arms. “I’m serious.”

“Bollocks you are,” he snorts. “You showed up without it on purpose.”

You open your mouth.

He cuts you off. “Nah, nah, don’t even try. You knew what was gonna happen. You wanted it to happen.”

You don’t deny it.

His grin sharpens.

“You could’ve texted and asked,” he says, voice dropping. “Could’ve said, ‘Cook, I want your cock down my throat again. Please.’”

“I would never say please,” you mutter.

He steps back just far enough to let you in. “Then you’d better earn it the hard way.”

The door shuts behind you.

He doesn’t ask you to kneel this time.

He doesn’t have to.

You’re already on the floor when he unzips his jeans.

Already reaching for him when his cock springs free, already hard—thick, flushed, leaking.

“Jesus,” you mutter, unable to stop the flush that creeps up your neck.

“Yeah?” he grins. “Missed it, didn’t you?”

You glare. “Shut up.”

He taps the head of his cock against your lips. Slap. Slap.

“Open up then.”

You do.

And he groans, deep and filthy, one hand fisting your hair immediately. No warm-up this time. No slow tease. He sinks in hard enough to make you choke, and he doesn’t stop.

“That’s it,” he pants, already fucking into your throat like he’s been needing it for days. “Missed this fuckin’ mouth.”

Your hands fly to his thighs, bracing yourself as he uses your mouth like a toy—deep, fast, relentless. You gag, spit dribbling down your chin already, but it only makes him growl.

“Yeah, fuckin’ take it,” he groans. “You came here beggin’ for it, actin’ all innocent—forgot your wallet my fuckin’ arse.”

He thrusts deep. Holds.

You gag around him, throat fluttering.

“You wanted this,” he growls. “Wanted to choke on it. Wanted to be used.”

You moan, mouth full, eyes watering. His cock slides in and out, slick with spit, head tapping your throat over and over until you’re dizzy with it.

He pulls back just far enough to slap the tip against your tongue again. Hard. Wet.

“Open wider.”

You do.

“Wider, babe. I wanna see how far I can fuckin’ go.”

You brace. He shoves back in.

Your jaw aches.

Your throat burns.

And Cook is still fucking your mouth like he’s got something to prove.

He pulls out abruptly, cock slick and shining, breath ragged as he looks down at you—eyes blown, chest heaving, jaw tight like he’s barely holding it together.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Stand up.”

You don’t argue.

Your legs wobble when you rise, knees weak, mouth sore and wet, spit still glistening at the corner of your lips. Cook watches it, thumb swiping across your mouth without warning, smearing it over your skin before pushing the same thumb back between your lips.

“Suck,” he orders.

You do.

He groans low in his throat, then pulls his hand away and grips your wrist instead.

“But nah,” he says, voice rough now, hungry. “That’s not gonna fuckin’ cover it.”

You blink. “What?”

He steps closer, backs you up until you feel the edge of the couch hit behind your knees.

“You forgot your wallet,” he says slowly. “That means you owe me more.”

Your pulse spikes.

“Cook—”

He pushes you down onto the couch in one firm motion, looming over you, cock still hard and leaking. “I already let you get off on my cock last time. That was interest.”

You swallow.

“So now,” he continues, climbing over you, “you’re gonna pay the fuckin’ balance.”

His hand slides down between your legs, unceremonious, fingers immediately finding how soaked you are. He groans like it pisses him off.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You came here like this. Already fuckin’ ready.”

You gasp as he pushes two fingers inside without warning—no teasing, no mercy—curling them just right.

“Answer me,” he growls. “You forgot your wallet on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

His fingers fuck into you harder. “Say it louder.”

“Yes,” you whimper. “I did.”

He pulls his fingers out, slick and shining, then lines himself up without another word.

You barely get a breath in before he pushes in.

Slow. Heavy. Stretching you open inch by inch until you’re gasping, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Missed this.”

You whine, hips lifting instinctively, desperate for him to move—but he stays still, cock buried deep, letting you feel every inch of him.

“You feel that?” he murmurs. “That’s what you’re payin’ me with.”

Then he starts to fuck you.

Hard.

No rhythm. No patience. Just raw, greedy thrusts that knock the air out of your lungs, the couch creaking beneath you as he sets a brutal pace. He grabs your thighs, hauling you closer, fucking deeper until you’re gasping his name.

“Look at you,” he pants. “All this just because you ‘forgot’ your fuckin’ wallet.”

You cling to him, legs wrapping around his waist, desperate and needy and completely gone.

He leans down, mouth at your ear. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“That you wanted this.”

“I wanted this,” you gasp.

“That you came here to get fucked.”

“Yes—”

“That you’re payin’ me with this tight little cunt.”

You cry out, body arching as his thrusts get harder, faster, filthier. He’s muttering nonstop now—dirty, breathless, unhinged—telling you how good you feel, how he knew you’d come back, how he’s been hard all day just thinking about this.

Your whole body tightens.

You’re close—so close—and he feels it immediately.

“Oh no you don’t,” he growls, pulling your hips down, slowing just enough to torture you. “You don’t get to cum yet.”

“Cook—”

“You still owe me.”

His hand slides down between you, thumb pressing circles just where you need it most while he keeps fucking you slow and deep.

“You’re gonna cum when I say,” he mutters. “And when I do, you’re gonna take it like a good fuckin’ customer.”

Your breath breaks. Your body shakes.

He watches you unravel, eyes locked on your face, completely wrecking you on his cock until you’re begging, voice shaking, nails digging in.

“That’s it,” he growls. “That’s my good girl.”

He snaps his hips harder, faster, thumb relentless now—and when you finally shatter, it’s violent and loud, your whole body clenching around him.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck,” he groans. “That’s it—that’s it—”

He fucks you through it, chasing his own release, thrusts going sloppy and desperate until he finally buries himself deep and cums with a broken sound against your neck.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Just breathing. Heat. Aftershocks.

Then he pulls back slightly, smirking down at you.

“Wallet next time,” he says. “Or we renegotiate again.”

[dollykitty333]

Nobody understands how much I yearn for this man.😖

[inbred-eater]

god bless the prehistoric animals who died and became fossil fuels which powered the car that drove his mother to the hospital to give birth to him 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

[faestunna]

easy white chocolate 😍😍

[cuntbitchandthebottlemen]

James Cook falls in love with you - Headcanons

this is my first time writing and posting something like it. jack o'connell has me so obsessed that i had to do it. it doesn't have any tags because i don't even know what to put, and if you see any grammatical errors, no, you didn't. english isn't my first language, so just imagine it's written correctly. let me know if you want a part 2!!

• cook falls in love with you because you're the only one who doesn't kiss him or fuck him or mess with him because you're more worried about your future than snorting drugs up your ass with the group but when someone sees him hanging around you every chance he gets like a fly and asks him if he likes you he totally denies it, not because he's embarrassed that the nerd has his heart but because he doesn't want to be reminded that you obviously deserve better so he always observes every detail of you in silence while you're not looking even though he still makes jokes by offering to distract you from your books with his cock but what you don't know is that inside he begs you to say yes.

"do ya need help with that?" he said pointing at your notes and sitting on the chair next to you without permission.

"i don't think you can help me with this even if you were born again"

"love that about ya. i would like to know if you are that bratty during sex'"

"i'd rather watch an 8-hour documentary on how grass grows than sleep with you." you said while you look straight ahead pretending that you're paying attention to the teacher and not to how he turns to look at you while smiling as if you had just told him the biggest compliment in the world. you also pretend that you don't like the way his teeth look when he smiles and you don't know exactly by heart what they look like right now even when you're not looking at him.

• he didn't expect you to show up at that bar on his birthday at all. he couldn't have been happier that you'd put aside your responsibilities for a day to be there with him, not even when you left a small pack of cigarette papers as a crappy birthday present. so he had to hide how he felt being a complete, hyperactive, drunk idiot. he still has that unused pack tucked away in his pocket, and every time he changes pants, he takes it out and puts it in his new one just to have it there w him.

• that night you agreed to go to a party with them. you got so drunk that you ended up tangled up with cook on the corner of some stairs. cook moaned like a bitch the moment your mouth touched his. he always wanted this and imagined it five hundred times while watching you in class. but you didn't hear him because of the loud music. the next day, you forgot about it, and no one witnessed it because no one saw you two. so now it only exists in cook's mind, and no one believes him, they make fun of him saying that he was so high that he probably had hallucinations even when he still remembers how warm the skin of your waist felt under his hands when he held you while kissing you.

• he knew he was fucked and deeply in love with you the day you didn't judge him, you just hugged him and offered him a room to stay the night without hesitating for a second when his mom kicked him out of the house even when that wasn't compatible with the way you always kept him away from your personal space. you didn't think your grandma would have any problem welcoming a "friend" of yours who needed help into her home with you. he loved you even more when you kept the secret and walked home on a different street so no one would suspect he was staying with you and ask questions about it. he never understood why you did it, but he never asked, just as you never mentioned the reason why he slept in the bed that used to belong to your older sister that is in your room.

• like the traumatized kid that he is, he has nightmares he's never talked about with anyone. the first few nights you witnessed cook's nightmares, you ignored them because you didn't know what to do and didn't want to make him uncomfortable by intruding on his vulnerability. until one night, he was crying in his sleep again, and you had to wake him up. he was half-conscious, asking you to stay by his side, so you curled up next to him and let him wrap you completely in his arms. that night, you discovered a level of intimacy neither of you had imagined existed before.

• since that day, you've been together. only god knows what you are, but cook respects you (in his own way), and you respect him, since you both know each other's vulnerability and kindness. no one knows about the two of you, but cook always makes sure no guy bothers you, even when no one approaches you with other intentions. he even gets into fights to defend your name because nothing bothers and offends him more than someone messing with you. meanwhile, you help him become better in many ways, even if it costs you a lot. no one could believe it when cook passed the math and history exams.

• no one knows how difficult it was to get cook to study. it took weeks of trying and watching him get distracted by your own face, trying to steal kisses, or just plain trying to get into your pants. you thought you weren't succeeding until he passed more than two exams and you realized he's capable of retaining information and how sweet it's to hear him recite details about world war II.

• you don't agree to kiss him that often because deep down you don't want to be just another girl for him and you enjoy keeping things more interesting between the two of you although whenever he's lying on your thighs or on your chest and you touch his hair while he kisses your cheeks wanting more you simply want to eat him alive.

• one of the few times you let him kiss you properly, you almost ended up having sex a room away from where your grandma slept.

"we can't do it here, cookie" you said breathlessly as he kissed your neck. your legs on his waist.

"if you keep calling me cookie, i'm going to ruin ya so much that people will hear you 5 blocks from here. i swear."

• you never asked him for labels because from the start you were afraid that he would never respect the basic conditions of a relationship and you already knew that he was going to hurt you sooner or later so it completely surprised you when you started to notice that he no longer hooked up with girls or insinuated anything about anyone else, not at school and not at parties. you tried to casually get information out of the girls at the parties you didn't go to and they all answered that they thought cook was turning gay or that he probably had such a big scare with drugs that he can't even get a hard-on. the two answers generated such great satisfaction in your heart that you began to wonder how hard your fall would be when he finally let go of your hand.

• you were the first person who made him feel loved and wanted. he knows you're waiting for him at your house in case he doesn't have a place to sleep, or when he's smoking with freddie and jj. he knows you just want him to be okay. you made him not feel alone anymore. you wiped his tears when no one else was there, even when he didn't even want to be there. you saw his soft side, buried deep inside, and you brought it out with you, taking complete ownership of it. sometimes he wakes up in the night and sees you cuddled up with him, and he feels a little less miserable with himself. the nights he's not with you he misses you and he also misses your grandma and her cooking and how, at least for a few nights, he felt what it was like to have a family.

• when he's so caught up in his thoughts about you and how good you make him feel, he can't help but fantasize about you becoming part of his family permanently in the future, but that thought also terrifies him because he's not supposed to be thinking about being the father of your children and having a little girl who looks like you bear his last name at his age. he's not supposed to be thinking about it because he doesn't want to ruin your life by chaining you to a person like him forever but sometimes he likes to forget that and fantasize. he never confesses to you that he thinks of you that way.

• but he does confess that his first kiss with you wasn't when you were cleaning his wounds after kicking some guy's ass for bothering all the girls in the group that night at the party. you thought, for an idiot like him, that had been pretty noble. he just looked you in the eyes and said, "think this is the exact moment when ya kiss me," and you had no choice but to agree with him. he told you that his first kiss with you was at a party on his birthday and that it was the best gift he ever had. you beat yourself up for not remembering, but he tells you everything in detail until you have to shut him up before he gets to the part where you asked him to fuck you right there. he just made that part up just to make fun of you.

[sweetpogue]

TRAUMATIC SIGH .ᐟ james cook x fem!reader ⟡˖ ࣪

warnings .ᐟ slight smut, jj walking on them having sex 😓, exhibitionism, degradation kinks, dacryphilia, unprotected sex.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

Your back was already sticking to the mess of Cook’s sheets, your breath ragged, hair sticking to your temples. You weren’t even sure how the two of you had ended up tangled like this—well, you knew exactly how, but with Cook it always felt like whiplash.

One moment you were laughing, straddling him half-dressed while he whispered filth in your ear, and the next he had you spread out beneath him, the weight of his body pressing you deliciously into the mattress.

“Fuck, love,” he groaned, hips grinding into you as his lips nipped along your jaw. “Always so wet for me, yeah? Can’t get enough of it.”

Your thighs trembled as he slid in deeper, and your fingers dug into his shoulders. “Cook—” you gasped, but your voice broke on a moan when he snapped his hips forward.

He smirked at the sound, that trademark grin of his that was half-cocky, half-deranged, like he was proud of reducing you to a mess under him. His hand slipped between your thighs, thumb circling where you needed it most.

“Look at you,” he rasped, blue eyes dark and wild. “My pretty girl—fuckin’ takin’ me so good, like you’re made for it.”

Your head fell back against the pillow, whimpers spilling from your lips uncontrollably. You tried to answer him, to say something—anything—but all that came out were broken cries that only made him laugh.

“Can’t even speak, can ya?” Cook taunted, kissing you sloppily, biting at your lower lip. “I’ll do all the talkin’, then. You just keep squeezin’ me like that.”

Your nails dragged down his back as he thrusted harder, faster, the bedframe rattling against the wall. He had you exactly where he wanted you, falling apart, your legs tightening around his waist to keep him close.

“Cook, please—” you begged, voice high and shaky.

He growled into your neck, teeth scraping the sensitive skin. “Yeah? What’re you beggin’ for, hm? Want me to ruin you, yeah? Properly fuck you stupid?”

Your answer was a choked moan, and that was all he needed. He adjusted his angle, hitting deeper, rougher, until tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming sensation. Cook lapped them up like a dog, kissing your temple.

“That’s it. Cry for me. Love seein’ you like this.”

The room was thick with the sound of skin against skin, your soft cries mixing with his groans.

You were so close, teetering on the edge... when the door flew open.

“Cook! You won’t believe—”

JJ stood in the doorway, eyes going impossibly wide as he took in the scene. His hands flailed uselessly in the air, as if he could swat the sight away. “WHAT THE FUCK!”

You let out a strangled scream, trying to shove Cook off you and grab at the sheets, mortified. “JJ!”

Cook didn’t stop. If anything, his grin grew wider, like this was the funniest shit in the world. He slowed his thrusts just enough to look over his shoulder. “Oi, mate—ever heard of knockin’?”

“Cook, oh my god, stop!” you hissed, face burning as you tried to squirm away.

But Cook pinned you down easily, laughing breathlessly. “What? He’s already seen it, love. Nothin’ left to hide, yeah?” He punctuated the statement with another deep thrust that made you whimper into his chest.

JJ slapped both hands over his eyes. “I DIDN’T NEED TO SEE THAT! BLOODY HELL, COOK!” He spun around in a panic, nearly tripping over himself as he backed toward the door.

Cook threw his head back, cackling. “Oi, JJ, admit it—best fuckin’ view you’ve had in your life!”

“YOU’RE SICK!” JJ yelled, voice cracking, fumbling with the doorknob. “You’re both—deranged! I’m blind now, completely blind!”

The door slammed shut behind him, his horrified muttering echoing down the hallway.

You buried your burning face in Cook’s neck, utterly humiliated. “I hate you,” you whispered, voice shaky.

He kissed your cheek, still grinning like a devil. “Nah, you love me. Don’t lie.”

You hit his chest weakly. “He saw everything—”

“Good for him,” Cook cut you off, pulling your chin up so you’d look at him. “Now, where were we, gorgeous? Oh, right—” His hips rolled into yours again, drawing another moan from your lips despite yourself.

“Cook—”

“Shh,” he smirked, kissing you hard. “Forget JJ. Only thing you need to think about is me fuckin’ you until you can’t remember your own name.”

And just like that, the world narrowed back down to him, his weight, his heat, his voice. JJ’s horrified shriek was already a memory.

[pickledturnips]

Gnawing at the bars of my enclosure every time a man of the month crosses my feed