Ｒｅｂｅｌ Ｃｈａｏｓ
18 + MDNI!
Summary: You already had your life set in stone for you—to conform to your father’s wishes—but that took a detour when chaos took the form of James Cook. In his messy rambles and wreaking havoc, you found inspiration. Now, all grown up, but still shackled by the expectations and demands of your father, you decided to take matters into your own hands. To reclaim yourself, you rebelled silently, but who knew that this endeavor would lead you to reunite with the person who introduced you to the freedom you have?
Warnings and Themes: POST-SERIES 7 COOK, SMUT, Alcohol consumption, Reader and Cook being freaks, Sexaholics, a bit of Exhibitionism, Overstimulation, Feral Cook and Reader, DomTop!James Cook, SubBottom!Male Reader, Slow burn-ish?, really really really long plot then porn, No beta read! The Dark Lord forbids it, No use of Y/N, CW: Blood.
Notes from the Moon: Massive disclaimer first, I am not well-versed with British slang and lingo, so I had to look them up. I apologize if I have misused any of them. And also, the fic takes place some time after the end of the show, so post-series 7.
Word count: 9793
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“You’re sneakin’ out again?” Your eldest brother, Matt, peers into your room, an eyebrow raised while he takes in the pigsty.
“Yep.” You slip on a mesh long-sleeve, throwing your response over your shoulder. “Close the door! ‘don’t want Dad to find out.”
The buzz of the formal party hums behind the door of your room, and remnants of the posh attire you once donned for the occasion are scattered on your bedroom floor. The dark blue walls of your room are decorated with soulless awards and posters of your favorite band. Your bed is a mess; pillows are thrown on the mattress carelessly, and blankets are bundled into a stack. You scurry around, attention fleeting between perfecting your outfit and fumbling with the cords and wires in your guitar case.
“So how long are you gonna keep this up?” Matt twiddles with the cork of the wine he’s chugging as he sits on your messy bed, wine glass in hand and filled to the brim. His question is both genuine and a throwaway. “You know, Dad’ll find out eventually about your… soul searchin’.”
You send your brother a look of confidence bordering on recklessness through the reflection. “Doubt it, he’s got you and Scott to keep ‘imself busy.” Peering into your mirror, checking for minor imperfections that needed attention.
The hassle is a part of your nightly retreat; you alternate between securing the strap of your instrument and adding the finishing touches to your outfit—a sleeveless leather jacket with a black mesh long-sleeve top that has seen better days, jeans, and some trainers; you ruffle your hair, leaning to a more liberated look than polished.
“Well, I’m off .” You swing your legs over and out of your window, testing the weight of the gutter and brick. Shifting the weight a bit to ensure your footing is solid and secured.
Before climbing down, you give your brother a quick wave, to which he responds with a tipsy one from his wine glass hand; the alcoholic beverage sloshes a bit, droplets almost falling onto your sheets.
You descend, careful and practiced. As your feet land on the grass, you pull up the hood of your jacket, blending into the night. Your steps are delicate, the grass softly cushioning each move, and once you’re out of sight from the yawning windows of your house, you hasten.
Passing by similar-looking buildings, you can’t shake off the feeling of desolation—the suffocating feeling of being stuck in the same mundane rooms, talking to the same mundane group of people, every waking day; the thought made your legs run faster. You take a series of turns and alleys, occasionally checking the time, until you reach a familiar street corner. The street is full of its usual stir and noises; vehicles are parked recklessly, but none of the passersby seems to mind, neon lights comingling with warm ones, albeit some are barely winking. Unlike the towering whitened structures you lived around, this area boasts diversity; every night, the beat and rhythm are different, different crowds bearing stories from far-off places.
You catch your breath before heading over to a familiar club, humming and trilling, breathing life into your slumbering cords. Remembering that the back entrance is located in the club’s skinny alley, you approach it, loosening the straps of your instrument.
The rusted barred metal door stands before you, breathe in, breathe out, you thought, calming your nerves as you swiftly knock on it. The sliding peephole scratches open, and you are met with a scrutinizing glare.
“Relax, it’s me.” You pull down the hood, flashing an insincere smile to the bouncer.
He responds with a grumble before unlocking the door for you. Entering, you mutter a quick thank you before rushing backstage. You glance at your phone, checking the time—fabulously on time, you are—then you take out your guitar from its case, plucking and strumming it to check it's in tune; the random strums turn to crafted melodies, the harmony sweeps you off your feet and into a mindscape of prismatic sonnets and ballads; living purely on the acoustics, it was simply you and your guitar.
“Where is he?! He’s fuckin’ late again!” A distant tirade is heard behind you; you figured it was the club owner scouring for you, who has an unmatchable fluency in littered curses and swears, polluting his sentences to the point of gibberish.
“I’m here, Nigel. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” Eyes rolling instinctively and unconcerned for your boss’ urgency, the strap of your guitar sits comfortably around you. The pages of the mental song catalogue you’re tasked to perform today flip through your mind as you turn to face Nigel. Guitar pick in hand, you nonchalantly wave at him.
“Get your arse on stage!” He stomps over to you, face beet red and sweating. His face reminded you of when those cartoon characters were about to blow a gasket; you bite down a giggle just imagining the exaggerated steam puffing out of his ears.
The thoughts drown out his scolding, and your thoughts are pushed into the back of your mind when you hear the deafening cheer of the crowd. You jog over to your spot, charisma oozes out as you wave through the stage lights.
Most performers would moan about the blinding lights, often asking the technician to dim them down a bit. But you grew familiar with them, welcoming the enveloping radiance like a warm hug. The number of times you have walked on this stage—even during restless days when you dragged your feet onto it, legs barely standing—you always find yourself standing before the microphone.
“Evenin’, you pests! You lot’ve caused a ruckus without me? And here I thought we had somethin’ special.” The crowd reacts like a lit firecracker, the anticipation and excitement lingering in the denseness of it all; your performance barely started, and they are nearing their encore. Ease seeps into your bones, adrenaline humming within as you gear up for the night.
Your cackle echoes into the mic, while your practiced hands plug in your instrument. A strum for a quick soundcheck, same as last week. The action stirs the crowd, their cheers growing louder into an uproar; you find their energy contagious, and the once-humming feeling you had resonates into a heavy beat, thrumming in your heart. You nod to the band behind you, signaling that you’re ready.
“Right! let’s get into it, yeah? Everyone, this is Rebel Chaos.” In this moment, it’s only you and your guitar. Your body revs to life, every nerve sparking at the seams; the first few chords you pluck bring out the red carpet into your musical escapade, imaginary cameras await your grand entrance. A small smile grows on your lips as your head tilts back, feeling the essence of your original song consuming you.
In the glowing stage, you sing the first verse.
“Stand ‘ere in my blaze of glory,
Fingers ached from pluckin’ strings,
My unfinished songs, I’m finally singing ‘em
Look how far I’ve come.
The verse starts low and slow, the notes flittering in the air. You let the meaning of the song take control of your performance, sinking further into the mechanisms of your creation. With one eye peeking, you watch your intention come to life—singling out each member of the audience, and pulling them into a trance.
The crescendo looms yonder, behind you, the crowd, just at the cusp of each note sung. The hold of the song is reaching in preparation for the ensuing journey. Muscle loosening as you guide the crowd into the change.
“I just wish you knew,
The madness you showed me,
Changed me,
Rebel Chaos, thank you,
For showing me how to live,
How to be free.”
And with that, the resonant blare of your guitar washes over the crowd, the husk in your voice complementing the strums and sways. Fireworks within skyrockets throughout the dance floor, all locked in the longing you etched into the core of your song—it was a burst of emotions, scattered into the air, and figuratively, the crowd reaches up, trying to catch them like floating papers descending upon them.
A new life breathes into the crowd, and you join them; your fingers fly under the influence of the lyrical manifestation of your affections. The next verses and chorus carry a new high, building and building till all of you have reached music-made bliss. You lean closer to the mic, ensuring each word and syllable is belted with clear diction; your voice skillfully rasps at the end, conforming to the demands of your song.
As you lose yourself in the whims of nostalgia for someone from your distant past, in the far-off corner of the crowd, the inspiration himself watches you from the corner of the club—the same someone from your distant past—with his familiar wolfish grin that matches his chaotic charm.
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“Fantastic as always, lad! Never doubted ya!” Nigel slaps your back, almost knocking the wind out of you. He seems to have forgotten the weight of his own hand as he saunters off with his clipboard in hand.
“Arsehole…” You hiss into the air, easing the sting by rolling your shoulders. Remembering the time, you pack up your things and sign off for the night. Voice heavy and body drenched in sweat, you bid farewell to your bandmates.
The adrenaline of your magnetic performance began to wear off, so you head for the club’s bar for a quick pick-me-up. You push through the sea of bodies, guitar case clutched in front of you to protect it from the occasional shoving. Relief spreads through your body once you find yourself in front of the bar counter.
“Whiskey on the rocks, Nicky!” The scratch in your voice is evident, as the exhaustion of the night seeps into your bones. Nicky, the bartender, gives you a quick nod before she prepares your drink, and once you get it, you fish out the exact amount of pay, but she stops you.
Leaning forward, she yells through the booming bass, “Nah, it’s on the house!” She winks at you, then tends to her customers, leaving no room for debate. You shoot her a quick thank you before taking a sip of your drink.
For a moment, you sit there with your drink. Gaze lower at the ice cubes in the cup, cradled by the bronze liquid. Lost in thought, you allow yourself to revisit the memories tied to your song, but as you were on the eve of it, you hear a voice intruding on your space.
“Ye gonna finish that?” Shadowed yet clear, the person spoke to get your attention rather than genuinely asking for your drink.
That voice… The thought feels almost haunting, the nostalgia resurfaces your long-kept memories. You head whips to the source, eyes squinting and…
“Cook?” His name rolls off your tongue, straining through the overpowering synth and almost rusted like you haven’t said it in a while. The irony speaks for itself, knowing his first and last name are pretty common, but to say it to address… well, him felt entirely reminiscent. Your eyes widen, and your mouth slightly agape, reality still sinking in.
Cook sits next to you, his shoulders bouncing, caused by your reaction; his chuckle is muffled by the sounds around you both. His wolfish grin matured, bearing signs of experience you can barely imagine. His blue eyes carried the same twinkle of familiar mischief, moving down then to your face as if taking you all in—as if he also can’t believe you’re here.
A faint wheeze escapes you as you stammer your words; eyebrows furrowed, you blink rapidly, trying to erase this—you assume to be a—ghostly apparition next to you. Cook’s laughter intensifies, finding the sight of you short-circuiting amusing.
Your words are failing, so you resort to your actions. Downing the rest of your drink, you grab him and rush outside the club, his cackles trailing behind you both.
The cold night welcomes you again, the breeze a bit more frost-bitten than before. The bustle of the streets is more tolerable than the heavy beats of the club. You drag him to the opening of a nearby alley underneath a bright street lamp, then turn to him, both of your hands clutching his arms. You peer in, trying to make out the features of his face through the shadow cast by the hood over his head, examining his face; he’s dressed in a worn bomber jacket, a hoodie, shabby jeans, and combat boots.
“Fuckin’ hell, it is you!” You let out an airy laugh in pleasant disbelief before it settles to a broad grin. Your hold turns into an embrace, and you feel him freeze up before he returns the gesture with shallow pats on your back. Then a realization dawns on you, you pull back, arms suddenly stiff to your side.
“I… umm God, I don’t know why I did that, this is…. awkward, you might not even remember me.” Your speech halts at invisible punctuations between your words, the rigidity matching the sudden tension you feel; your face flushes at the epiphany of basically hugging a person you barely knew from your past.
“Yeah, I remember ye! You were that uptight posh lad back in college!” Cook boisterously laughs, carrying a hint of surprise at the stark difference in what you looked like back then and now. “But look at ye now! Mate, you’re well fit! Ya should’ve seen yourself up there, like I mean… woof.”
He takes a step back, as if to marvel at you, his usual smile playing on his lips.
“Oh, Thanks!” You squeaked out, feeling yourself blush. The bluntness of his compliment catches you off guard, your hands fiddling with the straps of your jacket. “A lot has changed since the last time we’ve seen each other, but what about you? Whatchu been up to?”
Cook falls silent, the smile on his face faltering. He suddenly grows conscious of his surroundings, and he takes a quick look over his shoulder before turning to you, but his gaze avoids yours.
The silence dominates the conversation.
“…I see.” Your response is quiet, muttering mostly to yourself.
You sense his immediate caution, and an idea sparks in you. You grab his hand and dive into the alleyway you were both standing in front of. The paths you’ve taken are engraved in your mind, memorized with ample choices for better and safer passage.
Cook didn’t resist; in fact, he was curious as to where you were taking him.
Then, at the end of the narrow hall, he sees a rotten door with a sign barely hanging. He squints, trying to understand the faded words. “This… an old pub?” He asks.
You hum in confirmation; you approach the door, jiggling the doorknob, then pushing the door open. You walk in, the place housing memories of your solitude, and you beckon Cook to come in.
The place carries hues of dark-ish brown; minimal effort is needed to make the wood creak. Cobwebs litter the corners of the ceiling; the beams are nearly hollowed, driven by mites and time itself. The counter is non-existent, its presence only marked by splinters. Surrounding metals show age, and the rust clinging to them acts like camouflage, blending them with the dark corners of the then-pub. The broken glass clings to the window frames, which are only standing because of the wooden planks nailed to them. In the middle of the room, near the boarded windows, is a dusty lantern and a wooden box. The box looked a bit fresher, as if it had been recently placed there, an outlier to the decayed wood around it.
Setting down your guitar case, you walk over to the box and drag it to a specific spot. Cook hears you mutter to yourself, eyeing an area on the ceiling. He watches you climb on the box, and in the crevice of the wood above you, you fish out two bottles of rum. Once you’ve accomplished the task, you set down the bottles on the box, then place the box back near the lantern and sit on it. You pat the spot next to you, motioning Cook to sit.
Cook follows, wearing curiosity and confusion on his face.
“Welcome to my haven.” The introduction is muttered, but given the desolate state of this place, it echoes around. Your focus left Cook; instead, you are fiddling with the lantern.
After a few tugs and turns, it kindles to life. You set it down before grabbing the bottles of rum, handing the other one to Cook.
You adjust your position, getting comfortable on the sturdy box. Eyebrows raised, expectantly, at Cook. “Well…” You gesture to him, like giving him the center stage.
His eyes flicker between the bottle and you. “…What?” Curiosity departs his headspace, leaving only confusion.
His confused expression evokes a giggle from you; you found it cute. Scoffing before you continue. “I meant, what brought you here?”
An exhale flows out of his lips, eyeing the rum. “Ya sure you wanna hear it?”
“Yeah! ‘Got plenty of time.” Encouraging him as you drink, a soft grin resting on your face.
Cook huffs this time, shoulders slumped. Stripping off the caution and tension he has been carrying by sipping from his bottle.
He starts his tale by saying your name; the tone shifts to more of a confession than a recalling. “…I killed someone.”
He reads your expression, and he notices the smile on your face slowly vanishes once you hear the seriousness of his tone. But you didn’t move, you sat still, attentive. Your stare, he notes, has a sense of calmness; maintaining eye contact, the rapport unbroken.
With his gaze fixated on yours, he continues. He tells you vividly, words perfectly capturing the images of the scenes; he lets you into the prior pages of his life – The death of his friend, the murder, fleeing to Manchester, Louie… everything.
To Cook, this is just not a retelling, but rather a reopening of wounds. Silently, you sat. There’s no room for your comments; this is not nostalgia, but the pain of a man who went through hell. You can hear each emotion tied to each event, the fight and grit, as well as the heavy burden of loss. A welling sadness forms in you, you set your bottle down, giving him your undivided attention.
And then, the story escalates. The determination and sadness are gone; the only thing left is anger, just pure, unfiltered anger. Cook stands up, his back facing you, and his arms spreading wide as he reaches the climax point.
“That fuckin’ wanker! He tried me, yeah? So, I left ‘im there bleeding!” He takes a beat, swallowing. He gathers himself before he reels his arm, bottle clutched tightly.
“I’m fuckin’ Cook!” He bellows out and into the empty pub. Channeling the rest of his anger, he throws the bottle across the room.
You hear the shattering of glass and wood snapping, but you don’t flinch; you remain trained on him, staring at the back of his head. You dare not interrupt, letting him have his moment.
Cook turns to face you, heaving. His eyes once again lock with yours, and he sees it. Empathy. Sadness. But no fear, none whatsoever.
He rubs a hand across his face, his anger fizzling to ash. But the tides of his other emotions run rampant, overwhelming him as he tries to calm himself.
Then, he sees you walk over and stand in front of him. For a second, you both stand there staring at each other; the silence is suffocating. I should just leave, the thought interjects. But before he can move, you embrace him.
You say nothing. Your hug is full of warmth and care. To you, he’s not Cook the fugitive or murderer; he’s Cook, a man who went through hell.
He doesn’t hug back, slightly taken aback; he stands there, thoughts filing in, and quiet with his emotions bubbling. Then he releases the tension in his lungs, a shaky breath. Leaning his head on your shoulder, any intruding thoughts finally lie at rest, his bubbling emotions fizzle as he sinks into the security of your arms.
Once you feel the calmness, you pull back. The small smile you wore returns.
“Y’feel better now?” You softly ask, kindness fully expressed, leaving no room for judgment.
Cook gives you a short nod, your embrace lingering, cradling the serenity.
“You can stay here if you want. And you can finish my bottle too, since… You know.” You gesture over his shoulder, the liquid of the beverage glistening in the moonlight, decorated with the shards of the container it once occupied.
“This was a lovely chat, truly. But sadly, I’ve got to dash. Dad’ll get mad at me.” You pick up your instrument, then check the time on your phone. A sense of dread washes over you, but you quickly hide it. Physically, it was a sudden shift; your voice shudders, taking a meeker tone. The confidence you exuded wavers, like a wind passing by a candle’s flames.
Cook spots it, catching the change. He knew about your dad; he remembers the old conversations you two had about him.
Your dad was strict, forcing you to take extra classes, so that you could become a respectable businessman like him. He made sure that you’d remember each time you failed; he thought that making each failure painful would make you a better man. He would treat you, your mum, and siblings like trophies when all of you would succeed at something, but in turn, he’d cast all of you away during moments of failure.
He can’t help but worry about you. A shallow furrow forms on his eyebrows, lips parting as he prepares a question. Concern and fear of loneliness coalesce within him.
“Your dad? How’s he?” An unusual softness wraps around his words. He knows he’s trekking on dangerous territory, but he figured you needed someone to listen to you.
You freeze for a moment, and then, when the question sinks in, your fingers suddenly find interest in the straps of your guitar.
“Oh, you know, he’s been the same.” Flashing him an empty smile, the warm kindness that once inhabited it was diminishing. His concern, you evaded, your speech trailing at the end.
Cook stares at you blankly; he has read you easily, seeing right through you. The wall you have raised out of nowhere between you and him is made of glass. Jaw tightening, thinking maybe this is not the right moment, he chooses to let it slide. He gives you a small grunt in response.
The lie is weighing heavily on your conscience; it gnaws at you. Disappointment trickles in you; the man in front of you has poured out his entire heart, laying his emotions bare, and you chose to lie the moment he expressed concern.
A self-directed exasperation consumes you, and the breath you didn’t know you were holding escapes into a shaky sigh. Your face hardens, arms falling to your side in exhaustion and defeat.
“Who am I kidding? He’s been shit. ‘Gotten worse since the last time you saw him. He’s a drunk now, ever since Mum left ‘im. She got tired of being treated like shit.” Pausing to inhale, you feel yourself fuming. “He messed with the wrong folks, and he- we… we’ve been on the run. Fucker told us we’re here for a ‘change of scenery’, bullshit.”
Coldness spreads from your fingertips to your entire body, your confession stripping you naked. Instinctively, you feel your arms wrap around you, shielding yourself from your self-inflicted icy state.
“You know what?” Your voice cuts through the rising tension, “Fuck it, I’m staying.”
Dropping your instrument, hearing the insides of it clatter. You plop down onto the box, arms resting on your knees. Defiance pumping through your veins like adrenaline, you’ve grown tired of fearing your dad.
Picking up the open bottle of rum next to you, you take a swig before you hand it out to Cook.
Without saying a word, Cook sits next to you, taking the bottle from your offering hand and taking a sip from it.
Both of you share a look, as well as a smile. The solitude lingering in the air breathes to life, and a cocoon of safety is born between the two of you. The rest of the night carries on with tales from the past and a blossoming friendship.
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For the longest time, you spent your evenings writing songs, rehearsing, and performing; it’s a routine you enjoyed. Every time the sun sets, you can finally strip off the polished and the behaved persona you created for your dad. It keeps you going, it gives you something to look forward to after a day of wearing tight suits and fake smiles.
The night itself was your home; the night gave you freedom; the night allows you to be you. You thrived under the moonlight and spotlights, the deafening cheers were the high you constantly chase, while the songs you made are the sedative that keeps you in constant clarity. You successfully made a give-and-take lifestyle without having to sacrifice your identity. With absolute certainty, you can finally say that this is the life you want.
But sometimes, you find yourself wondering. Is the loop fixed? Is this what I’m going to do for the rest of my life? A plastic façade in the day, and the truth must stay in the night. This can’t be it, the thought visits you now and then, often with doubt and fear. Do I want to live the rest of my life hiding who I am? … that drains you, you feel yourself sinking in complete darkness; you know the answer, but you can’t seem to find the right motivation to take that leap of faith. That drains you of hope.
The routine you once had is slowly becoming daunting and toxic; it spins you around and around without any means of stopping. But just when you thought you’d get stuck, a hand stops the spinning record. That rough cackle and the crooked grin … those intense blue eyes, the answer you need took a form of chaos incarnate, James Cook.
You thought that night would be a one-time thing, that you had given him space to get his bearings, then he’d move on. But the day after, you find him in that same abandoned pub, waiting for you, wearing that wolfish grin that screams chaos. As you work on songs and practice strumming patterns, he’s there, throwing you compliments with a roaring applause.
From time to time, he drags you out of the pub into some adventure. You’d come to visit him, and he’d be there, waiting with some devious plan.
Being stuck in your routine made you blind, ignoring all the hidden wonders around the area. He’d bring you to odd spots. Like a sewage path directly connected to a pet adoption center, he’d take you there after a horrible day at the club; the kisses and licks from the puppies would always make you feel better. A seat in a café that gives you a perfect view and a listening spot to the family drama next door. Then, a fantastic view of the city from a dingy motel, sometimes the dusty air in the old pub can be suffocating, which, over time, you realize can be harmful for your voice.
Think of this: A scene so beautiful. Cook is standing at the edge, chest puffed out as he tells you about an old man he met at the butcher's. Pointing at the specific area of the store, his rough laugh interrupts the retelling of his shenanigans. And you sit next to him, fingers strumming away, fixing a bar or melody. You’re lost in thought, making music mindlessly, only fueled by the sounds of Cook’s laughter.
You hadn’t noticed, but Cook stopped talking. He’s listening to your masterpiece-in-making. Then, curiosity strikes.
“Oi.” His voice is soft, but edged. When he spoke, he was sitting close to you, breaking you out of your trance-like state.
You hum out a response, acknowledging his presence, but you’re still strumming away.
“That one song you were playin’ before in the club. The one that goes dadaa dadum Rebel Chaos dadadum. You wrote that, yeah?” Voice dipped in gravel, but tinted with curiosity. You see his head tilting to the side, squinting as if struggling to properly recall.
“Yep.” You snicker at his attempt to recreate your tune.
“Who’s it about?” His drawl cuts through the music, his curiosity overpowering your unfinished melodies.
The night feels suddenly colder now. Your gaze lands on the illuminated eyes of the city before you muster the courage to look at his.
Cook stares back at you; he’s learned to give you the space to speak when you’re sharing, to give you grace. But you can still tell that he’s curious; he doesn’t want to pry, but that question has been eating him up since the night you guys met. His anticipation is barred and ready; a spotlight beams over you in the hot seat of this conversation. His jaw is clenching and unclenching, and each minute he waits feels like too long.
You see his patience, and in turn, you flash him a soft smile as gratitude for respecting your boundary. You decided to confront the question with humor, leaning in like a gossip.
“It’s about you.” Dragging out the last word like the answer was obvious.
His eyes widen a bit, and you catch a glimpse of surprise. Head tilted slightly back, his anticipation failed to prepare him for the answer.
A reminiscent feeling washes over you, and your lips curl up in nostalgia. “Do you remember the first time we ever talked? It was during Maths, I was crying over my test results cuz’ I knew dad was gonna yell at me… again. I was too busy mopin’ around, I barely noticed my music sheets got scattered all around the floor, and you were fumin’ at me, telling me to ‘Pick up your shit!’.” You let out an airless laugh when you did a loose imitation of him for the quote.
“You know, I thought you were gonna beat me up, but you sat down across from me and asked me if I was alright. And then I just… burst, I told everything about my dad, and you sat there, giving me this look … like right now.” Your observation was quick; he contorts his face in retaliation, growing a tad conscious of how he actively listens. You laugh again.
“You told me, ‘He can piss off!’ and that I can do whatever I want. I guess I was so desperate for a solution, I hung on to what you said to me. And after that, you grabbed my arm, and we went on a field trip.” A timid sense of wistfulness blooms around your words, the distant bustling streets below accompanying it like a dissonant orchestra.
“I never forgot any of it, the places you’ve dragged me off to in Bristol… Even when you were gone, I’d go back to those places and finish my songs. What you said and did… all of ‘em meant a lot to me.” The confession lay soft, like on a bed of flowers at the peak of spring.
Stunned, Cook is. He’s suddenly captivated by you, your gentle gaze stuck high up to the stars, an epitome of a starry-eyed wanderer. Swinging your legs almost blissfully, mind wandering off to fond memories. God. What a sight. A subtle smirk rests on his lips as the thought crosses.
“Thank you, Cook.” No longer are the stars in your eyes; instead, you are facing him.
“For what?” He whispers back, staring almost fondly at you.
“For helping me finish my songs. For being my rebel chaos.”
Silence. It hangs on a tight rope made by latent emotions. You both let it simmer before-
Both of you burst out laughing, finding the former sentence—although genuine and sentimental—cliché. The back of your hand covering your mouth as you lose to the fumes of your laughter. He dons his toothy grin, jabbing you on the side with his elbow; his chuckle rougher and louder than yours.
“You’re welcome,” Cook replies with sincerity.
The night ends with hearts full of joy and laughter.
♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ. ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ. ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ. ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.
Ever since the conversation on that rooftop, Cook looks at you in a different light. He notices every detail: The way your face lights up every time you find something amusing or exciting, the way your smile broadens every time you catch him staring at you, the way your laugh has a soft tone at the end every time he makes a joke, the way you flip your hair in some of your performances, the way you lick your lips before you sing every other verse. He collects each note in his mental anecdote.
“Fuck.” The thought dawns on him.
He has definitely developed feelings for you.
Cook usually goes for the direct route, clearly stating his intent without regard for the other; he’d just put it plainly and hope for the best.
But this time, he wants to do it properly. He figured, maybe, he’ll try courting (Massive emphasis on try). He didn’t want his gruffness to push you away; he wants you to be able to rely on him, that he’s worthy of being the inspiration for your songs.
Less flirting and more on asking how your day was. More pleasant conversations rather than the usual roguish banter. He was not expecting to struggle with making little to no sexual innuendos, especially if the perfect opportunity presents itself. He’s unsure whether the method is working or not, but hopefully, the work pays off.
You immediately spot it. At first, you found it cute, but over time, you started to dislike it. Why is he changing himself? If he wanted to know what you felt, he could’ve asked. You knew you could confess and admit that you feel the same way, but guilt riddles you with doubt; you didn’t want to squander all of his efforts.
But God knows you’re impatient.
So now, you’re in his apartment, sitting on a second-hand sofa and watching a random show on the television. And next to you is Cook, who’s yapping about the shitty weather.
The apartment is dilapidated; faded graffiti decorating the walls, scruff marks haphazardly covered with withered carpets, doors lazily reinforced with varied materials, crooked blinds barely veiling the smudged windows, a makeshift end table from a thrift shop … it was not a sight to behold, but you didn’t mind, as long as Cook had a place to stay.
“Hey.” Cook leans closer, concerned etched on his face. Your mundane train of thought derailed. “Y’Alright?”
“Christ, Cook!” You exclaimed, exasperation heavily blended in.
You grab the collar of his shirt and pull him in for a kiss. The effect is instantly magnetic. Once Cook fully realizes the situation, he clashes back, fighting for heated dominance. A groan of satisfaction thrums through his throat and into you. Soft whines emanate from you as you try to keep up, the immediate reaction knocking the wind out of you. You sneak in tiny gasps of air, to which Cook relishes. The sounds are music to his ears; perfectly curated masterpieces made by you.
Before you know it, your back was on the cushion. Hair disheveled and lips coated with drool from you and Cook. He sits between your thighs as he momentarily pulls away to throw off his shirt. You prop yourself up with your elbows, ogling at Cook’s muscular build; beads of sweat dripping down from his pecs to his sculpted abs, his shoulders refined from countless lifting, biceps bulging firmly, and his hands and arms with veins protruding, a sign of time hardening his grip.
“‘Been wanting this for a long time.” A feral sense of need laced with desire, a guttural sound from him that makes your heart skip a beat.
You bite back, your impatience reflecting the same passion. “Then why did you-“
The retort is interrupted when Cook surges back in, his kiss filled with hunger for you. His hand snakes down to grab both of yours and pin them above you.
He places kisses and bites on your neck, leaving marks like his life depended on it, as if the world will take you away from him. The sensation proves electric, sending waves of shock throughout your body, back arching in response.
His other hand slips into your waistband and wraps around your hardening length. With a firm grip, he begins to move his hand up and down, coaxing a slew of moans from your lips.
“Yeah, that’s right. ‘Need to hear more of that beautiful voice of yours.” He grunts near your ear, picking up the pace.
Sensitivity heightened; your hips bucking into his hand. He feels you squirming as you breathe out moans into his ear.
“Hhnggh… Enough, Cook. I need you… now.” Breathless, you sounded. Your plea sends a ripple of white heat straight to his cock, the strain of his jeans growing tighter by the minute. He wanted more; he wanted you to beg for him.
“You can do better than that. Come on, beg for m’cock, beg for me.” He prods, the venom of tease creeping into his words. His grasp tightens around your shaft, setting into an agonizingly slow pace. He feels the wetness as his thumb teases the slit of your cock.
A shaky breath escapes you, the stimulation stifling your words with whimpers. “Cook… I need- need you—fuck—fuckin’ break me, fuck me hard, pleaseplea-“
That was enough for Cook.
His hands fly down to his pants, urgently removing them before moving on to yours. Fingers trembling as you unbutton your shirt, but Cook’s hunger takes over, and he rips it off you; You can faintly hear some of the buttons clattering from afar.
He takes out a bottle of lube from the drawer behind him, and he spreads the substance onto his fingers and cock.
Stroking his throbbing member, he towers over you, lips slick with want; a perfect personification of lust made manifest, he is.
But your attention is elsewhere, your gaze flickers downwards; he’s huge, you find yourself drooling in anticipation.
“Y’like what you see?” A smirk plays on his lips, noticing your gawking.
His slick fingers find your hole, teasing it with shallow prods before fully breaching in. Discomfort flashes across your face. Cook rubs circles on your waist to help ease it. When he feels you’ve relaxed, he adds another finger, stretching you out.
Slow and intimate, yet both desires are still ablaze. Breaths are hot and heavy with boiling want.
Once you’ve been prepped, he lines up and then slowly pushes in.
The thickness of the head was enough to leave you gasping. He stretches you out, filling you up with merely his width. Grunts and groans vibrate throughout his body, your tightness sucking him in.
Each time he sinks in, his grip on your thigh and hip tightens, digging and leaving bruises visible in a few minutes.
He picks up your legs and throws them over his shoulder, adjusting for a deeper angle. And once he’s balls deep, he thrusts slowly. You feel every vein, etching them into your core.
Cook leans down and captures you in a messy and heated kiss. Tongues locked in romantic warfare as he speeds up.
Each thrust growing more powerful, more feral. Every time his pelvis meets your ass, a cry of pleasure erupts from your throat.
He pulls away from your lips, leaving only a string of saliva connecting him to you. Lifting your lower back, he adjusts himself before pounding in.
A shrill moan explodes from you, drool trickling down to your chin. A bundle of nerves within set aflame by his action, your eyes rolling into your head from the newfound ecstasy.
“Thas’ it! Lemme hear more!” he barks, savoring the music of your submission.
The more he hammers into you, the louder you become. The sounds you were making were heavenly, matched with the warmth of your insides, continuously edging him to bliss.
His relentless pounding takes you into an intense state of euphoria. Thoughts failing to be articulated as your mouth is occupied with chanting Cook’s name; intoxicated and hopelessly devoted to him.
The image before him is permanently etched in his mind: Each grind of his hips sends you into a twitching mess, your eyes dazed and lips quivering, your moans turning scratchy from the prior plentiful cries. Your hands claw into the cushion, breathing becomes ragged as you try to keep up with the overstimulating pace.
“Fuckfuckfu—” He’s nearing the edge; he emits more pronounced grunts, and his thrusts are losing control. Once he feels his climax, he slams in, burying his load in you. Your body jolting at the brute force, head colliding into a pillow, muffling your cries for Cook.
He catches his breath before he takes a good look at you. God, you looked a mess, a beautiful mess of his doing. He watches your chest rise, then stutter to a fall, accompanied by a series of raspy mewls and soft moans. His gaze rests on your weeping cock, brimming with pre-cum, awaiting release.
His hand returns to it, gripping it tight before stroking. He watches your body come to life, fueled only by unbridled passion. Your moans of his name grow louder when he hastens.
Still buried in you, he moves, matching the pace of his strokes. He feels your warm walls tremble around him. Your back arches; the pillows beneath are consuming your figure. Body tensing and trembling, your hand finds his forearm, clutching it till your knuckles are white.
Cook grabs your face, craning to look at you. He moves closer and coos your name.
“We’re not done, sweetheart. Not yet. We’re goin’ all night.” He mutters, sadistic and lustful. He pulls you in for a sloppy kiss, sealing the vow.
♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ. ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ. ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ. ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.
You and Cook are made for each other. The heat is unquenchable. Obsessed and intoxicated, both of you crave each other like clockwork. Almost every single day is a fight for dominance, and Cook keeps winning. No matter how hard you tried, you find yourself caving in, getting lost in his touch. You’re always at his mercy, but it felt right; you knew that’s where you’re meant to be.
“C-Cook, I have to go—aannhh.” Your whines are interrupted by cries and whimpers; your fingers tightly clutch his locks, and your other hand muffles escaping moans. Biting your tongue and praying to whatever divine being that the music in the club is loud enough to mask your sounds of pleasure.
You feel your knees buckle as Cook takes you in, tongue torturously fondling. He peers up and sees you trickling with sweat and drool pooling out of your mouth. Satisfied with your state, he hums, sending more waves of searing heat throughout your body.
Trying to balance yourself, your hands shoot up, grabbing the edge of the stall. It causes a loud clattering to scatter around the club’s bathroom.
“M’close…!” Your hands grasp his head, pushing yourself deeper. Cook gags slightly in response, feeling your tip reaching the back of his throat.
The overwhelming bliss reaches a body-trembling level, and you hunch forward, burying Cook deeper between your thighs.
“Sorrysorrysorrysor—” Your mouth flies open, mewling out apologies and guttural moans slip through your lips, while you ride out your orgasm.
With limbs slacking, you lower yourself onto the toilet, catching your breath.
Cook stands up, licking his lips. He looms over you, committing your exhausted physique to memory.
“It’s alright. You’ll repay me once we get back. Now let’s get you ready, yeah?” He smirks, sincere, but edged with lustful haze. ♪𓂃🖋
Cook may come off brash, but he’s a real sentimental oaf. For years, he has planned getaways and surprise dinner dates; sometimes, he has gifted you with handmade souvenirs from the places you’ve been to. He always seems to surprise you, but taking Cook anywhere proved to be quite the challenge; aside from evading the law, he’s incredibly impatient and insatiable.
You took him to the shopping center to buy him some new clothes. It took some convincing, but he finally caved; you’ve always wanted to dress up your boyfriend. You did your research, browsing online and in magazines. With a solid plan in mind and a stack of clothes, you expected things to go as planned, but one thing led to another, and here we are—
Curtains closed and a pile of clothes on the floor, you stand in front of the full-body mirror in the store’s dressing room, naked with Cook behind you and his hand over your mouth. Your cock swinging back and forth, dribbles of cum splattering on the floor and into some clothes as Cook rams into you. Cook glares at you through the mirror’s reflection with burning mischief. Tightening the scarf around your neck like a makeshift leash, he watches as your eyes roll into your head. The sensation brings you over the edge, nearly failing at stifling a moan.
“Shhh… You don’t want us to get caught, right?” He hisses, licking the lobe of your ear.
Your leg shakes whenever Cook pounds into you; every time, you feel yourself tipping over, but Cook has his arm around you, biceps bulging in the long-sleeved turtleneck you made him wear.
“Gonna cum in ye—Grrmmph—Y’Greedy slut better take all of it.” Cook groans deep into your ear before leaving more hickeys all over your neck.
His thrusts turning more feral, the sound of skin slapping echoing in the miraculously insulated dressing room. When he’s close to releasing, he grabs your face and pulls you into a heated kiss; Both of you letting out cries of ecstasy into each other’s mouths, while he buries his seed deep. All the while, your half-hard member is squirting your load all over the mirror, floor, and clothes.
Cook pulls away, leaving only a string of saliva. He wipes the stream of drool off the corner of your mouth, chuckling lightly at your unfocused eyes.
Then turns his attention to the clothes on the floor, now covered with your cum.
“I guess we have to pay for all of ‘em then?” Cook coos, his devilish sense of humor taking control. He holds your ruined frame; he can’t help but smirk as he caresses your cheek possessively. ♪𓂃🖋
But there are days when you don’t have the time to be with Cook. Your dad noticed that you’re always out and about, so he made plans: family dinners, game nights, and house parties (Which you found ironic, since he should be hiding instead of drawing attention to himself). Fed up, you decided to sneak Cook in—
In the encroaching night, you peer into the darkness, trying to spot your boyfriend’s form.
“Quick!” You whisper-scream at him, occasionally looking back at your bedroom door.
Urging him through your window, you watch Cook climb up, who’s heaving heavily at the height he has to traverse. His hand finally landed on your windowsill.
“Hello, sweetheart.” Cook flashes you his signature grin, buzzing with pent-up desire. You see him glancing at your lips before focusing on your eyes.
As soon as he sets foot into your room, you tug him into a needy kiss, softly whining into his mouth. Arms wrapped around his neck, deepening the kiss. You grind against him, feeling his rock-hard cock through his trousers.
His hands travel around your clothes, pulling and grasping to remove them. Sensing his need for assistance, you pull away for a second to discard your clothes. Cook follows suit, eyes locked onto your body, faint with bite marks and hickeys.
Bodies intertwined with longing, a cacophony of groans and moans cascading and bouncing off the bedroom walls. You both plop onto your bed, with you climbing on top of Cook.
Breath hitched, the combined heat of both of your desires putting you in a rapturous state.
“God, I’ve been waiting for weeks, months… I don’t know, ‘don’t care, I need you. Now.” Tone elated, your blatant confession to Cook is emphasized by your stiff and weeping length.
“Yeah, you need me? Show me then.” Cook goads you, a smirk on his lips. Like a puppy being given a treat, a gear shifted in you. A sense of sultriness radiates off you.
Accepting the challenge, you give him a peck before traveling down. You leave trails of kisses, dragging your tongue across his pecs and abs, parts that you worship. Before you know it, your face hovers above his large member, standing tall, pulsing as pre-cum drizzles down.
Not wanting to waste anything, your tongue rests at the base, scooping up the leak with your wet muscle before licking up, collecting the rest. When you’ve gathered all of his clear liquid, you wrap your mouth around the head of his cock, sucking lightly. Eyes peeking upwards, watching his reaction.
Cook’s eyes flutter shut, head lolling backwards. You feel his body vibrate as a reaction, light grunts resonating in his throat. He places his hand on your head, finger tangled in your hair, giving you pats and caresses for the attention you’re giving him.
This motivates you; you begin to take more of him, mouth ticking wider by the inch. You had to relax your jaw so you could fully take in his shaft; the hair tickles your nose slightly once you have reached the base. You fall into a rhythm; each time you swallow him, he groans out in approval. “—Aahh Fuckin’ hell.”
Your eyes are watering at the massiveness, and over time, the air in your lungs is becoming scarce, so you try to pull up to catch your breath. But Cook had different plans. With his hand on your head, he pushes you back down.
The sudden force causes you to whine, the reverberation enveloping Cook’s sensitive gland. Larger beads of tears are streaming down your face, hands tightly gripping his thigh and the sheet underneath him.
“Thas’ it, that’s my good boy. You can take it. Breathe through your nose—” A tight grip on your head and plentiful praises from Cook reinvigorates you. You take sharp gasps of air through your nostrils while you keep him in. “—Thas’ right, Aaahhngg Fuck, Good Boy.”
For a while, you stayed in that position. Cook lay flat on the bed, and his head tucked into pillows as he enjoyed the warmth and wetness of your mouth. Then finally, he pulls you off.
The moment his large length leaves, you gasp for air; lungs searing hot. Cook caressing your drool-stained cheek, beaming proudly at you. He taps his spit-covered cock on your lips.
“Lie down. A good boy like you deserves a reward,” He commands.
You do as he says. Through half-lidded eyes, you watch him find a comfortable spot between your thighs.
“Well, would ya look at that?” He looks down in admiration, seeing your already-prepped hole.
“Y’took the time to get ready for me? Good boy.” He slips his fingers in, toying with you, mischief creeping up. Your body jerks from the intrusion, heat pooling in your core.
When he pulls them out, you are met with emptiness. You whine at the sudden lack of pressure, aching to be filled.
Cook shushes you. “Ah-aah…Patience.”
Fixated on wheedling out more delicious expressions from you, he gently rubs your thigh and tongue tasked to aggravate the other, tantalizingly. With his expertise in handling you, his hand automatically latches on to your flushed member, palm smothering the sensitive head. His tip rests at your entrance, hips lazily rocking.
Head shaking from one side to the other, your animalistic need leaves your nerves frayed open. Cook carries a mental guide of how to break you, one that he created throughout his time with you. Limbs writhing about, seeking leverage to push yourself onto him, but he held you down without exertion.
A predatory sound rumbles within him, his restraints coming undone due to your helpless and blind efforts to chase Cook-made pleasure reaching a whole new level of desperation.
In a blink, the tethers are gone; his chains of humanity simply cease to exist. His primal instincts overpowering logic; he has made the ungodly decision to ravage you.
His hips snap forward, a singular sharp thrust sending his pulsating cock piercing farther into your wet cavern. There was no gentleness left in his bones; knuckles white and fingers burrowed to bruise your thighs, you were a prized possession he longed to have, and right now, he has you grappled and bent in front of him.
The imagery is so pornographic, so scandalous. He hovers above you, each detail he engraves into the mural of his mind.
Your legs stretched obscenely, trembling with splayed toes. Fingernails find dig sites on his back, forming a map of varied shades of red lines and crimson dots. Body arched and rigid from the shock, your inner walls holding the penetrator captive within. A moan so strangled, the sound itself lost its decibels, leaving your mouth open, awaiting your body’s interpretation and articulation of the masochistic rhapsody.
Again and again, his onslaught increased in prowess and yearning. A rendition of skin-slapping plays endlessly in your room, the insulation installed barely containing the salacious vulgarity.
The once-faded marks on your throat and neck are replaced with new and improved ones. Cook rhapsodizes about painting your canvas body with memoirs of him, so that every waking day, in every crevice, in every angle, you are reminded of his romantic fidelity to you.
Wrapped in each other’s embrace, duets of bellowing grunts and shrill moans flurried hot and heavy from both of you. Locked in an endless waltz, traveling from one point of the room to another. Neither of you paid attention to the upcoming and ongoing climaxes; absolute rapture made both of you lose yourselves in your vulnerable senses. The driving force, the motivator, the fuel, and the reason for the never-ending debauchery is each other.
“—cookcookcook ‘love y-you so much, I love…hnghhh…you so much..!” You chant; his name becomes a blissful prayer.
“L-ove you too… aaanngghh fuck!... I love you too…!” Cook declares back, heart soaring at your adoration and tenderness.
You and Cook are locked in a passionate haze. Continuously riding a rollercoaster of addictive desire throughout the night. The world blurs, everything just narrowing down to the two of you. You are his. He is yours. And right now till forevermore, the two of you choose to be in each other’s arms, and there’s no other place both of you would rather be. ♪𓂃🖋
Dawn breaks, fresh light passing through the wide window neglected during last night's festivities. Two bodies are tangled on a messy bed, sheets wrapped around them, and pillows are scarce and scattered.
You lay on Cook’s chest, slumbering peacefully, your body littered with love marks, their stings and aches persisting. And Cook, one arm hugging you and tracing circles on your hip, while the other lay behind his head. He stares into the ceiling, contemplating.
His attention shifts, eyes landing on your resting figure.
Cook knows the extent of your desire for him, the things you’d do, say, and places you’d venture; you’d do all of that just for him. And he dares not to abuse it, he knows that if he treats you right, you’ll give him your undying devotion, and vice versa. He’d do anything to keep you safe, to keep you happy. Even if it means burning the world to the ground.
“I’m so lucky to have you.” He murmurs absentmindedly, a soft grin forming on his face.
To this day, he doesn’t understand why you stayed in that old pub when he confessed, why you didn’t run away. But he’s grateful; you gave him a chance, you listened to him, you were there for him, and you gave him hope.
And now, he can’t imagine his life without you. He can’t imagine what would’ve happened to himself if you had left him in that old pub, if you hadn’t dragged him out of that club, if he hadn’t watched your performance.
“G’morning, handsome.” You greet him, voice teasing yet hoarse.
Cook breaks out of his deep thoughts, then he looks at you fondly.
“G’mornin', sweetheart.” He greets back, his smile broadens.
The sunlight shines on both of you, whisking into the scene serenely. Both lying in the afterglow and listening to the sound of each other’s breathing.
Cook calls your name, enveloped in his personal roughness, but now, highlighted with softness.
“Hm, yes?” You hum, chin propping up on his chest.
“Thank you.” He says.
“For what?” Your eyebrows furrowed as you ask, you notice your question almost sounded familiar.
“For letting me be your inspiration. For letting me be your Rebel Chaos.” Cook gives you his classic wolfish grin.
The silence returns, but this time, rich with affection. You let the moment linger, then you chuckle, realizing the callback.
You plant a kiss on his chest, your heart full of love.
“You’re welcome.” You say, smiling at him.
♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ. ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ. ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ. ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.
