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jupiterpiss · 1 month ago

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Yeah gimme that right now.. NOWHHHHHH

We're Fated to Pretend

Episode I

James Cook x fem!reader

summary: after years of silence and heartache, James Cook crashes back into your life in the most unexpected way—wearing a mask, saving you from danger, and kissing you upside-down in the pouring rain. The once-reckless boy your father used to arrest is now the vigilante your father’s sworn to catch. As suspicion brews and memories resurface, you’re left reeling from the kiss you can’t forget and the gut-wrenching realization that Cook and the infamous cheeky neighborhood hero known as Spider-Man are one in the same.

wc: 7.7k

a/n: I’ve always had a soft spot for Spider-Man, something about the angst, the humor, the mask, the heart. Then the Spidey!Cook brain worms burrowed themselves into my noggin and refused to let go!! But it wasn’t until Moga @somnolenthour sent me their absolutely beautiful Spidey!Cook fanart that truly inspired me to write it. Big thanks to Liz @fuckoffbard as always, for being the best beta reader and moral support a girl could ask for. I’ll definitely be writing more of this AU, but instead of a traditional multi-chapter fic, it’ll unfold in a more episodic format—each part will work as its own little story with loosely connected threads. Think filthy, romantic chaos of the week. No smut this time around but I hope you still enjoy swinging through Episode I 🕷💋

warnings: Spider-Man AU, morally gray vigilante Cook, forbidden romance, reformed delinquent Cook (but like...barely), mentions of past character death (Effy), guilt kink adjacent energy, girl dinner (Cook edition), explicit language, heavy sexual tension, implied masturbation, public teasing, rough kissing, thigh touching under the dinner table, secret identity shenanigans, emotionally devastating forehead kisses, dangerous levels of longing, eventual smut

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

Fic Masterlist/Main Masterlist

Episode I: I'm Feeling Rough, I'm Feeling Raw (I'm in the Prime of My Life)

You’d always liked New York at night.

Something about the way the city blurred and shimmered after dark felt strangely intimate, like you were in on some secret. Rain slicked the pavement into watery mirrors, reflecting neon signs in hazy blues and reds. Your sneakers splashed through shallow puddles, soaking the hems of your jeans as you tugged your jacket closer around your shoulders.

You knew better than to take a shortcut down a back alley after sunset—especially being the daughter of the NYPD’s Police Chief—but you were tired, frustrated, and honestly, a little defiant tonight. The meeting at home had drained your patience. Spider-Man was all anyone could talk about anymore. It consumed your father’s every waking moment, the obsession to hunt him down, coloring every dinner conversation, every tense silence.

“You don’t know who that man is,” your dad had snapped, eyes darkening beneath his furrowed brow. His coffee had sat untouched, paperwork sprawling across your kitchen table like evidence in some twisted crime documentary.

Neither do you, you'd thought bitterly.

You shook your head to clear it, stepping quicker now, your footsteps echoing faintly off graffitied brick walls. Queens felt alive around you, humming with electricity. Maybe it was the storm rolling in, crackling distant thunder and promising rain, or maybe it was the low shiver of anticipation you’d felt ever since Spider-Man had first appeared—clad in white and blue, a flash of scarlet jacket tossed over his shoulders, always disappearing before anyone got a clear look at him.

Maybe it was because deep down, a tiny, reckless part of you hoped you'd catch a glimpse of him tonight.

Your pulse fluttered at the thought. Ridiculous, you told yourself, as your shoes splashed through another puddle, the alley narrowing ahead. He wasn’t a hero—not according to your dad, anyway. Spider-Man was dangerous, unpredictable, a masked vigilante with no respect for the law.

But wasn’t that exactly why you felt so inexplicably drawn to him?

You rounded the next corner, lost in your thoughts, and collided with something off in the air—an immediate, instinctual chill prickling the back of your neck.

Your steps slowed.

Under the flickering orange glow of a dying streetlamp stood a man. Hood pulled up, face shadowed, but his body was unmistakably solid—tall, broad, blocking the narrow passage like a wall you hadn’t seen coming. He stood too still. Too quiet. Like he’d been waiting.

Your heart jerked violently in your chest.

His head tilted slightly, like he’d just noticed you—but something about the way he moved said he’d been tracking you for longer than that. Your stomach churned. You froze mid-step, shoes scraping against wet concrete, every survival instinct lighting up all at once.

The man stepped forward slowly.

You saw the flash before you even saw the blade—just a quick, metallic glint in his hand as it caught the stuttering light. Long. Shiny. Too deliberate to be anything but a threat.

“Well now,” he said, voice syrupy and cruel. “Aren’t you a pretty little thing.”

Your lungs refused to work. You backed up a half-step, heart thudding so loud you could hear it in your ears. The walls of the alley felt like they were closing in, trapping you.

“You alone, baby girl?” he cooed mockingly, tone dipped in something sickly sweet and rotten beneath. “Didn’t nobody teach you it’s dangerous out here at night?”

Your lips parted, but your voice didn’t come. Your hands were trembling, damp with sweat. You clutched your bag tighter, pulse hammering in your throat, in your wrists, behind your eyes.

Think. Think. Do something. Yell. Run. Fucking move.

But your legs didn’t listen.

The man’s smile widened. Not kind. Not amused. It was the grin of someone who enjoyed fear, who’d seen it before and liked how it looked stretched across someone’s face. His blade caught the dim light again as he lifted it higher—slow, deliberate, meant for show.

He took another step forward. And then another. You backed up, heel slipping slightly on the slick pavement. Cold rain kissed the back of your neck. The alley had gone silent but for the tap-tap-tap of water hitting rusted metal and your own ragged breathing.

“You’ve got real bad luck tonight,” he murmured, voice dropping lower, meaner now. “Could scream. But no one’s gonna hear you.”

He was close now. Too close.

You finally found your voice—but it was just a whisper. “Don’t—please—”

“Oh, I love when they beg,” he purred, stepping into the halo of broken light. His face finally came into view—eyes gleaming under the hood, cheeks rough with stubble, lips curled into something dark and twisted. The knife twitched in his hand, fingers tightening like he was ready.

Your body locked up, adrenaline surging too fast, too hot. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. All you could see was him—and the long blade meant for you.

Then—

A sound.

Sharp. Fast. A whoosh, like wind cutting through silk.

Something moved above you, high and fast and wrong, too fast to be natural. The air shifted. Something heavy slammed down from above—so fast you didn’t even see the impact, only felt it in your bones. The man was ripped from his stance, crashing hard into the opposite wall with a grunt, limbs pinned suddenly by thick bands of—what the hell?

Webbing.

He thrashed, cursing as his knife clattered to the ground and skidded toward your feet.

Your breath punched out of your lungs as you stumbled back, hands flying to your mouth. Your eyes shot upward, heart in your throat.

A figure dropped from above.

Upside down.

The first thing you honed in on was the suit: white, skintight, sculpted to every cut and curve of his body, shot through with vivid blue stitching, red jacket flaring dramatically like a flame in the rain, one leg bent around the fire escape railing, his body swaying slightly in the heavy silence.

The mask tilted toward you, sleek, angular, the eyes sharply expressive even without moving. They narrowed as they studied you, and through the distorted crackle of a voice modulator, you heard it.

“Sorry I’m late, sweetheart.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He tilted his head, the motion lazy, and the modulated voice crackled low across the distance between you.

“Fucking hell, mate.” He nodded toward the assailant still writhing on the wall. “You really thought that’d go your way, did ya?”

He clicked his tongue and reached down—still hanging—shooting another web with a flick of his wrist, sealing the man’s mouth shut. The sound was disturbingly satisfying.

Then he turned fully to face you, like you were the only thing left in the alley worth his attention. And suddenly, you were the one pinned in place—by the weight of that stare, the electric crackle of something deeper than adrenaline rolling through your blood.

You weren’t sure what you’d expected Spider-Man to look like up close. Some faceless blur of justice, maybe. A stoic, noble figure in head-to-toe black.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

Even with his voice distorted through the modulator, it was unmistakably British—smug, slow, with that cocky rhythm you hadn’t heard in years but would recognize in your sleep.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he said, the pet name dragging rough across the air like sandpaper over skin. “Can’t decide if I wanna web this cunt to a wall or take you home and make you scream louder than he did.”

You inhaled sharply. That voice—that fucking voice. Heat surged up your neck, your lips parting in disbelief as your heart stammered against your ribs.

He swayed gently, like he had all the time in the world to watch you spiral.

You knew that mouth. You knew the way he carried himself, the slight slouch, the cocky slowness in the way he spoke like he was undressing you between syllables. Even distorted, you knew.

And for a moment, all you could do was stare.

Rain began to fall in earnest now, fat droplets splattering your shoulders and trickling down your temple. The air grew heavy with ozone, the alley filling with steam where warm streetlamps hit cold stone. You didn’t blink. You barely breathed. You just looked at him, and he looked right back like he already knew what you were thinking.

Your hands ached from how tightly they were clenched at your sides.

The rain traced the curve of your cheekbone, slid along your jaw. It matted your hair to your face, soaked the thin fabric of your shirt, made the air feel thick and charged between you.

Spider-Man remained upside-down, unmoving. Waiting.

And you—god help you—you stepped closer.

You didn’t understand what was happening. Not really. All you knew was your heart felt like it would beat out of your chest if you didn’t do something. If you didn’t close the gap between you and whatever this wild, electric, inexplicable thing was.

Your fingers lifted, slow and shaking.

You reached for his mask.

And he let you.

You curled your hand around the fabric and gently pulled it down, just enough to reveal the lower half of his face.

The grin hit you first—lazy, crooked, utterly unrepentant.

Your breath caught in your throat. You swallowed. Once.

And then—still trembling, soaked to the bone—you leaned forward and kissed him.

You kissed him like it was inevitable.

Like the second your fingers touched that fabric, the second your eyes landed on that crooked mouth, something inside you had already given up.

The taste of him hit you instantly—rainwater and heat and something dizzyingly sinful—his lips parting the moment yours met his, as though he'd been waiting for it. His breath came hot against your tongue, a low groan rumbling from his chest like he felt it just as deep, just as desperate.

And he kissed you back.

Not sweetly. Not carefully. Not like a hero.

No—he kissed you like he meant it. Like he’d been starved. Like he had something to prove. Like he owned your mouth, and this was him staking his claim.

Your hands curled into the damp fabric of his jacket as his tongue slid against yours, filthy and slow, his mouth moving with that signature kind of arrogance you’d only ever known one person to possess. His lips tilted into a smirk mid-kiss—smug, bastard—and when he sucked your bottom lip between his teeth, you let out a noise that was embarrassingly soft.

And he heard it.

He hummed against your mouth, pleased.

Your lungs burned. Your knees wobbled. Your entire body was singing, high and electric, caught between what the fuck is happening and don’t ever stop. The rain poured around you like static, cool and slick against your overheated skin, but it barely registered. You could only feel him—his breath, his mouth, his voice.

That voice.

Even without the distortion, it would’ve sent a thrill through you.

But the second he broke the kiss—slowly, purposefully, tongue teasing your top lip as he pulled back—and murmured:

“Didn’t think you had it in you, sweetheart…”

It hit you like a brick to the chest.

That accent. That mouth. That voice wrapped in sandpaper and honey. You knew it. You knew it.

Your breath hitched, heart flipping violently in your chest. You were staring at the lower half of his face, lips still glistening from the kiss, water dripping from his chin, and suddenly all the puzzle pieces rearranged themselves.

Cook.

It was James fucking Cook.

You’d know that voice anywhere—half-growled, half-mocked, always two seconds from saying something filthy enough to slap him for.

You stumbled back a half-step, blinking like you’d just woken up inside a hallucination.

Your mouth parted, but no words came out.

Cook—Spider-Man—smirked wider at the look on your face. The kind of look he used to live for. That dumb, reckless grin you hadn’t seen in years, the one he used to wear right before doing something illegal or inappropriate or insanely hot, and usually all three at once.

He leaned forward a little, upside-down still, rain dripping off his nose as he let the moment marinate—let you stare at him, recognize him, melt from it.

His voice was lower now, distorted but dragging like velvet:

“But fuck me…” He licked his bottom lip, slow. “Do it again, and I’ll let you sit on my face right here in this alley.”

You stood there—soaked, trembling, lips swollen and breath ragged—with heat pooling low in your belly like someone had struck a match. Every nerve ending on fire. Every thought scrambled.

You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.

You just…stared. At him. At Cook. At Spider-Man.

What the fuck?

He tilted his head like he was reading your mind, and that grin widened, devilish and unrepentant.

And then—snap—he shot a web to the fire escape above and yanked himself up in one clean pull, disappearing into the shadows like he hadn’t just rocked your entire fucking world upside down. Like he hadn’t just kissed you like he owned you.

You stood there long after he was gone.

Rain fell.

The alley blurred.

Your lips tingled.

Your legs felt like jelly.

And somewhere in the back of your mind—beneath the static of adrenaline, the thrum of desire, the wild crash of your pulse—you knew:

You were in so much fucking trouble.

You didn’t sleep. Not really.

Your body had collapsed, sure—muscles aching, clothes peeled off and tossed somewhere near the foot of your bed, skin still chilled from the rain. You’d laid in the dark with your damp hair spread across the pillow, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.

But your mind? It wouldn’t shut up.

Every time your eyes drifted closed, you saw him. That mask. That mouth. The fucking grin. The way he kissed you like he’d been starving for it. The way he sounded—cocky and low and rough, even behind the modulator. That wasn’t some stranger in a suit.

That was Cook.

James fucking Cook.

It had to be. There was no denying it anymore.

You’d gone years without seeing him—maybe a glimpse here, a passing name mentioned in the background of a party or arrest report—but he’d vanished after Effy died. Went underground. You thought he’d left the city altogether.

But now?

He was swinging through Queens like it was his playground, sticking assholes to alley walls, and kissing you so hard your legs still shook from it.

And you hadn’t even told anyone.

Because how the hell do you say Spider-Man made out with me upside down in the rain and I think it was the guy my dad used to arrest for truancy, drunk and disorderly, and defacing public property back when I was in braces?

You didn’t. You couldn’t.

So you went downstairs.

You walked into the kitchen like you hadn’t just kissed a masked menace with the filthiest mouth in New York. You buttered toast. You poured coffee. You said good morning to your dad and tried not to flinch when he muttered:

“Spider-Man was spotted again last night. Midtown.”

Your fingers tightened around the mug. Heat pricked at your cheeks.

“Really?” you managed, keeping your tone breezy. “He save another cat or something?”

Your dad glanced up from his tablet, tired eyes narrowing. “No. Assault and attempted robbery. Girl got away thanks to him.”

Your stomach twisted. You were the girl. That was the alley.

“Good for her,” you said, sipping too fast, burning your tongue.

“Good for him, you mean,” your dad snapped, and now the sharp edge was back in his voice. “That guy needs to be brought in before he starts thinking he’s above the law.”

“He’s helping people.”

“He’s not a cop.”

You raised a brow. “Neither are firefighters. You gonna arrest them too?”

He stared at you. You stared right back.

The tension crackled thick between you.

“Just be careful out there,” he muttered finally. “It’s not safe at night. Especially alone.”

You didn’t answer. Just nodded like a good daughter and bit into your toast to keep from saying I was alone last night. And he found me before you ever would’ve.

Later that afternoon, you tried to focus. You read.

That was the goal, anyway—curling up on the living room couch with a blanket and a worn paperback, eyes scanning pages you weren’t absorbing. You read the same sentence over and over, but your mind drifted. Paragraphs blurred. Your thumb stopped turning the page.

Tried not to think about the kiss.

Tried not to think about the tongue, or the grin, or the voice.

Tried not to think about Effy.

She’d been everything. The kind of girl people wrote songs about—sharp, tragic, unknowable. She and Cook had been doomed from the start, and when she died, he shattered. You saw the way he changed. The wildness, the recklessness, the way he burned through the city like he wanted it to kill him.

And now he was this?

Spider-Man?

The guilt curled hot in your chest, but so did the hunger. He’d kissed you like he wanted to swallow you whole. You hadn’t wanted him to stop.

You still didn’t.

You thought about texting him—except, of course, you couldn’t. You didn’t have his number. You didn’t even know for sure if it was him.

But you did.

And just as that thought was sinking in, a knock echoed from the front door.

You froze.

Your dad yelled from the other room: “Can you get that?”

You padded barefoot down the hall, nerves twisting low in your stomach. You cracked the door open, heart in your throat.

There he was.

Standing on your porch like he owned the place. No mask. Just that stupid red jacket, hair rain-tousled, smirk already pulling at his mouth.

James. Fucking. Cook.

Your mouth went dry.

“Alright, sweetheart?” he said, like this was normal, like he hadn’t kissed you last night like he needed it to breathe. “Heard there was a good girl who lives here.”

You blinked. “What…What are you doing here?”

He held something up between two fingers.

Your wallet.

You stared at it.

“You dropped it,” he said, tone light. “In that alley. S’pose I could’ve mailed it, but—well. That’d ruin the fun, wouldn’t it?”

Your heart thumped. “You were there?”

His brow quirked. “Was I?”

Your stomach twisted. “Cook—”

He stepped closer, lowering his hand and twirling the wallet between his fingers. “Didn’t say I was, babe. Maybe I just heard about it. Could be coincidence. Could be luck. Could be—what’s the word your dad likes—vigilante bullshit, yeah?”

You swallowed hard.

“Give me one good reason I should let you in,” you said, voice quieter now.

He leaned in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

“Because I still owe you a proper kiss. One where I’m not upside down.”

And just like that, you opened the door.

He stepped inside like it was his house.

Like he belonged there. Like he hadn’t just dropped a nuclear bomb on your brain with that voice in the alley last night—like he hadn’t kissed you so hard it still ached in your mouth.

Your fingers were trembling around the wallet as you shut the door behind him. The latch clicked too loud in the silence.

Rain drummed steadily outside, soft and hypnotic against the windows. The smell of it—wet pavement, diesel, something earthy and sharp—drifted in with him. But beneath that was him—Cook—warm skin and smoke and the faded cologne he used to wear in high school that still smelled like recklessness.

He wandered casually down the hallway, ignoring the way you hovered by the door like your legs might give out. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his jacket. His walk was slow, deliberate. He moved like he was thinking three steps ahead—like every footfall was a challenge.

You followed.

Your bare feet were silent on the hardwood, but your pulse was a thunderstorm in your ears. Your hoodie clung to your spine with heat. Every breath felt tight in your chest.

He stepped into the kitchen and leaned back against the counter like he’d done it a hundred times. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, painting him in pale yellow and shadow.

And god—he looked good.

Hair still damp from the rain, curling slightly around his ears. Cheeks flushed from the cold, a bruise yellowing just beneath the waterline of his left eye. That stupid red jacket unzipped just enough to show the black shirt clinging to his chest, damp and sheer in places, revealing the sharp cut of his collarbone. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, tongue flicking briefly against his bottom lip like he could taste the air.

He caught you staring and grinned.

“Nice place,” he said, glancing around with mock politeness. “Bit tame, though. Could use some bloodstains or bondage gear or somethin’. Spice it up.”

You stared at him, jaw tight. “Are you seriously making jokes right now?”

He raised both brows. “Would you rather I cry?”

“I’d rather you tell me what the fuck you’re doing here.”

Cook’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes sharpened.

“Already told you. Returned somethin’ that belonged to you.” He nodded to the wallet in your hand. “What, you want me to say I just missed your pretty face? Would that make it easier for you to breathe around me, sweetheart?”

Your heart clenched. “Don’t call me that.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth for a beat.

“Why not? Liked it last night.”

Your breath hitched.

He pushed off the counter and stepped toward you.

Slow. Deliberate. That casual swagger in his gait that made every movement look like foreplay. You backed up instinctively until your spine hit the fridge door with a soft thunk.

He stopped a few inches in front of you, gaze flicking down your body with zero subtlety.

“You always answer the door lookin’ like this?” he asked, voice quieter now, more intimate. “Or just for me?”

You glanced down. Hoodie, no bra, bare legs, still damp hair from the shower you took trying to forget him.

You flushed. “It’s my house. Didn’t know I was entertaining guests.”

He hummed. “Didn’t know I was a guest.”

And there it was again—that double edge. The way he said everything with a wink and a knife behind his teeth. The way he looked at you like he knew exactly how wet you were just from being near him.

You turned your face away, trying to hide the flush rising up your neck.

“You didn’t deny it,” you murmured.

He tilted his head. “Didn’t confirm it either.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He leaned closer, voice so low it slid under your skin and made your thighs press together.

“Then why’d you let me kiss you?”

You looked up at him sharply.

His pupils were blown, barely any blue left around the edges. His lips were slightly parted, wet and pink and maddeningly close. His breath smelled like spearmint and something darker—like heat, like sin, like him.

You hated how your body responded to him. How your skin came alive under his gaze. How your nipples hardened beneath your hoodie, how your thighs ached, how your mouth actually remembered the taste of his tongue.

“Because I was in shock,” you said, but your voice cracked in the middle.

He smiled slowly. “That why you kissed me back?”

You didn’t answer.

He didn’t need you to.

Cook took one step closer, his knee brushing against yours, the heat of his body blooming against you like static. His fingers brushed your wrist—light, teasing, tracing your pulse like he knew it was hammering for him.

“Want me to leave?” he asked softly.

You blinked. “What?”

His mouth curved. “Say the word. I’ll go. Never happened. I’ll walk outta here, and you can tell yourself you imagined the whole fuckin’ thing.”

He was so close. The air between you crackled. Every nerve ending screamed.

Your lips parted. You meant to say yes. You meant to tell him to get the fuck out, that he was dangerous, that you knew what kind of chaos clung to him like a second skin.

But what came out was:

“…No.”

And his grin sharpened.

“Didn’t think so.”

The silence stretched taut between you—fragile, dangerous, breakable.

Your heartbeat was a runaway drum, thudding in your throat, your wrists, the hollow of your chest. Cook’s eyes traced every flinch of your expression, every betraying breath, like he was mapping your weaknesses.

And you were letting him.

He hadn’t moved away. His chest still brushed yours with every slow, even breath, heat bleeding through his damp shirt into your skin. His gaze never left your face, lingering on your mouth like it was something he wanted to devour. You could feel your lips parting involuntarily beneath the weight of his stare, helpless to hide your vulnerability.

He’d always known how to disarm you, ever since you were teenagers. But now, he was wielding that talent like a weapon, and you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

“You’re a problem, Cook,” you whispered finally, voice barely audible, thick with reluctance and want.

He leaned in, his mouth grazing the edge of your jaw, breath hot against your skin. “Yeah,” he murmured. “But I reckon I’m your favorite one.”

Your breath caught audibly and you felt his lips curve into a smile against your throat. He lingered there, just long enough to make you dizzy, inhaling like he could breathe you in.

“I shouldn’t do this,” you managed weakly, voice cracking around the edges. It was half a plea, half a confession.

He chuckled softly, breath ghosting over your pulse. “You already did.”

His mouth moved upward, tracing your jawline slowly, deliberately, until his lips hovered a breath from yours. You stared into eyes so deeply blue they seemed bottomless, your own gaze cloudy with helpless desire.

He cupped your chin, tipping your head back, thumb brushing the soft line of your lower lip. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice velvet-rough, dripping with sin. “Already fallin’ apart and I’ve barely even touched you.”

Heat flooded your cheeks, embarrassment and need tangling tight in your chest. “Fuck off.”

Cook laughed softly. “You kiss me with that mouth?”

“You kissed me,” you reminded him stubbornly.

He leaned closer, mouth teasing yours. “And you fuckin’ loved it.”

You opened your mouth to argue, to deny it—but his lips crushed yours before the words ever had a chance.

This kiss wasn’t like last night’s wild, frantic encounter in the rain. This was deeper, slower, deliberate—a kiss that savored every second, every taste, every surrendering breath. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, coaxing your mouth open gently, and when you relented, he slipped inside with a filthy, possessive groan.

His hand slid to cradle your neck, thumb stroking your jaw, holding you exactly where he wanted you. Your own hands, traitorous and trembling, curled into his damp jacket, clutching him closer, needing him nearer.

God, he tasted exactly like he did last night: like mint and nicotine and whiskey-soaked recklessness. He kissed you like he was imprinting himself onto your soul, erasing anyone else who’d ever been there. His tongue moved slowly against yours, filthy and indulgent, every stroke a taunt, a dare, a promise.

You whimpered against his mouth, and the sound shattered something fragile between you both.

His other hand slid down your side, gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him. The hard, lean line of his body pressed into yours, and suddenly you could feel exactly how much he wanted you—how hard and thick he was beneath the thin fabric of his jeans.

Your knees nearly buckled.

Cook broke away just enough to press his forehead against yours, breathing ragged. His voice was dark, low, wrecked with barely restrained desire.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he rasped softly, sounding genuinely undone for once. “Dreamed about havin’ you like this, you know. Thought about it every fuckin’ night since—”

He stopped himself abruptly, jaw tight. His eyes darkened, something heavy and aching surfacing behind the lust.

“Since Effy?” you whispered carefully.

He flinched slightly, then sighed, brushing a tender thumb along your cheekbone. “Thought after her—thought there was nothin’ left, yeah? But then you—fuck—you just…happened.”

The vulnerability in his voice made your chest ache. You cupped his face, eyes searching his carefully guarded expression. “Cook…”

He shook his head, leaning into your touch briefly, pressing a kiss to your palm. “Don’t ruin it, babe. Don’t think. Just…just fuckin’ kiss me.”

And you did.

You surged forward, lips crashing desperately against his, your arms circling his neck to anchor yourself. He responded immediately, scooping you up effortlessly and placing you on the kitchen counter, never breaking the kiss, deepening it instead, devouring you thoroughly.

You wrapped your legs around his hips, pulling him into you with a gasp as he ground forward against the heat pooling between your thighs. Your fingers twisted in his hair, tugging, needing more, needing everything he could give you.

Cook’s mouth slipped from yours to trace scorching kisses down your throat, biting gently at the pulse point that fluttered wildly beneath your skin.

“I want you,” he growled softly, voice muffled against your skin. “Fuck, I want every bit of you, sweetheart. Your mouth. Your skin. Your cunt. Want to ruin you so badly you’ll never fuckin’ forget.”

You shuddered, head tipping back, offering more of yourself willingly. “Then do it,” you whispered recklessly, hips rolling against him involuntarily. “Please.”

He groaned, pulling back just enough to look at you—wild-eyed, flushed, chest heaving with unsteady breaths. His fingers traced down your hoodie, teasing the bare skin beneath, lingering just under the hem. His voice was hoarse, edged in desperation.

“You sure about this, babe?” he asked, eyes blazing into yours, searching. “Cause once I start, I ain’t gonna stop.”

Your heart hammered hard. Every inch of your skin burned, needy and aching. You knew he was dangerous—knew that getting involved with Cook was like holding a lit match too close to gasoline. But at that moment, you didn’t care.

You wanted him anyway.

“Cook,” you whispered, sliding your hands into his jacket, nails grazing his chest, feeling him shudder beneath your touch. “If you don’t fuck me right now, I swear—”

He didn’t let you finish the threat.

He kissed you again, savage and deep, biting your lip hard enough to sting before soothing it with his tongue. His fingers finally slid beneath your hoodie, dragging slowly upward, tracing every rib, every curve, every sensitive inch of bare skin, and—

“Hey, honey, did someone come to the door?”

Your father’s voice echoed from upstairs, shattering the moment like glass. Cook froze instantly, lips still pressed to yours, both of you holding your breath, hearts thundering in the sudden silence.

His eyes met yours—wide, reckless, almost amused despite the interruption.

“Fuck,” you whispered breathlessly.

Cook smirked, pressing a final heated kiss to your swollen lips before stepping back just enough for you to slide down shakily from the counter. He adjusted his jacket lazily, looking entirely too smug given the situation.

“Better behave, sweetheart,” he drawled quietly, voice rich with dark amusement. “Daddy’s home.”

You flushed deeply, shooting him a glare as you straightened your clothes. He laughed softly, eyes sparkling wickedly.

And just like that, the spell between you broke—but you knew it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Because the way Cook looked at you—raw, possessive, hungry—promised this was only the beginning of something dangerous and all-consuming.

Something neither of you could walk away from.

Your father’s footsteps echoed down the stairs, steady, oblivious to the firestorm still raging in your veins.

You jerked your hoodie straight, cheeks blazing hot, and shot Cook a panicked glare. His smirk only widened, eyes dark with amusement and something more dangerous—hunger. The bastard had the nerve to casually lean back against the counter, posture relaxed, unbothered, as though your father’s sudden arrival wasn’t about to shatter the room apart.

The kitchen suddenly felt too small, air tight with tension. You sucked in a shaky breath, heart hammering painfully in your chest.

Your father rounded the corner, brows furrowed in confusion as his eyes landed on Cook. Surprise flickered briefly across his face, quickly replaced by wary suspicion.

“James Cook,” he said slowly, voice edged with disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

Cook grinned easily, all cocky charm and lazy confidence. “Evening, Chief,” he drawled smoothly. “Just returning something your daughter dropped last night. She invited me in for a bit.”

You shot Cook a sharp glare, skin prickling with heat. He met your gaze head-on, eyes glittering with silent laughter, utterly unapologetic.

Your dad glanced at you, brows raised questioningly. “What’d you drop?”

“Wallet,” you mumbled quickly, holding it up as proof, praying your voice didn’t betray how badly your nerves were shredded.

Your father nodded slowly, still clearly suspicious but not openly hostile. Yet.

“Right,” he said, tone carefully neutral. He studied Cook with narrowed eyes, scanning him head to toe like he was cataloging every possible threat. “Been a while, Cook. Haven’t seen your name on my desk in a few years. Keeping yourself out of trouble?”

Cook chuckled softly, tipping his chin up defiantly, arms folded casually across his chest. “Doing my best, sir,” he said, managing to sound both respectful and mocking at the same time. “Turns out even I can learn to behave.”

Your dad snorted, unconvinced. “Yeah, well. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

He turned his attention back to you, frowning thoughtfully. “Dinner’s almost ready. You staying, Cook?”

Your eyes snapped up sharply, heart stuttering.

“No,” you blurted immediately, panic tightening your throat. “He’s just—”

Cook cut you off smoothly, voice dripping honeyed politeness. “I’d love to, Chief. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Your jaw clenched, panic clawing up your chest. Your father merely nodded, already distracted, clearly oblivious to the storm brewing in your eyes.

“Good. Set another plate, honey,” he said to you, turning back toward the stairs. “I’ll be down in ten.”

You glared murderously at Cook as soon as your dad was out of earshot. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Cook grinned wolfishly, stepping close enough to lower his voice. “Eating dinner with your family. Isn’t that obvious?”

“Why?”

His smile softened slightly, thumb brushing against your lower lip before you could jerk away. “Because it drives you fucking crazy.”

You flushed deeply, shoving his hand away, hissing quietly, “Behave yourself.”

He laughed, soft and rich and darkly amused. “You don’t really want me to.”

He was right—and that scared you more than anything.

Dinner was excruciating.

The table was set, plates gleaming under the soft glow of overhead lights. The scent of roast chicken and garlic potatoes filled the dining room, warm and comforting, sharply contrasted by the tense, crackling air that surrounded you. You sat stiffly across from Cook, your father at the head of the table, oblivious to the charged atmosphere simmering just beneath the surface.

Every breath felt labored. Your thighs pressed tightly together beneath the table, heart skittering every time Cook’s eyes flicked your way, knowing and smug and so maddeningly patient.

He made polite small talk with your dad, his answers respectful, thoughtful, utterly convincing—if you didn’t know better, you’d almost believe he was genuinely reformed.

But beneath the table, hidden from your father’s view, Cook was anything but polite.

His knee nudged yours lightly, deliberately, a silent taunt. You clenched your jaw, ignoring the flutter in your belly. His leg pressed closer, warm, solid muscle against your thigh, and you shifted nervously, breath hitching in your throat.

You shot him a warning glare. He stared back with open, wicked amusement, sipping his water calmly.

“—And we still can’t pin him down,” your father was saying, oblivious to your internal crisis. “Spider-Man. Half the force thinks he’s a hero. The other half thinks he’s a menace.”

Cook raised his brows, feigning innocent curiosity. “And what do you think, Chief?”

Your father snorted softly, shaking his head. “He’s dangerous. Reckless. You don’t fight crime with masks and theatrics. It doesn’t work. He’ll end up getting someone hurt—someone innocent.”

Cook’s eyes flashed briefly, lips twisting into a bitter smile. “Sounds personal.”

“It is,” your dad said firmly. “I’ve seen too many vigilantes end up dead—or worse, getting others killed.”

A charged silence hung in the air. You glanced up sharply, breath held, heart pounding, sensing Cook tense subtly beside you. His knee pressed harder against your thigh, fingers gripping his fork a fraction too tightly.

“You disagree?” your dad asked Cook, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Cook paused, then smiled faintly, leaning back casually. “Not my place, sir. Just sounds like a bloke who wants to help.”

Your father shook his head, scoffing quietly. “You’re naive if you believe that.”

Cook didn’t answer. Instead, beneath the table, his hand found your thigh, fingertips tracing lightly, dangerously, up along bare skin. Your breath caught sharply, eyes flying wide, fingers tightening around your knife.

You shot him a panicked glare, mouth silently shaping a desperate, furious “stop.”

He ignored you, gaze fixed calmly on your father as though nothing unusual was happening—as though he wasn’t sliding his hand higher, teasing the soft skin of your inner thigh, thumb circling lightly, making your pulse spike dangerously.

You swallowed hard, struggling to keep your breathing even, panic and arousal twisting violently together. Your cheeks burned, chest heaving slightly, but you couldn’t move—not without alerting your father.

Cook’s hand slid higher, bold and shameless, thumb grazing dangerously close to the soaked fabric of your underwear. You bit your lip so hard it hurt, body trembling slightly, unable to think or speak or breathe.

Your dad was talking again, oblivious, voice muffled by the blood roaring in your ears. Cook’s thumb brushed deliberately across the damp cotton between your thighs, gentle pressure enough to make your breath hitch audibly.

You shot up abruptly, chair scraping loudly across the hardwood floor.

“Sorry,” you gasped, voice shaking badly. “I—I need some air.”

You stumbled away from the table without waiting for a response, legs trembling beneath you, heart racing violently. You barely made it to the kitchen before Cook was suddenly behind you, hands steadying your waist, turning you gently to face him.

“Easy, love,” he murmured, voice soothing despite the filthy smirk on his lips. “Just breathe.”

You stared at him helplessly, heart pounding in your throat, anger and desire swirling chaotically within you.

“You’re an asshole,” you whispered breathlessly.

He smiled softly, leaning in until his lips brushed yours in a featherlight caress.

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly, thumb tracing your bottom lip slowly. “But you fucking love it.”

You wanted to deny it, but instead, you surged forward—deja vu—kissing him desperately, hands fisting in his jacket, unable to help yourself. He growled softly against your mouth, deepening the kiss, pinning you against the kitchen counter with his hips, grinding slowly against you until your mind went blissfully blank.

You knew he was trouble. You knew he was dangerous. You knew this could destroy you.

And yet, as Cook kissed you like you were oxygen, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care.

Not even a little.

The world returned slowly, in scattered fragments—your senses coming back online, grounding you piece by trembling piece.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, echoing through the hazy, half-lit kitchen. Cook’s breathing was rough, uneven, matching your own shaky rhythm. His forehead pressed against yours, warm and solid, grounding you even as your heart soared recklessly.

You forced your eyes open, blinking slowly at him through heavy, dazed lashes. He looked back at you, eyes darkened to deep oceanic blue, glazed with lust but softened by something deeper—something tender, unguarded, and achingly raw.

“I have to go,” he whispered reluctantly, voice thick and rasping with regret. His thumb traced your jaw gently, lingering on the sensitive skin just beneath your ear. You shivered involuntarily, heat flooding your cheeks, but nodded wordlessly.

“Yeah,” you murmured softly. “You should.”

But neither of you moved.

He sighed quietly, pressing one final, lingering kiss to your forehead, lips warm and comforting. “Better do it before I lose the nerve,” he murmured.

You laughed weakly. “Cook? Losing his nerve? Impossible.”

He smiled faintly, sadness ghosting at the edges. “Only when it comes to you.”

His hand found yours, warm fingers entwining gently, and he tugged softly, guiding you back toward the dining room. The table was empty now, dishes cleared, your father already disappearing upstairs, leaving you both blessedly alone again.

Cook released your hand reluctantly, taking a small step away as your father’s footsteps echoed briefly from the second floor.

Your dad appeared briefly at the top of the staircase, glancing down at you both, completely oblivious to the charged air still humming between you.

“You heading out, Cook?” your dad asked gruffly, exhaustion softening the edges of his usual authoritative tone.

Cook nodded, polite and respectful, a perfect actor once again. “Yeah, Chief. Thanks for dinner.”

Your dad inclined his head slightly, expression neutral. “Keep yourself out of trouble, kid.”

Cook’s mouth curved faintly into something bittersweet. “Trying my best, sir.”

Your father disappeared back upstairs without another word, footsteps retreating quietly, leaving you both standing alone in the hallway.

Silence descended, tense and heavy, the air thick with unspoken words and tangled emotions.

Cook glanced down at you, lips quirking into a faint, uncertain smile. You reached impulsively for his hand, fingers curling gently around his own, tugging softly toward the front door. “Come on,” you murmured, voice barely audible. “I’ll walk you out.”

He nodded wordlessly, following your lead onto the porch.

Outside, the storm had softened to gentle rain, the world painted silver and shadowy blue beneath the muted glow of streetlights. The air smelled fresh and crisp, laced with the scent of wet pavement and rain-slicked leaves. Water dripped rhythmically from the porch roof, tapping softly against the wooden steps.

You both lingered at the edge of the porch, standing close but not quite touching, shoulders brushing lightly in quiet, electric contact.

Finally, you gathered the courage to ask the question burning in your chest. Your voice was quiet, hesitant, slightly unsteady. “Cook?”

He glanced at you, expression suddenly serious, eyes watchful. “Yeah?”

You swallowed hard, pulse quickening. “Why now? Why did you decide to come back, after all this time?”

He sighed, looking away briefly, tension rippling across his jaw. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought, wrestling silently with himself.

Finally, he turned fully toward you, voice low, rich with quiet vulnerability. “I don’t fucking know,” he admitted softly. “Been running for years, trying to forget—Effy, this city, you. Thought if I stayed away long enough, it’d stop hurting. But it didn’t. Just kept getting worse. Kept fucking haunting me.”

Your heart ached at the quiet anguish threaded through his words. You reached out instinctively, fingers brushing gently against his arm, offering silent comfort. “Cook—”

He shook his head slowly, pressing on, eyes burning into yours. “Then I heard about what happened last night. That mugger—he almost—” He swallowed roughly, voice thick with suppressed emotion. “Couldn’t stand the thought of something happening to you, and me not being there.”

He stepped closer, hand cupping your cheek tenderly, thumb tracing softly across your lips. “I just needed to see you again. Had to make sure you were alright. Thought I could handle it, thought I’d be fine just looking. But the second I saw you…” He laughed softly, bitterly. “I fucking knew I was done for.”

Your breath caught sharply, eyes stinging suddenly. You leaned helplessly into his touch, whispering shakily, “Why didn’t you say anything before? Why hide?”

He smiled sadly. “Didn’t want to hurt you, love. Thought you’d be better off without my chaos. Without my bullshit.”

You shook your head fiercely. “You don’t get to decide what’s best for me.”

He chuckled softly, stepping even closer, voice barely audible. “I know. Learned that the hard way.”

You stare at him, heart hammering painfully, words caught somewhere in your throat. The rain fell softly around you, droplets sliding gently down your cheeks, tracing cool paths against heated skin.

He leaned in slowly, eyes searching yours. “Can I kiss you one last time tonight?” he whispered softly, almost pleading.

You nodded wordlessly, breath trembling.

His lips brushed yours, gentle this time—achingly slow, heartbreakingly sweet. He kissed you like he was savoring every second, every sensation, memorizing the shape of your mouth and the taste of your breath. The world faded away, leaving only the soft sound of rain, the warmth of his touch, and the quiet tenderness of his kiss.

When he finally pulled away, both of you breathless and trembling, he pressed his forehead gently against yours, eyes closed, voice breaking quietly in the fragile space between you.

“You know,” he murmured softly, almost shyly, “sometimes I wonder what might’ve happened if I'd stayed. If things had been different. If I’d been brave enough to admit how I felt about you sooner. Might’ve had something real. Something good.”

Your heart fluttered helplessly at his quiet confession. “Maybe we still can.”

His eyes opened, startled and soft. He smiled faintly, thumb tracing your cheekbone tenderly. “You deserve better than me.”

“I want you anyway,” you whispered fiercely.

He laughed softly, pulling you into a tight, protective embrace, mouth pressing gently against your temple. “Fuck, you’re stubborn.”

“You like it,” you murmured, smiling into his shoulder.

He squeezed you gently, breathing in deep, savoring your warmth. “Yeah. Reckon I love it, actually.”

You pulled back slightly, heart skipping wildly at his quiet admission. “Cook—”

“Shh,” he interrupted softly, pressing a gentle finger to your lips. “Don’t ruin it. Let me pretend just a bit longer.”

You fell quiet, nodding gently, chest aching sweetly with emotion.

He stepped back slowly, reluctantly, fingers trailing softly from your cheek. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” he murmured tenderly.

You smiled gently, whispering, “Goodnight, Cook.”

He walked slowly down the porch steps, pausing briefly at the bottom, glancing back at you, expression softening into something so openly affectionate it stole your breath.

Then, quietly, voice carrying just above the gentle rainfall, he said:

“Always been you, love. From day fucking one.”

And with that, he disappeared into the rainy night, leaving you standing breathless and trembling, chest bursting with warmth, hope, and sweet, aching longing.

You stood quietly on the porch for a long moment, face tilted toward the rain, smiling helplessly into the darkness.

Because despite everything—despite the danger, the chaos, the impossibility—you knew exactly what you wanted.

And tonight, finally, you admitted it fully to yourself:

You wanted James Cook.

Danger, chaos, heartbreak and all.

Forever.

#he’s so hot omg??? hELLO #it’s punk rock to save ur girl AND kiss her crazy lets go guys #technically James cook Spiderman exists in the spider verse so guys this is real #actual live footage straight from the source I’m not kidding

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jupiterpiss · 1 month ago

Note

luvvvvvv ur work omgggggg u could do remmick fucking the reader in the middle of the dance circle…. or is that too freaky here idk if this is a safe space💔💔💔 love u mwah

..oh…

That’s not…

Nah I’m just fucking with you. You’re a nasty freak and I want to smooch you on the mouth. NOT PROOFREAD AT ALL!! Just wanted to note this isn’t the Juke Joint, a bar is mentioned, but it isn’t said nor hinted whether it’s the Juke Joint or not, that’s completely up to you if you want to interpret it as such. Also reader’s race isn’t brought up either, again, up to you readers to interpret or imagine which race reader is.

WARNINGS! Smut.. uh.. duh. Technically a weird.. orgy I don’t fucking know. None of them fuck each other aside from Remmick and reader.. but shit gets weird okay.. remember they CAN feel what Remmick feels. Also Reader is fem. No penetration but he eats her shit OUT, also jerks off. Reader’s emotions and reactions are all over the place.. I was kinda experimenting on how someone might feel during all of this in the beginning. Okay bye.

Tag cause some folks askkkkedddd: @jimmys-tiara and @porcosjaw

The chaos is loud. The rumble of feet, the pounding of drums and cries of the wicked fill the night air.

It sucks the life of the living, the fear of those being hunted by something they can’t wrap their minds around— can’t fathom being something real. This chaos, this crowd, bleeds into each other. Bleeds into everything around them.

Ties everyone into one. Into something connected, something whole.

Something deeper than flesh, deeper than bone. You can feel it, gripping itself into your whole being. Ripping and tearing your flesh straight off you and leaving you vulnerable.

It slithers its way through your stomach, up through your veins and hangs low in your throat. Every swish of a skirt, or the pull of pants, the ruffle of a jacket or shirt, you feel like it’s your own. You can feel the breeze of the wind not only brush across your cheeks, but everyone else’s.

There’s a loud howl, something you can not only hear but feel as if it’s your own, and then a loud cackle. Something that sounds like it hurts, like it holds traces of a loud cry for help, but the pure ecstasy on the new vampire’s face is far from dread or pain.

Then there’s another laugh, and another, until everyone keeps laughing between lyrics. A song twisted with laughter and joy despite its gloomy meaning.

A song that speaks of longing, of wanting to belong again— but you do. Belong. Together, with each other.

Whole.

You can just feel it, every time you brush your hand across another’s cheek or hold hands with another vamp, or laugh with someone, you feel it. That connection.

All around you, you can feel it.

It’s a massive circle, one that makes everyone face one another. Some folks move, others stomp in place. There’s a few that even go into the center, giggling and dancing before leaving again.

You feel another brush, hear someone giggle. Feel the brush of your lips against your own, despite no one being near your face to kiss you. Instead, it’s the couple across from you, making out.

You just ignore it.

People tend to get strung up by the emotion of it all, all the weight being lifted off their shoulders, all the fear being washed away. Scraped off gums and spit onto floors, or even into each other’s mouths.

You feel that tug, suddenly, between your legs. That ache, that pull. Another brush against your flesh, but this time higher up your thigh— a different couple this time, a more handsy one.

The thundering becomes louder, feet quicker, pace quicker. A tumble towards something. The middle of the circle is empty, the empty space welcoming, urging someone forth to take its place.

It’s not long for Remmick to be that very person, always one to fold for an ancient call, and he steps in the middle.

The dirt is kicked up with each knock of his shoes, dust rolling into the wind in small clouds as he dances. He does a small circle, dust following as the claps and instruments become louder.

More chaotic, more frantic, like everyone was desperate for something. Another tug, another pull, another kiss— all of which you attempt to ignore, but everyone seems to only get worse, feverish and hungry.

You glance up at the sky, the warmth and noise becoming overwhelming, downright unbearable but you’ll be damned to leave it. Couldn’t, even if you wanted to, because he won’t allow you to.

Remmick has a way of stringing everyone along, coaxing them with soft calls in the mind, a small curl of his fingers and his feet dragging across the dirt urging everyone to follow him. It’s why everyone is in a circle to begin with, singing a song none of them knew, but somehow could recall each lyric to.

So you stay, and instead escape the festering heat by looking to the night sky. There ain’t any stars out tonight, though you could recall seeing them earlier. When you had come out for a quick smoke, lingering in the quietness, the ease of being alone and away from the tumbling of sweaty bodies or loud music. Away from the bar. But now it’s nothing but space and darkness, and something drops in your stomach. Like an understanding that the stars will never grace your sight again, that even space itself is terrified of what you’ve become.

The same stars your mama used to tell you, promised you, would always be there as a guiding point, no longer wanted to protect you. To lead you home.

And why should they. There was no home to be had anymore.

You feel a pull on your hand, this time actually for you, and you glance down only to be immediately met with red eyes.

“Come ere’, in the middle.” Remmick cocks his head back, urging you forth.

Despite your better judgment, you follow without a word. Always do, always will from here on out.

You expect him to sway away from you allowing you space to do your own thing, or to lead you in the center to try and copy his moves before shoving you back out. You don’t expect him to linger so close, or to interlock his hand with one of your own and place his other against your waist. Don’t expect him to pull you so close to the point where his chest presses against your own, nose almost tapping against yours as he gives a small breathless huff.

Despite the cold brace of death, and the lingering smell of your own blood along with many others still slathered across his flesh, you feel your muscles relax. Feel that wave of nausea, of misery, swish away again.

He distracts that heavy weight of dread squished between your ribs by swaying you back and forth, the hand on your waist guiding you through a messy dance that hardly fits the rhythm. It’s far too slow, not in the same fast paced beat set by those on the instruments.

Not that he cares. And he’s working extra hard to ensure you don’t either. He sways you away, keeping you out by only an extended arm before twirling you. Once, twice, thrice until he hears you laugh, his own following soon after. Though it’s much more quiet, cut off by a small hum before he’s pulling you back into his chest again, although this time it’s your back pressed against him.

“There ya go, just feel it, be with it.” He sways you both again, back and forth, his face tucked close to your neck. The same neck he tore into not even half an hour ago, but the wound had long healed, the blood of the living long curing the open ache of tender flesh.

He places a hand over your stomach, his nose knocking against your jaw as he takes a deep breath.

It’s much louder in the center than it was on the sidelines, everything so close and concentrated. It should be just as overwhelming, but you feel his other hand go against your chest, just above your breast.

He begins giving a steady pat, a quick thump twice. Again, and again, and again.

“Feel that,” gives another quick pat, “that’s us. One.” Gives a few more just for a good extra measure. To really reel it into your brain.

One. Whole.

You realize after a bit that he isn’t just thumping his hand against your chest for the sake of dramatics, but he’s mimicking a heartbeat. One that no longer resides within your chest. You don’t know what’s worse, the fact the same man who took your life is trying to mimic it back to you, or the fact that you find actual comfort in it.

You sigh, then nod.

“Just feel it. Take it in.”

Your body rocks side to side, slow. Far off beat, no longer with the crowd, no longer following along with their clasps or stomp of feet. Everyone is stuck in the same pattern, same rhythm, but you two.

He gives another pat.

Then, he slides his nose across your neck, breath warm as he mutters, “you still with me?”

You nod again. It’s only when you agree that he places a light kiss against you, your brows twitching into a slight furrow as you feel his tongue dart out to lick across your skin.

His hand stops giving the rhythmic thump, instead he trails it down to your breast, where he lightly squeezes the plump flesh. You feel him place another light kiss onto your jaw, his stubble scratching at you as he slowly rubs his face against you.

You two stay like that for a bit, his hands roaming over you as he places soft pecks here and there against your neck, cheek and back. Anywhere he can reach easily. And you tell yourself it’s not just because he needs to be close, despite the ache you feel in his bones or the hollow space tucked between his own ribs that has left him starved for the soft touch of a stranger. You tell yourself it’s not just because he wants to be close, that he also is licking the blood off of you and benefitting from the tight connection that hums under your skin, all the while he gives a content sigh.

You keep repeating that he’s doing this for the sake of securing his hold back over you, but he keeps contradicting all your thoughts. His mourning is far too loud and consuming to ignore, and he’s far too gentle to chalk it up to him just being ‘nice’.

Remmick places another gentle kiss against your shoulder before muttering, “you smell divine, real good.”

You feel him press his nose against your jaw again and take a deep breath in before exhaling loudly. It’s drowned by the music, but even then, everyone seems to understand his own interest with you, all catch the same whiff of your perfume mixed with the salty tang of your sweat.

All give a small hum of content in return. As if agreeing.

You aren’t given long to respond, however, because his hand that was formerly placed over your stomach glides down to grab at your heat through your dress.

Forces you to give a small yelp and jerk forward, taken off guard.

And the fucker laughs at that, finds that real funny. He jerks you back against his chest again, places a hand back over your stomach and forces you in place. His hand doesn’t move away from the space between your thighs, if anything, he presses his palm over your clothed clit. Does that until his entire hand practically covers your clothed pussy.

Remmick hums low when you give a small gasp, “feel real good, don’t it,” his canines poke out upon him smiling at your nod in return, happier than a fucking pastor on Sunday, “Wearin’ anythin’ under?”

You nod, and it’s stupid. Real stupid, because you aren’t. Far from it, and you know he knows that. You know everyone at this point knows that, can tell by the way some of them shake their heads no or the way they scrunch their faces upon hearing you lie.

Shit, they can all feel the way your slick wets the fabric of your dress. Not willingly, but they’ll be damned if you lied when it’s so fucking easy not to.

He notices too, chuckles low and mean against your ear before whispering, “liar.”

He flips the dress up just to tuck his hand underneath it, doesn’t care about flashing anyone or the fact you’re quite literally in the middle of the dance circle. Doesn’t really give a rat's ass when you gasp and immediately drag down your dress just to have some decency.

That decency is thrown out the window anyway, a real shame, because he presses his fingers against your clit. Taps it twice.

In return, you give a choked moan, mumbling a few curses before your hips jerk against his hand. You’re squeamish, unable to stand still as you desperately try to slide yourself against his open palm, hands clutching at his wrists, seeking for purchase.

In doing so, he tries to tighten his hold and move his fingers away from your nerves, but when he figures that won’t work he shoves a foot between your own. Lightly tap his shoe against one of your own until you spread your feet apart a bit. Taps harder again to get you to widen your stance more.

“There ya go,” he mutters when you finally open up, a small smile in place. You think he’s gonna continue, maybe even be nice and actually sink his fingers inside.. but he doesn’t. Far from it actually.

Instead, he drops to his knees, pulls your dress back up and goes underneath. His hands move to the front of your thighs where he grips the soft fabric of your dress, hands coated in blood and your slick. You hear a wolf whistle off to the side, then a loud laugh that strikes a match of embarrassment inside you. Strikes shame. But most of it is shoved to the side upon you feeling a wet glob of spit on your pussy.

You hardly have time to react before you feel his tongue between your folds, licking a long stride up. With it, everyone gives a content sigh, you included. Collective relief, even the instruments transition into a smoother beat, into something more airy and light.

Remmick gives another lick, hands clawing against the fabric of your dress before deciding to just ball the fabric into his fists that rest against your thighs. It pulls the fabric tight, until the dress partially covers your front and only covers his head in the back, otherwise it’s a full show. It wouldn’t take anyone much to take one glance over and understand exactly what’s going on— this man is tearing your shit up in front of everyone, and really has no shame doing it.

Once he’s down there, he’s stuck. Doesn’t let up, doesn’t breath, doesn’t pull away for anything. He sticks his tongue against your entrance, noses at your clit and spits globs of saliva against your already drenched center.

Doesn’t stop on the account of the other newly turned vampires moaning or howling, doesn’t boast or smile at any of those who whistle or wink at you. You doubt he even knows nor cares about what others have to think of the sight.

He just keeps licking and prodding around, like it’s his afternoon snack and he’s been dying for something to eat. The only times he does anything, gives any reaction of any sort, is when you do.

When you squeal after he nips at your clit, he smacks your ass, or when you give a sharp moan, he shakes his head side to side real quick, making you moan louder. His grip tightens on your dress when he feels your walls clench around his tongue, a groan of his own following when he feels your shudder after tongue fucking your hole.

You give a breathy gasp, hardly able to hold in all the air in your lungs before your moaning again. Another loud smack is given again, this time to your thigh, your dress dropping back down as he lets go of the fabric just to grab at your waist with both hands.

He tightens his grip and urges you to move against him, to rock yourself against his face. You hear someone else give a loud moan, then another giggle before squealing in pleasure, your presume. But you can’t see them, can’t when the crowd is still dancing and singing, all molded together tight.

You feel yourself move against him, don’t even notice how you’ve begun grinding against his open mouth and his tongue.

Jesus, his tongue, the one that keeps you locked in place, squirming and giddy despite the awful shame that lingers in the pit of your stomach. The same one that is slowly— not even, it’s dragging you towards your climax, yanking you towards the edge.

Another voice, neither of yours, yells out, “Yeah baby! Just like that!”

Another chimes in, “Mhm! Ride that face, doll!”

You feel yourself grow warm with each comment, beyond embarrassed by being quite literally in open view. You think getting ripped into again would be a fate less painful than this.

But Remmick.. Remmick finds this amusing. Nips at your inner thigh with a small smirk in place, mutters something that you just know is teasing, but you can’t hear it. Just feel him talk against you before he’s latching his mouth back onto your slick.

After a few seconds, when your hips are fully jerking back against him and you're basically riding his face standing up, eyes closed and the most beautiful sounds leaving you, he moves both his hands away.

But, he smacks your ass and quickly moves away from your spit soaked pussy, forcing a loud whined plea to leave you. He ignores it, just to say loud enough for you to hear, “Turn around.”

You do, no questions asked. Your emotions curl and crash against each other, tangling into a mess of a ball, all of which leave you unable to think or act reasonably. Lust, ache, shame, fear, joy— all crash together, all too much to really handle separately. So you don’t.

You decide to let Remmick handle you for now.

And Remmick.. he’s a real sight.

He remains on the floor, both knees down onto the dirt, his clothes still dirty with sweat, blood and whatever the hell else he got into. His face is flushed, chest panting heavy breathes and his hair is a mess. Both of his suspenders are down, something you hadn’t noticed earlier, and his beard is wet with not only blood but also your cum. The small golden chain that rests on his neck also has small droplets of blood on it, but it still gleams bright against the reflected light of the moon.

He’s a mess. One you want to swallow whole.

He waves both hands over, signalling you to get close, but you're far too distracted with taking in the sight of him that he has to grab at your dress and yank you over.

Another cackle, another moan. The music speeds up again.

Remmick looks hungry, starved. Eyes your cunt even though it’s covered by your dress, like it’s his prey, his salvation and love all in one.

He goes to speak, mouth parting and teeth poking out but he’s cut off by another Vampire, one still in the circle who yells, “Put her leg up! Wanna see the sweet pussy she got on her!”

You look over to whoever said that, seeing them with a bright dazzling smile as they nod their head fast. Giddy as well. You just blink at them, unsure of what to say, what to even hit back with given how you can feel the bristle of their own joy strummed between your bones.

But Remmick seems unhappy, a small scowl crawling onto his face, but you quickly realize it’s not at the person but at you. The fact you aren’t paying attention to him.

Fuck what that person said, why the hell aren’t you looking at him?

You hardly mutter out a small ‘sorry-‘ before he’s picking up your dress again and diving back in. Funnily enough, he doesn’t put your leg up on his shoulder like requested, instead letting your dress fall back down so he can hide under it and with it hide you under it.

It’s purposeful. You know it.

You feel his tongue slather back into place, back into the warmth of your walls and slobbering all over you. He sets a quick pace, licking up and down fast while simultaneously using one of his free hands to roll his palm over your clit.

The pleasure shoots through you, down your toes and glides across your teeth that you almost lose balance. Him being under your dress doesn’t really help much, you can’t really grab at him the way you want to nor can you glide your fingers through his damp sweat hair.. but his shoulders are broad enough that you can still grasp them through the material. So you do. And you remain locked there, unable to move without the possibility of falling over.

And Remmick isn’t much help either, both of his hands are far too occupied, with one being busy playing with your pussy while the other is desperately yanking at his belt buckle.

A difficult task when you can’t hear, see or think much. Like a rabid animal, he claws at his pants, yanking at them and the belt as if they’ve started to boil into his skin.

It doesn’t take long for you to notice, given how much movement and groans of frustration you can feel.

“W-what?”

He moves away from you, again, but not too far, “can’t fuckin- can’t get my pants off.”

You shake your head, “what?”

He grows frustrated, yanking the fabric back over his head until he can meet your confused gaze, “can’t get my pants off!”

“Okay? Take them off now then.” You look down, pointedly, at his bulge and then back to his red eyes, “go on. Quick, needa cum already.”

“Right, needy thing-“

You give a small groan upon feeling his fingers leave you, blinking back your own frustration as he continues to stare at you, “Well?”

He works off his belt, quick, all the while looking at you. Doesn’t even say anything, not even a small ‘yeah got it’ just for the sake of letting you know. No, instead the only way you know he did is when he pulls your dress one last time over him and sticks his fingers back inside you.

Real nice, thanks.

Again, you're left on your own to keep yourself up by balancing on him. You’re not even sure why he made a big show of taking his belt off.

Not until you feel it. It’s more intense then the tongue on your cunt, even more intense then getting fucked in general.

The circle momentarily falters, everybody taking in a long, deep breath in. The music is off tune, slurred and lazy, caught off guard. You hear someone play their guitar too early, followed by another missing their Que in the song.

And when Remmick gives a deep groan, everyone else does too. Because underneath you, with him buried between your thighs, he’s jerking off to each moan you let out, to the taste of you on his tongue.

Each breath he takes in, each groan, roll of his hips, whimper and slick of precum that coats his dick.. you all feel. Like it’s your own.

Makes you all breath and moan together.

Makes your orgasm roll quicker, makes your eyes roll back and mouth hang open with a silent moan.

He feels you shudder, feels you flutter a little more and he doubles down. Goes quick, on both you and him. Fingers you faster and licks your bundles of nerves quickly, the sound of skin against skin becoming louder as he fastens his thrusts into his hand.

Someone gives a choked sob, another grabs onto a different random vampire just to moan into their ear causing them to get smacked away.

It takes him to just smack you on the pussy to completely push you over the edge. His mouth is open and waiting, slurping down your cum as you moan loudly, legs shaky. He’s a bit behind on his own, thrusts fast and frantic as he tries to meet you there, to fall with you while you're still drowning in pleasure.

Flicks his wrist a few times more and brings his hand down to his balls to give a small squeeze… and that does the trick.

One would’ve thought shots were being fired with how quickly everyone bowed over, with how loud everyone was. You give a sharp whine, almost screaming as you lean over, gripping onto him like a life line.

Your breathing matches each other, whimpers and pants in sync, even your moans matching.

“Fuck.. fuck..” you whisper out, trying to calm down, trying to ease yourself after having two orgasms back to back.. if it even was that. Felt like you were forced onto cloud nine and then taken higher than that all in one long orgasm.

Everyone becomes quiet, trying to catch their breaths. The music has stopped.

After a few minutes, he places a kiss against your thigh and slips out from under you, not to stand but to lay down onto the dirt.

You give him a lazy smile, and he matches it. You think you need to hibernate for a while, like a bear.

But before you can crawl away, or even attempt to leave the space in the circle, he waves you back over.

You ask a breathless, “What?”

Only to be met with a long groan, and then, “come. Sit on my cock.”

#idk what to tell ya #remmick x reader #remmick x female reader #Remmick smut #ewwww yuckkkk #he’s lowkey the only.. normal.. one.. actually no wtf

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