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tellingtell5 · 7 days ago

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So... Is it too late to give Cook a child? How do I undo this?

Bits of Home: 《James Cook, skins x reader 》

James Cook x femreader

A/N: Some scraps between reader and Cook that never made it out the drafts. Threw in a "what if" and now I’m lowkey gutted about how Home actually ends (I feel just like that TikTok audio — from Guardians of the Galaxy, actually — that says, “It broke my heart to put that tumor in her head".) You don’t have to read Home to get these bits — honestly, the “what if” might sting less if you haven’t. ♥♥Thanks so much for the love. The comments you leave genuinely keep me going.♥♥

Reader and Cook are literally this song: Home

Man, oh, man, you're my best friend, I scream it to the nothingness

The doorbell's been ringing like it’s got something to prove.

Loud. Relentless. Again and again, like whoever’s behind it thinks they can force their way in just with noise.

"“ALRIGHT—fuckin’—I’M COMING!" you shout back, each word sharp and jagged, matching the rhythm of the bell as you stomp through the hallway. You don’t even check the peephole—you’re too pissed for that. Just grab the door handle and yank it open like it’s got a grudge against you.

And there’s Freddie.

Bent slightly forward, breathless like he’s just legged it across half of Bristol, sweaty fringe stuck to his forehead. His hands are on his hips, and he’s not even looking at you—his eyes are glued to this massive black bag at his feet, like it's about to explode or grow legs and run off.

"What the f—"

“Your dad home?” he cuts you off, still half-wheezing, his voice rough and urgent in a way that shuts your mouth before the curse can land.

You’re tempted to say what you always say—he’s never here. Hasn’t been for weeks. Probably off chasing some new life you weren’t invited into. But you don’t. Because that would mean opening the door to all the feelings you’ve nailed shut behind your ribs.

So instead, you fold your arms like armour and lift your chin.

“Why? You fall out with your dad again and need somewhere to crash?”

It comes out more bitter than you meant, coated in venom you’ve been saving for someone else. You’ve been bracing for the next person to use you like a bolt hole, and for a second you let yourself think maybe that’s all this is.

But Freddie’s face shifts—softens. You see it in the little twitch of guilt, the way his eyes flick up to yours with something like hurt. And instantly, you feel like shit. Because Freddie wouldn’t. Not like that. Not to you.

“It’s not for me,” he says. And nods at the bag. “Help me get this inside, yeah?”

You hesitate, just for a second. Then grab one end, and holy shit—it’s heavy.

“What’ve you got in here?” you groan, practically tripping as you both heave it over the threshold. “Freddie, when I said I loved you enough to help you hide a body, I was joking.”

He barks out a laugh, quick and nervous. But before he can answer, the bag shifts. There’s a rustle. A puff of smoke.

“Mate,” you mutter. “Your bin bag’s on fire.”

Then the top bursts open, like it’s been holding its breath—

—and out comes Cook.

Grinning. Cigarette dangling from his lips. Arms stretched above his head like he’s just won a fight or crawled out of the grave.

“S’alright, love,” he says, voice cracked and cocky. “Didn’t miss me too much, did ya?”

Your heart stutters. Stops. Then restarts with a lurch so hard it hurts.

You don’t speak. You can’t. Your mouth opens and closes once, then again. You look at Freddie like he might explain this, might slow the world down long enough for you to catch up.

“He’s not supposed to be here,” you manage. It comes out too quiet.

“Supposed to be in prison,” you say louder, jaw tight now, rage catching up with disbelief. “He’s meant to be inside.”

“Oi, I’m right here, y’know,” Cook says, stepping fully out of the bag like he does this kind of thing every Tuesday. He wobbles a bit, legs stiff from being curled up gods know how long, but he doesn’t take his eyes off you.

And you don’t take yours off him either.

Because he’s real. Cook. In your hallway. In your fucking house. Looking exactly like the boy you told you loved, just days before he disappeared.

You shove past the lump in your throat.

“I thought you were—”

“Arrested?” he offers with a grin. “Nah. Almost. Escaped”

Freddie clears his throat. “Couldn’t keep him at mine any longer. Dad’s asking questions.”

Now your anger finds somewhere to land. You round on Cook, voice like flint.

“You’ve been out this whole time? And you didn’t tell me? You let me think—”

He steps closer, hands up, not laughing anymore.

“I wanted to, alright? I fuckin’ tried. But I’m like, the most wanted bastard in Bristol. Couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk you.”

He grabs your face then, both hands on your cheeks, forcing you to look at him like it’s the only way to speak the truth. His thumb brushes just beneath your eye, soft. Too soft.

“Would’ve run straight to you if I could’ve. You know that.”

And fuck. You do.

You do because you remember. You remember his mouth on yours just before everything fell apart. The way he said he loved you like it burned coming out. Like he’d never said it before and might never say it again. You remember not knowing what to do with it—any of it. How you both shook with it. With fear, with wanting, with everything.

You step back. Break the contact. It’s too much. Still.

He drops his hands, but doesn’t take his eyes off you.

“Can I stay?” he says, voice quieter now. “Just for a bit.”

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts, spin on your heel and walk toward the living room.

“You ever asked permission in your life, Cook?”

His laugh follows you down the hall, wild and warm and stupid.

“Didn’t think so.”

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Through the rain and the frost, through everything I do it all for you

You knew. You fuckin’ knew. Told him it was gonna piss it down, and what did he do?

“And why d’you listen to me anyway?!”

He looks at you like you’ve just stabbed him, dramatic as always, dripping from head to toe like someone dropped him in the canal.

You’d tried to stop him — said the air was thick, storm’s comin’, maybe don’t sneak out tonight, yeah? But he’d been pacing the whole day like a lion in a fuckin’ zoo. Kept moaning about the bathroom window being his only breath of freedom. "I’m suffocatin’, babe."

You told him to stop being such a dramatic little criminal.

Still, you caved. Of course you did.

Now you’re both soaked, head to toe, squelching back into your flat like two rats climbing out the deep end. The rain’s gotten into your bones, cold and mean, and you swear your jeans weigh about ten kilos each.

As soon as the door shuts behind you, you're stripping off layers like they’re tryin’ to strangle you. Cook just stands there like a stunned goldfish, watchin’ you fight with your hoodie like he’s never seen tits before.

“Me hands ain’t workin’,” you mutter through clenched teeth, fingers shaking. “Shit, I’m freezin’.”

You shove your hands in front of his face like he’s responsible for your blood circulation. He stares. You turn, presenting your back like a challenge.

“Do somethin’, will you?”

You point at your bra clasp, bouncing a bit on the spot to keep warm. He doesn’t move. Just stands there like a right muppet, starin’ at the moles on your back like they’re fuckin’ constellations.

“Cook,” you warn, “it ain’t the first time, get on with it.”

Snapped out of it, he fumbles the clasp and you feel the weight of the wet fabric drop to the floor. You expect him to say something crude, but he’s gone quiet. You look over your shoulder and his eyes are wide like he’s seeing something sacred. You don’t stay to indulge him.

You peg it up the stairs in your knickers, half-laughing, hair plastered to your face. At the halfway point you stop, dripping, stark, water tracing your spine, and you twist around to catch him still staring.

“You comin’ or what?”

You don’t wait. He’s already tearing his hoodie off on the way up, leaving a trail of wet clothes behind like some budget breadcrumb path. You’re already curled in the bath, knees to chest, when he gets there — arms wrapped around your legs, head tucked down, teeth still chattering.

Hot water’s rising and your whole body sighs at once.

You hold out your hand. It’s always like this. You stretch your palm toward him, even if you’re mad, even if you’re cold. And he always, always takes it.

But instead of getting in behind you like you expect, Cook steps over the tub and settles himself between your legs, back against your chest like he’s trying to disappear into you. He fits too easily there — knees up, spine curled, like a kid hiding from the world.

You blink. “You alright?”

He shrugs, then mutters, “You’re warmer.”

You rest your chin on his shoulder, wrap your arms around him. His skin’s still damp and goosebumped, but he’s starting to melt in the heat, muscles softening with every breath.

You don’t talk much after that. Just let the silence stretch, full and soft, while the water climbs over your legs and across his ribs. You run your fingers over his arms, down his chest, across the fading bruises he never explains.

He shivers again — not from cold this time. You brush your lips against the back of his neck, feel him exhale like he’s been holding it in all week.

There’s still storm in the sky and static under your skin, but in this moment, in your bathtub with Cook between your legs like it’s the only place he belongs—

You feel like this messy, soaked, slightly broken boy is yours. Even if neither of you’s said it. Even if you never do.

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Well, holy moly, me oh my, You're the apple of my eye. Girl, I never loved one like you

“Yeah, just like that, luv.”

You look up, and fuck — the way he's staring at you? It shoots straight between your legs like he pressed some hidden button in your core.

His eyes are blown wide, completely gone — starring you. His mouth is slack, panting like he’s run a marathon, but all he’s done is lie there while you go to town on him. His fringe is stuck to his forehead with sweat and his cheeks are flushed like a kid caught doing something naughty.

The sight makes your pussy clench, sharp and sudden. You shift slightly, grinding down on nothing like some desperate virgin, chasing a friction you know you won't get. Not like this. Not yet.

But you love it. The power. The heat. The way he’s fucking melting for you.

You flatten your tongue against the underside of his cock and drag it slowly, teasing the sensitive ridge until he lets out this guttural moan that makes your nipples harden. You can feel how heavy he is on your tongue, how alive he is in your mouth. It’s obscene. It's filthy.

It’s perfect.

His hand is tangled in your hair, guiding you without pushing, and the other comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing your skin, eyes locked on the way his cock disappears between your lips. Like he can’t believe it. Like he might die if he blinks.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he groans. “You’ve got no idea what you’re doin’ to me.”

But oh, you do. Because it’s doing things to you, too. Your underwear is soaked, clinging to you like a second skin, and every needy pulse between your legs is screaming for attention.

You hum around him, and the reaction is immediate — a shiver that runs through his entire body. You feel his thighs tense under your hands, his whole body surrendering to the sensation. And then he looks at you again, that same dazed, reverent look that makes your skin tingle.

“Oi,” he mutters, voice hoarse and dripping with amusement, “if you ain’t gonna use your hands, put ‘em somewhere else, sweetheart.”

You pull off him with a wet pop and grin up at him, cheeks flushed, lips red and shining with spit.

“You said no hands, Cookie.”

The nickname makes his cock twitch right next to your face — like it agrees with you.

“Yeah, well, changed my fuckin’ mind, didn’t I? Put ‘em on my balls. I shaved and everything.”

You pause, brows arching, lips just inches from the tip as your warm breath makes him shiver.

“…You shaved?”

You arch an eyebrow, and then tug his pants and briefs all the way down. What you see makes you bark a laugh.

“Soft as fucking peaches,” he says proudly, hips giving a little jerk, “don’t they deserve some love?”

You stare at him, momentarily speechless, lips wet and parted from how long you’ve been on your knees. Then your eyes narrow.

“Are you kidding me? You used my razor?”

“Obviously. That little green strip? Aloe vera magic, babe.”He chuckles, all low and rough and cocky.

You shake your head, but you’re grinning as you cradle his balls in your hand, fingers feather-light at first.

“You absolute goblin.”

“A sexy goblin, though.”

Your nails graze his smooth skin and you give him a gentle squeeze — just enough to make him hiss and clench his abs.

“Oi! No bollock torture, yeah?”

“You owe me a whole new pack of blades.”

“Then take it outta me,” he says with a wink, “go on, ruin me.”

And oh, you will. You lean forward and lick one of his balls with slow, deliberate intent — a long stroke that ends with your lips sucking him in, tongue swirling lazily.

You take him into your mouth again, slowly this time, lips stretched wide and obscene, and he writhes under you. That little jolt of satisfaction runs down your spine and coils in your gut when his hand finds your hair again, threading through the strands and guiding you like he can’t help himself.

You’re soaked, drunk on the sounds he makes. You want to be the reason he comes undone. You want to feel it — all of it. His body twitching under your touch, his filthy little whimpers, his cock twitching on your tongue.You could come just from this, honestly — from the taste, from the mess, from the fact that he’s yours, right now, panting and swearing and losing his damn mind in your mouth.

You take him deeper this time, feeling the stretch of your jaw, the weight of him. Your throat tightens just as he groans something unintelligible that might’ve been your name or might’ve been just “fuck” — either way, it makes your toes curl.

And then he whimpers. Loud.

That sound. That raw, helpless sound — it does something to you. You moan around him, loud enough to vibrate through his cock and into your core.

You push further, eager, greedy. He slips into your throat and you fight the gag with everything you’ve got, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.

Then he laughs.

Actually laughs.

You pull off him again, coughing a little, eyes glassy with effort, and glare up at him.

He’s got the nerve to be grinning. Full-on dimples, devilish twinkle in his eye, proud as fuck.

“Chokin’ on me like a champ,” he says, wiping your tears away with his thumb. “My little throat goat.”

“Fuck off,” you mutter, but you're laughing too, breathless and hot and so turned on you could scream.

He grins wider. “You love it.”

You don’t answer. Instead, you slide him back into your mouth without warning — and this time you don’t stop. You work him hard, lips tight, tongue relentless, bobbing your head with a rhythm that makes his hips stutter.

He’s groaning now, constant and shameless, your name tangled in curses as his hand tightens in your hair.

“Fuck, princess. Fuck me — you’re perfect, ain’t you?”

You hum again, throat relaxing, letting him sink all the way in.

You feel him hit the back of your throat and then — twitch. Buck. Curse.

He’s close. You can feel it in the way his thighs shake, the way his breath stutters, the way his words fall apart into broken syllables.

“I’m gonna — fuck — you’re gonna make me—”

You nod without stopping, ready for it. Begging for it.

And then—

He pulls out.

Just like that. Slips out of your mouth with a slick pop.

You blink. Offended.

“Excuse me?”

But he’s already sitting up, panting like a dog, grabbing his cock in one hand with wild, manic eyes.

“No, no, wait—I got this. I wanna see it, baby. I’m gonna paint a fucking masterpiece.”

You snort. Loudly. Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, still kneeling between his legs.

“A masterpiece?”

“Yes,” he huffs, jerking his cock furiously, tongue between his teeth like he’s concentrating on oil painting, not orgasm. “This is ART. Stay still.”

“You dramatic little shit.”

“Shh. Don’t move. You’re the canvas.”

You lean back on your heels, grinning like a wolf, watching him with raised eyebrows. He’s properly going for it now — fist pumping, jaw clenched, head thrown back. You reach up lazily and cup his balls, warm and heavy in your palm. He jolts like you electrocuted him.

“Jesus—bloody hell—”

“You were right,” you say, running your thumb along the seam, “soft as fucking peaches.”

“See?? I told you. I shaved for this. This is a curated experience.”

“With my razor, you knob.”

You give him a very gentle squeeze in retaliation, just enough to make him gasp and roll his eyes back.

He glares at you through bleary eyes. “Don’t ruin my moment.”

“You’re jerking off two inches from my face, babe. Moment’s already ruined.”

“Don’t mock the muse.”

You roll your eyes dramatically — but you stay still. Because deep down? It’s kinda hot. Filthy. Ridiculous. So him. And you love it.

Then he gasps — sharp and loud — and his whole body stiffens like he’s been electrocuted.

“Fucking—I’m coming—!”

And he does. Violently. A hot, messy splatter hits your cheek, your chin — and your nose.

You blink, frozen. There’s a pause.

Then he opens one eye and stares.

“…Did I just cum on your nose?”

You wipe it slowly, still stunned. Then grin.

“Right up the nostril, Cookie.”

He groans, flopping back dramatically, hand over his face.

“I ruined the canvas.”

“I’m gonna be smelling you for a week.”

“You’re welcome.”

You crawl up his chest, straddling his waist, your face still sticky and smug.

“That’s not how masterpieces work.”

“Sure it is,” he pants, hair a mess, grinning up at you. “It’s modern art. Abstract. Raw. Post-orgasmic expressionism.”

You slap his chest lightly.

“You owe me a tissue and a fucking smoothie.”

“I owe you everything, my throat goat queen.”

And then you're both laughing, tangled and filthy and breathless.

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Well, hot and heavy pumpkin pie. Chocolate candy, Jesus Christ. Ain't nothing please me more than you

It was late. That part of the night when your belly’s full and your eyelids start drooping heavy. You were both on the sofa, the telly on in the background, but neither of you paying it any real mind. He’d decided personal space was a myth, sprawled across you like he owned the place, head resting on your chest, body warm and lax and stupidly heavy. His thumb dragged lazy circles beneath your shirt, brushing skin without meaning to. Or maybe he did. Hard to tell with him.

Your fingers were in his hair, combing slow, soft strokes like you were calming a wild thing. Maybe you were. It felt calm. Still. Almost too still.

You’d lost track of how many days he’d been there. He’d slipped into your flat the way he always had—loud, grinning, with no warning—and just stayed. Like he belonged there. Like the crooked lamp in the corner or that painting above the sofa you never took down. He fit. Too well. And it scared you.

Because peace, in your world, didn’t last. It shifted, always. Sweet things left bitter aftertastes. And the longer it felt like home, the more it felt like something was about to snap.

"Your hair’s gotten long," you said absently, tugging a strand and holding it up to the light.

He didn’t lift his head. Just looked up at you through those ridiculous lashes.

"Yeah?"

You nodded, twisting the ends between your fingers.

"Can’t go out for a trim, can I? Bit risky, that. Don’t think a haircut’s worth prison."

You scratched at his scalp, watching his lashes flutter. The way he melted under your touch made something clench and soften all at once inside your chest.

"I like it," you said, barely audible.

"That ‘cause you’ve got more to grab when I’m between your legs?"

You wanted to be annoyed. Really, you did. But you just rolled your eyes and tugged his hair hard enough to make him wince.

"You’re such a dickhead."

He grinned like it was a compliment.

"You could cut it."

He shifted, chin now on your chest, breath warm against your collarbone. You looked down at him and your heart stuttered. You’d never seen sea storms in real life, but his eyes—they were the colour you imagined storms would be, right out in the middle of it. Dark and endless. And you knew, if you let him, you’d drown.

You didn’t say you loved him. Even if it was the only thing sitting in your throat. Instead, you nodded.

Which is how you ended up in the bathroom, him plopped on the toilet seat, legs splayed, and you between them with a pair of kitchen scissors meant for fish.

You’d never done this before. Not properly. But he didn’t question you once. Trusted you in that way he always had—reckless and absolute. And it made you feel something sharp and soft at the same time.

You’d finished the back as best you could, now working on the front. Your hand was steady. Almost.

His hands found your hips, settled there. Hot and firm and unmoving. You nearly dropped the scissors.

"You’re gonna end up bald if you keep that up."

"Worth it," he murmured, his hands slipping lower to squeeze your arse.

"Cook..."

It was a warning. Your eyes didn’t leave the hair in your hand, but you could feel his gaze, all heat and mischief.

And then—his lips, warm through the fabric of your tee, pressed against your belly.

You bit your lip to keep from groaning. Or gasping. Or saying something that’d break the moment.

His kisses moved upwards, grazing the space just beneath your bra. You stopped. Dropped your hands to your sides and stared at him. He looked up at you like he always did—like you were the only thing in the room.

You took his face in your hands, tilted it this way and that, pretending to check your work. But really, you were memorising. Every line. Every freckle. You wanted to kiss the bridge of his nose, his jaw, those lips—still chapped from chewing them when he got anxious.

"Keep looking at me like that, princess, and we’ll never finish."

His grip tightened on your arse and you let out a noise halfway between a laugh and a groan. The kind that twisted up your stomach.

"It’s done, you idiot," you said, lifting his chin and pressing a soft, quick kiss to his lips. Just a peck. But it left him blinking like you’d hit him.

You grabbed his hands, still clinging to your hips, and moved them away gently. Stepped aside so he could see himself in the mirror.

He stood, ran his fingers through his hair, eyes wide.

"Oi... you’ve actually done a decent job. Maybe you should sack off uni, start your own thing. Haircuts for dickheads. I’d be your first customer."

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. He kept looking, kept touching his hair, and then—his expression shifted. Eyes a little darker. Mouth set different.

"Was lookin’ like a fuckin’ homeless bloke, weren’t I?"

You knew what he meant. Knew he wasn’t just talking about the hair.

You stepped behind him, wrapped your arms around his waist, rested your chin on his shoulder. He didn’t hesitate. Grabbed your hands where they rested on his stomach. Held on tight.

He looked at you in the mirror.

"You’re not," you said, voice thick. "You’ll always have a home, James. As long as I’m here."

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. Just stared at you like you’d undone something in him.

It was too much. You buried your face in his neck, nose pressed to his skin. Too close. Too honest.

You kissed his shoulder. His jaw. The base of his neck.

He didn’t speak. But you felt the way his breath caught. The way his fingers curled tighter around yours.

Some things don’t need words. Not between you two.

Not then.

Not ever.

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Oh, home, let me come home. Home is wherever I'm with you

𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒾𝒻… You never left.

“Movie night!”

His voice cuts through the flat like a firecracker, too loud for how small he is, but the joy’s contagious. He’s standing on the chair again, that same one you’ve told him a hundred bloody times not to stand on after tea.

"Oi, mate—what did your mum just say, eh?"

Cook’s voice comes from behind you, carrying the dishes through, trying to sound serious but failing. You can hear the grin beneath the growl.

“But—but…” His chubby hands shoot out toward you, knowing full well you’ll pick him up. You do. Instinct, innit. You set him back on the chair properly, his legs swinging like they can’t wait to be somewhere else.

Cook’s stacking plates, watching him with that stupid soft look he gets when he thinks you’re not watching him watch. The kid catches it too, can’t help but grin back at his dad.

“Have you picked one then, yeah?” you ask, brushing a few curls from his forehead. He wriggles down off the chair with a high-pitched squeal like gravity’s still a challenge.

He sprints off, comes back with a DVD case from the shelf, shaking it in his little hands like it’s trying to escape.

“Again?” you say, squinting at the cover. Not annoyed, more surprised. He nods so hard his whole body wobbles. “Well, lucky us. That’s exactly what I fancied.”

Cook peers over your shoulder, trying to clock the pick. You mouth the words at him—"Shrek 2"—and watch his face twist like he’s been personally betrayed. But he only nods, dead serious, like it’s the only reasonable option.

“Solid choice, mate. If the sound cuts out, I’ll do the voices. Not like I know it all off by heart or anything.”

You open your mouth to give him grief, but your son jumps in first:

“You be Donkey, Dad.”

You burst out laughing, a proper belly one.

“Oi! Why do I gotta be the one who never shuts up?”

“Not just that,” he says, brandishing the DVD case like a sword. “He’s the cat’s best mate. And I’m Puss in Boots!” He swings at imaginary dragons in the air, eyes wild with concentration.

Cook’s face softens in that way that makes your chest hurt. He doesn’t say anything for a second. You rub slow circles into his back, grounding him.

“So I’m the dragon, then?” you offer, trying to lighten it. He half-smiles. The kid stops mid-swing, scowling like you’ve missed something obvious.

“No, Mum. You’re Shrek.”

Cook wheezes a laugh beside you. You reach up, tug a bit of his hair—not enough to hurt, just enough to shut him up. He hisses, still laughing.

“That how you see me? I’m a grumpy green ogre to you, sweetheart?”

The boy claps a hand over his mouth, laughing too hard to answer right away.

“No, Mum!” he says, serious all of a sudden, meeting your eyes like he’s five going on forty. “You’re like Shrek ‘cause you always look after everyone. Like when he fought the dragon to save Donkey.”

You don’t say anything for a moment. You’re just looking at him, those big blue eyes that don’t belong to you. It’s Cook who brings you back, squeezing your hand hard—your anchor in all this.

“Go on then, champ. Stick it on. No time to waste.”

You mouth thank you at him.

He finishes up and drops himself onto the sofa like it owes him money, limbs everywhere. Your son curls up into his side like a perfect puzzle piece, still chatting about how funny the gingerbread man is and how he’s gonna be just like him when he’s big. Cook chuckles, tossing a blanket over them both.

You stay at the dining table, hunched over the laptop, surrounded by papers and notes and a document that hasn’t changed in days. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, useless. You flick through the same pages again, chasing facts that won’t land.

“Mum!”

“Yeah, sweetheart?” you answer, eyes still scanning.

“You’re missing the film.”

“No I’m not. I’m watching it,” you lie. You listen for a second, pick up the line and say in perfect time with Donkey: “Are we there yet?”

He nods, smug. You smile. You can’t remember your deadlines but you know every line of this bloody film.

The screen blurs. The weight behind your eyes starts pulling harder. You think about joining them on the sofa, but your legs feel nailed to the floor. Somewhere along the way your cheek sinks into your palm and everything slows.

The kid tugs at Cook’s shirt, pointing at you. Cook glances over and freezes.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Mum’s asleep.”

You’ve got your head in both hands, mouth parted, the glow of the telly washing over your face. Cook gets up quietly, the boy following him on tiptoe.

He crouches beside you, gently pulling the pen from your fingers and trying to wipe the ink smudges off your cheek.

“Mum’s always tired.”

Cook looks down at him, heart breaking a little. The kid’s looking at your notes like he’s searching for the answer too. Then he brushes your hair off your face, just like you do with him.

“She’s studying something she loves,” Cook says, more to himself than the boy.

The kid nods like it’s gospel.

“We can help her.”

Cook raises a brow. “Oh yeah?”

“I think the answers, and you write ‘em down.”

Cook snorts. “Not sure that’ll help much, mate.”

He yawns, and Cook remembers this life’s got routines now. School nights and bath times.

“Let’s get Mum to bed first, yeah?”He lifts you carefully, arms under your knees and back. “To bed, Mrs Cook.”

You stir, mumbling something about not being married. He huffs a laugh.

You snuggle closer to him, half-asleep. He nods at the boy, who follows along barefoot, solemn like it’s a mission.

“So that’s how it works,” the boy says, whisper-shouting. “When I fall asleep on the sofa, that’s how I wake up in bed.”

Cook grins. “Nah,bud. That’s magic. I’ve seen it myself.”

He lays you down slow, careful as anything. Like if he moves too quick, you might disappear. Your body folds into the mattress with a soft, weighted sigh, the kind that leaves your lips without permission. The boy clambers in after you, half-asleep already, and tucks himself right beneath your chin, like that’s where he was always meant to be.

Cook watches. Doesn’t move. Just… stands there.

There’s this look on his face, like his insides are doing somersaults. Like he’s just watched a miracle happen in his living room and doesn’t trust it not to vanish.

You, curled up with his son—your son—and that stupid film still whispering through the hallway. He’s never been given anything this good without it getting taken away. Part of him thinks it’s a trick. That maybe if he blinks too hard, the bed’ll be empty again and the flat cold.

But then your hand twitches out across the duvet, palm up, fingers slightly curled like they remember his shape. That same little motion. Like years ago, on the cold floor of someone else’s kitchen. On a rooftop. In a field where you shouldn’t’ve fallen asleep. That open hand that never asked, just offered. That open hand that always meant, I’ll hold the weight for a bit, if you’re too tired.

And God, is he tired.

He climbs in beside you without a sound. One arm around the boy—his heart, his tiny clone—and the other around your back. His fingers press into your spine just enough to feel the warmth of you. Just enough to believe you’re here. Still breathing. Still bloody stubborn.

He rests his forehead against yours. Breathes in that scent you carry, all crushed lavender and laundry powder and ink-stained skin. Smells like care.

“He says we should finish your essay for you,” he whispers, soft as a joke that doesn’t want to wake the room.

Your mouth moves first, then the words come slurred, sleep-heavy. “Mmm... tell him he’s hired. Hope he likes footnotes. I pay in—” You pause. “In toast.”

He laughs through his nose, quiet so it doesn’t rattle the peace. “What about hazard pay?”

You nuzzle the top of your son’s head. “That’s... unlimited cuddles. And sometimes I hum.”

He breathes in your laugh like it’s something rare. You feel the boy shift, blindly stretching one foot to press against his dad’s thigh, like he can feel the distance and won’t have it.

You murmur again, voice nearly lost now. “Too warm. Can’t think. Head’s full of... bees. Nice bees. Not the mean ones. Just... fuzzy.”

He grins into the dark. “Yeah? Thought you didn’t do soft.”

“Don’t,” you mumble. “Shut up.”

But there’s no weight in it. No bite. Just the fog of sleep pulling at the edges of your words.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” he teases. “You... all snuggly and talkin’ about bees.”

Your hand finds the hem of his shirt, tugs it weakly. “I’m asleep. Doesn’t count. I’ll deny all of it in the morning.”

He kisses your temple, barely there. “Won’t need to. I’ll remember it for the both of us.”

You sigh again, melting deeper, as your son shifts once more, perfectly still now, his breath evening out. One of his hands stays on you. The other curls in Cook’s shirt like he doesn’t trust the night to hold the three of you without him.

…

The house smells… wrong.

Not dangerously wrong—no alarms going off, no smoke thick in the air—but there’s a definite whiff of burnt toast and something vaguely sweet and charred. You stir, face still pressed into the pillow, your body warm from where your son’s small limbs wrapped around you all night like a koala. You shift slowly, careful not to wake him. He murmurs something, lashes fluttering, then settles deeper into sleep.

You slip out of the bed in your T-shirt and sleep shorts, yawning through the stretch that pulls at your ribs. The hallway’s dim, quiet except for distant swearing and the soft ping of the toaster. That’s what gets you smiling before you even see him.

You find him shirtless in the kitchen, like a scene out of some ridiculous daydream. Except, in this version, the counters are a mess, something is smoking in a pan, and Cook is standing in front of the stove like it personally insulted his family.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—” he mutters, poking at what might’ve once been a crumpet. “Stupid bloody bastard of a—that’s not even how you toast bread, is it?”

You stay in the doorway for a moment, arms crossed, watching him fight domestic appliances like they’re demons. His hair’s a mess. There’s flour on his temple and a smudge of something sticky across his chest. One sock on. He’s talking to the kettle like it betrayed him.

Your laugh slips out before you can hold it in.

He whirls around, spatula raised like a sword. “Don’t sneak up on me, woman, I’m in the trenches.”

You walk in slowly, shaking your head. “Is this how you woo me now? Burning carbs and cursing the toaster?”

“I made tea,” he says proudly, grabbing a mug and holding it out.

You take a sip. It’s cold. You grimace.

He winces. “Alright, round two then.”

“Step away from the toaster.”

He grins, hands up in mock surrender, backing away like you’re the armed one now. “You’re sexy when you take control of the breakfast battlefield.”

You toss the burnt crumpet straight into the bin and glance back at him, catching the soft, warm eyes on you. It hits you, again, how easy this has gotten for him. The living. The showing up. The little things. You never asked him to change—but he did. He became quieter in the mornings. Gentler. Swapped pub nights for pack lunches and school drop-offs. He’s still Cook—loud and shameless and rough around the edges—but he’s folded himself into your life like he was always meant to be there.

You feel his hand brush yours. Not by accident.

“You’re up early,” he says, voice quieter now.

You nod. “Smelled the chaos.”

“Was tryin’ to do breakfast in bed. But the toaster and I had words.”

You turn to face him, resting your hands on his hips, fingers skimming the warm skin of his back. He smells like flour and smoke and himself. You kiss the corner of his mouth, slow and unhurried.

He leans into it, his hand sliding up your side like he’s reminding himself you’re still real.

“I could ruin you on this counter,” he whispers, lips grazing your jaw, his voice low and ragged, “real quick. Before the gremlin wakes up.”

You snort softly. “Wouldn’t take much, would it?”

“Absolutely not,” he grins, already pressing you against the counter, hands slipping lower. “You in this shirt, I’m defenseless.”

You curl a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him in for another kiss. It’s slow. A bit filthy. His thumb slips under the hem of your shorts and you make a quiet, pleased noise against his mouth—

“MOOM—!”

You both jolt, heads knocking.

Cook immediately yanks his hands off your arse like a schoolboy caught cheating.

Your son barrels into the room at full speed, hair wild, face flushed with excitement. “I was a dragon! A red one! And I could fly and everything, and there was a bad guy and he tried to fight me but I just—whoosh!—and he went boom!”

Cook scoops him up before you can even react, lifting him high into the air, spinning him gently before settling him on his hip like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“A red dragon? That’s serious business,” he says, eyes wide.

“With horns! And I bit the bad guy. Like—RAHHHHH!”

“Course you did,” Cook says, completely sincere. “What happened then?”

“He exploded.”

“Exploded? No way.”

You lean against the counter, watching the two of them—your son bouncing with excitement, Cook nodding like he’s hearing a government briefing. He’s still shirtless. Still has flour on his face. He doesn’t care.

Your son wraps his arms around Cook’s neck mid-story. Cook tucks him close, humming quietly in that way he does sometimes, absent and gentle. You see it in the way his hand rubs slow circles over the boy’s back, grounding him. Like it’s just another day. Like it’s always been this.

And for a second—just a second—it feels like maybe it always will be.

The toast still burns in the background.

You’ll let it

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If Cook ever became a dad? Yeah, this is 100% the vibe. No question.

#Cook #skins #james cook #Jack #O'Connell #james cook x reader

150 notes · View notes

tellingtell5 · 7 days ago

Text

Bits of Home: 《James Cook, skins x reader 》

James Cook x femreader

Reader and Cook are literally this song: Home

Man, oh, man, you're my best friend, I scream it to the nothingness

The doorbell's been ringing like it’s got something to prove.

Loud. Relentless. Again and again, like whoever’s behind it thinks they can force their way in just with noise.

And there’s Freddie.

"What the f—"

“Your dad home?” he cuts you off, still half-wheezing, his voice rough and urgent in a way that shuts your mouth before the curse can land.

So instead, you fold your arms like armour and lift your chin.

“Why? You fall out with your dad again and need somewhere to crash?”

“It’s not for me,” he says. And nods at the bag. “Help me get this inside, yeah?”

You hesitate, just for a second. Then grab one end, and holy shit—it’s heavy.

“What’ve you got in here?” you groan, practically tripping as you both heave it over the threshold. “Freddie, when I said I loved you enough to help you hide a body, I was joking.”

He barks out a laugh, quick and nervous. But before he can answer, the bag shifts. There’s a rustle. A puff of smoke.

“Mate,” you mutter. “Your bin bag’s on fire.”

Then the top bursts open, like it’s been holding its breath—

—and out comes Cook.

Grinning. Cigarette dangling from his lips. Arms stretched above his head like he’s just won a fight or crawled out of the grave.

“S’alright, love,” he says, voice cracked and cocky. “Didn’t miss me too much, did ya?”

Your heart stutters. Stops. Then restarts with a lurch so hard it hurts.

You don’t speak. You can’t. Your mouth opens and closes once, then again. You look at Freddie like he might explain this, might slow the world down long enough for you to catch up.

“He’s not supposed to be here,” you manage. It comes out too quiet.

“Supposed to be in prison,” you say louder, jaw tight now, rage catching up with disbelief. “He’s meant to be inside.”

And you don’t take yours off him either.

Because he’s real. Cook. In your hallway. In your fucking house. Looking exactly like the boy you told you loved, just days before he disappeared.

You shove past the lump in your throat.

“I thought you were—”

“Arrested?” he offers with a grin. “Nah. Almost. Escaped”

Freddie clears his throat. “Couldn’t keep him at mine any longer. Dad’s asking questions.”

Now your anger finds somewhere to land. You round on Cook, voice like flint.

“You’ve been out this whole time? And you didn’t tell me? You let me think—”

He steps closer, hands up, not laughing anymore.

“I wanted to, alright? I fuckin’ tried. But I’m like, the most wanted bastard in Bristol. Couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk you.”

He grabs your face then, both hands on your cheeks, forcing you to look at him like it’s the only way to speak the truth. His thumb brushes just beneath your eye, soft. Too soft.

“Would’ve run straight to you if I could’ve. You know that.”

And fuck. You do.

You step back. Break the contact. It’s too much. Still.

He drops his hands, but doesn’t take his eyes off you.

“Can I stay?” he says, voice quieter now. “Just for a bit.”

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts, spin on your heel and walk toward the living room.

“You ever asked permission in your life, Cook?”

His laugh follows you down the hall, wild and warm and stupid.

“Didn’t think so.”

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Through the rain and the frost, through everything I do it all for you

You knew. You fuckin’ knew. Told him it was gonna piss it down, and what did he do?

“And why d’you listen to me anyway?!”

He looks at you like you’ve just stabbed him, dramatic as always, dripping from head to toe like someone dropped him in the canal.

You told him to stop being such a dramatic little criminal.

Still, you caved. Of course you did.

“Me hands ain’t workin’,” you mutter through clenched teeth, fingers shaking. “Shit, I’m freezin’.”

You shove your hands in front of his face like he’s responsible for your blood circulation. He stares. You turn, presenting your back like a challenge.

“Do somethin’, will you?”

“Cook,” you warn, “it ain’t the first time, get on with it.”

“You comin’ or what?”

Hot water’s rising and your whole body sighs at once.

You hold out your hand. It’s always like this. You stretch your palm toward him, even if you’re mad, even if you’re cold. And he always, always takes it.

You blink. “You alright?”

He shrugs, then mutters, “You’re warmer.”

You rest your chin on his shoulder, wrap your arms around him. His skin’s still damp and goosebumped, but he’s starting to melt in the heat, muscles softening with every breath.

He shivers again — not from cold this time. You brush your lips against the back of his neck, feel him exhale like he’s been holding it in all week.

There’s still storm in the sky and static under your skin, but in this moment, in your bathtub with Cook between your legs like it’s the only place he belongs—

You feel like this messy, soaked, slightly broken boy is yours. Even if neither of you’s said it. Even if you never do.

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Well, holy moly, me oh my, You're the apple of my eye. Girl, I never loved one like you

“Yeah, just like that, luv.”

You look up, and fuck — the way he's staring at you? It shoots straight between your legs like he pressed some hidden button in your core.

The sight makes your pussy clench, sharp and sudden. You shift slightly, grinding down on nothing like some desperate virgin, chasing a friction you know you won't get. Not like this. Not yet.

But you love it. The power. The heat. The way he’s fucking melting for you.

It’s perfect.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he groans. “You’ve got no idea what you’re doin’ to me.”

But oh, you do. Because it’s doing things to you, too. Your underwear is soaked, clinging to you like a second skin, and every needy pulse between your legs is screaming for attention.

“Oi,” he mutters, voice hoarse and dripping with amusement, “if you ain’t gonna use your hands, put ‘em somewhere else, sweetheart.”

You pull off him with a wet pop and grin up at him, cheeks flushed, lips red and shining with spit.

“You said no hands, Cookie.”

The nickname makes his cock twitch right next to your face — like it agrees with you.

“Yeah, well, changed my fuckin’ mind, didn’t I? Put ‘em on my balls. I shaved and everything.”

You pause, brows arching, lips just inches from the tip as your warm breath makes him shiver.

“…You shaved?”

You arch an eyebrow, and then tug his pants and briefs all the way down. What you see makes you bark a laugh.

“Soft as fucking peaches,” he says proudly, hips giving a little jerk, “don’t they deserve some love?”

You stare at him, momentarily speechless, lips wet and parted from how long you’ve been on your knees. Then your eyes narrow.

“Are you kidding me? You used my razor?”

“Obviously. That little green strip? Aloe vera magic, babe.”He chuckles, all low and rough and cocky.

You shake your head, but you’re grinning as you cradle his balls in your hand, fingers feather-light at first.

“You absolute goblin.”

“A sexy goblin, though.”

Your nails graze his smooth skin and you give him a gentle squeeze — just enough to make him hiss and clench his abs.

“Oi! No bollock torture, yeah?”

“You owe me a whole new pack of blades.”

“Then take it outta me,” he says with a wink, “go on, ruin me.”

And oh, you will. You lean forward and lick one of his balls with slow, deliberate intent — a long stroke that ends with your lips sucking him in, tongue swirling lazily.

And then he whimpers. Loud.

That sound. That raw, helpless sound — it does something to you. You moan around him, loud enough to vibrate through his cock and into your core.

You push further, eager, greedy. He slips into your throat and you fight the gag with everything you’ve got, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.

Then he laughs.

Actually laughs.

You pull off him again, coughing a little, eyes glassy with effort, and glare up at him.

He’s got the nerve to be grinning. Full-on dimples, devilish twinkle in his eye, proud as fuck.

“Chokin’ on me like a champ,” he says, wiping your tears away with his thumb. “My little throat goat.”

“Fuck off,” you mutter, but you're laughing too, breathless and hot and so turned on you could scream.

He grins wider. “You love it.”

He’s groaning now, constant and shameless, your name tangled in curses as his hand tightens in your hair.

“Fuck, princess. Fuck me — you’re perfect, ain’t you?”

You hum again, throat relaxing, letting him sink all the way in.

You feel him hit the back of your throat and then — twitch. Buck. Curse.

He’s close. You can feel it in the way his thighs shake, the way his breath stutters, the way his words fall apart into broken syllables.

“I’m gonna — fuck — you’re gonna make me—”

You nod without stopping, ready for it. Begging for it.

And then—

He pulls out.

Just like that. Slips out of your mouth with a slick pop.

You blink. Offended.

“Excuse me?”

But he’s already sitting up, panting like a dog, grabbing his cock in one hand with wild, manic eyes.

“No, no, wait—I got this. I wanna see it, baby. I’m gonna paint a fucking masterpiece.”

You snort. Loudly. Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, still kneeling between his legs.

“A masterpiece?”

“Yes,” he huffs, jerking his cock furiously, tongue between his teeth like he’s concentrating on oil painting, not orgasm. “This is ART. Stay still.”

“You dramatic little shit.”

“Shh. Don’t move. You’re the canvas.”

“Jesus—bloody hell—”

“You were right,” you say, running your thumb along the seam, “soft as fucking peaches.”

“See?? I told you. I shaved for this. This is a curated experience.”

“With my razor, you knob.”

You give him a very gentle squeeze in retaliation, just enough to make him gasp and roll his eyes back.

He glares at you through bleary eyes. “Don’t ruin my moment.”

“You’re jerking off two inches from my face, babe. Moment’s already ruined.”

“Don’t mock the muse.”

You roll your eyes dramatically — but you stay still. Because deep down? It’s kinda hot. Filthy. Ridiculous. So him. And you love it.

Then he gasps — sharp and loud — and his whole body stiffens like he’s been electrocuted.

“Fucking—I’m coming—!”

And he does. Violently. A hot, messy splatter hits your cheek, your chin — and your nose.

You blink, frozen. There’s a pause.

Then he opens one eye and stares.

“…Did I just cum on your nose?”

You wipe it slowly, still stunned. Then grin.

“Right up the nostril, Cookie.”

He groans, flopping back dramatically, hand over his face.

“I ruined the canvas.”

“I’m gonna be smelling you for a week.”

“You’re welcome.”

You crawl up his chest, straddling his waist, your face still sticky and smug.

“That’s not how masterpieces work.”

“Sure it is,” he pants, hair a mess, grinning up at you. “It’s modern art. Abstract. Raw. Post-orgasmic expressionism.”

You slap his chest lightly.

“You owe me a tissue and a fucking smoothie.”

“I owe you everything, my throat goat queen.”

And then you're both laughing, tangled and filthy and breathless.

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Well, hot and heavy pumpkin pie. Chocolate candy, Jesus Christ. Ain't nothing please me more than you

Your fingers were in his hair, combing slow, soft strokes like you were calming a wild thing. Maybe you were. It felt calm. Still. Almost too still.

Because peace, in your world, didn’t last. It shifted, always. Sweet things left bitter aftertastes. And the longer it felt like home, the more it felt like something was about to snap.

"Your hair’s gotten long," you said absently, tugging a strand and holding it up to the light.

He didn’t lift his head. Just looked up at you through those ridiculous lashes.

"Yeah?"

You nodded, twisting the ends between your fingers.

"Can’t go out for a trim, can I? Bit risky, that. Don’t think a haircut’s worth prison."

You scratched at his scalp, watching his lashes flutter. The way he melted under your touch made something clench and soften all at once inside your chest.

"I like it," you said, barely audible.

"That ‘cause you’ve got more to grab when I’m between your legs?"

You wanted to be annoyed. Really, you did. But you just rolled your eyes and tugged his hair hard enough to make him wince.

"You’re such a dickhead."

He grinned like it was a compliment.

"You could cut it."

You didn’t say you loved him. Even if it was the only thing sitting in your throat. Instead, you nodded.

Which is how you ended up in the bathroom, him plopped on the toilet seat, legs splayed, and you between them with a pair of kitchen scissors meant for fish.

You’d finished the back as best you could, now working on the front. Your hand was steady. Almost.

His hands found your hips, settled there. Hot and firm and unmoving. You nearly dropped the scissors.

"You’re gonna end up bald if you keep that up."

"Worth it," he murmured, his hands slipping lower to squeeze your arse.

"Cook..."

It was a warning. Your eyes didn’t leave the hair in your hand, but you could feel his gaze, all heat and mischief.

And then—his lips, warm through the fabric of your tee, pressed against your belly.

You bit your lip to keep from groaning. Or gasping. Or saying something that’d break the moment.

"Keep looking at me like that, princess, and we’ll never finish."

His grip tightened on your arse and you let out a noise halfway between a laugh and a groan. The kind that twisted up your stomach.

"It’s done, you idiot," you said, lifting his chin and pressing a soft, quick kiss to his lips. Just a peck. But it left him blinking like you’d hit him.

You grabbed his hands, still clinging to your hips, and moved them away gently. Stepped aside so he could see himself in the mirror.

He stood, ran his fingers through his hair, eyes wide.

"Oi... you’ve actually done a decent job. Maybe you should sack off uni, start your own thing. Haircuts for dickheads. I’d be your first customer."

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. He kept looking, kept touching his hair, and then—his expression shifted. Eyes a little darker. Mouth set different.

"Was lookin’ like a fuckin’ homeless bloke, weren’t I?"

You knew what he meant. Knew he wasn’t just talking about the hair.

You stepped behind him, wrapped your arms around his waist, rested your chin on his shoulder. He didn’t hesitate. Grabbed your hands where they rested on his stomach. Held on tight.

He looked at you in the mirror.

"You’re not," you said, voice thick. "You’ll always have a home, James. As long as I’m here."

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. Just stared at you like you’d undone something in him.

It was too much. You buried your face in his neck, nose pressed to his skin. Too close. Too honest.

You kissed his shoulder. His jaw. The base of his neck.

He didn’t speak. But you felt the way his breath caught. The way his fingers curled tighter around yours.

Some things don’t need words. Not between you two.

Not then.

Not ever.

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Oh, home, let me come home. Home is wherever I'm with you

𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒾𝒻… You never left.

“Movie night!”

"Oi, mate—what did your mum just say, eh?"

Cook’s voice comes from behind you, carrying the dishes through, trying to sound serious but failing. You can hear the grin beneath the growl.

Cook’s stacking plates, watching him with that stupid soft look he gets when he thinks you’re not watching him watch. The kid catches it too, can’t help but grin back at his dad.

“Have you picked one then, yeah?” you ask, brushing a few curls from his forehead. He wriggles down off the chair with a high-pitched squeal like gravity’s still a challenge.

He sprints off, comes back with a DVD case from the shelf, shaking it in his little hands like it’s trying to escape.

“Again?” you say, squinting at the cover. Not annoyed, more surprised. He nods so hard his whole body wobbles. “Well, lucky us. That’s exactly what I fancied.”

“Solid choice, mate. If the sound cuts out, I’ll do the voices. Not like I know it all off by heart or anything.”

You open your mouth to give him grief, but your son jumps in first:

“You be Donkey, Dad.”

You burst out laughing, a proper belly one.

“Oi! Why do I gotta be the one who never shuts up?”

Cook’s face softens in that way that makes your chest hurt. He doesn’t say anything for a second. You rub slow circles into his back, grounding him.

“So I’m the dragon, then?” you offer, trying to lighten it. He half-smiles. The kid stops mid-swing, scowling like you’ve missed something obvious.

“No, Mum. You’re Shrek.”

Cook wheezes a laugh beside you. You reach up, tug a bit of his hair—not enough to hurt, just enough to shut him up. He hisses, still laughing.

“That how you see me? I’m a grumpy green ogre to you, sweetheart?”

The boy claps a hand over his mouth, laughing too hard to answer right away.

“Go on then, champ. Stick it on. No time to waste.”

You mouth thank you at him.

“Mum!”

“Yeah, sweetheart?” you answer, eyes still scanning.

“You’re missing the film.”

“No I’m not. I’m watching it,” you lie. You listen for a second, pick up the line and say in perfect time with Donkey: “Are we there yet?”

He nods, smug. You smile. You can’t remember your deadlines but you know every line of this bloody film.

The kid tugs at Cook’s shirt, pointing at you. Cook glances over and freezes.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Mum’s asleep.”

You’ve got your head in both hands, mouth parted, the glow of the telly washing over your face. Cook gets up quietly, the boy following him on tiptoe.

He crouches beside you, gently pulling the pen from your fingers and trying to wipe the ink smudges off your cheek.

“Mum’s always tired.”

Cook looks down at him, heart breaking a little. The kid’s looking at your notes like he’s searching for the answer too. Then he brushes your hair off your face, just like you do with him.

“She’s studying something she loves,” Cook says, more to himself than the boy.

The kid nods like it’s gospel.

“We can help her.”

Cook raises a brow. “Oh yeah?”

“I think the answers, and you write ‘em down.”

Cook snorts. “Not sure that’ll help much, mate.”

He yawns, and Cook remembers this life’s got routines now. School nights and bath times.

“Let’s get Mum to bed first, yeah?”He lifts you carefully, arms under your knees and back. “To bed, Mrs Cook.”

You stir, mumbling something about not being married. He huffs a laugh.

You snuggle closer to him, half-asleep. He nods at the boy, who follows along barefoot, solemn like it’s a mission.

“So that’s how it works,” the boy says, whisper-shouting. “When I fall asleep on the sofa, that’s how I wake up in bed.”

Cook grins. “Nah,bud. That’s magic. I’ve seen it myself.”

Cook watches. Doesn’t move. Just… stands there.

There’s this look on his face, like his insides are doing somersaults. Like he’s just watched a miracle happen in his living room and doesn’t trust it not to vanish.

And God, is he tired.

He rests his forehead against yours. Breathes in that scent you carry, all crushed lavender and laundry powder and ink-stained skin. Smells like care.

“He says we should finish your essay for you,” he whispers, soft as a joke that doesn’t want to wake the room.

Your mouth moves first, then the words come slurred, sleep-heavy. “Mmm... tell him he’s hired. Hope he likes footnotes. I pay in—” You pause. “In toast.”

He laughs through his nose, quiet so it doesn’t rattle the peace. “What about hazard pay?”

You nuzzle the top of your son’s head. “That’s... unlimited cuddles. And sometimes I hum.”

He breathes in your laugh like it’s something rare. You feel the boy shift, blindly stretching one foot to press against his dad’s thigh, like he can feel the distance and won’t have it.

You murmur again, voice nearly lost now. “Too warm. Can’t think. Head’s full of... bees. Nice bees. Not the mean ones. Just... fuzzy.”

He grins into the dark. “Yeah? Thought you didn’t do soft.”

“Don’t,” you mumble. “Shut up.”

But there’s no weight in it. No bite. Just the fog of sleep pulling at the edges of your words.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” he teases. “You... all snuggly and talkin’ about bees.”

Your hand finds the hem of his shirt, tugs it weakly. “I’m asleep. Doesn’t count. I’ll deny all of it in the morning.”

He kisses your temple, barely there. “Won’t need to. I’ll remember it for the both of us.”

…

The house smells… wrong.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—” he mutters, poking at what might’ve once been a crumpet. “Stupid bloody bastard of a—that’s not even how you toast bread, is it?”

Your laugh slips out before you can hold it in.

He whirls around, spatula raised like a sword. “Don’t sneak up on me, woman, I’m in the trenches.”

You walk in slowly, shaking your head. “Is this how you woo me now? Burning carbs and cursing the toaster?”

“I made tea,” he says proudly, grabbing a mug and holding it out.

You take a sip. It’s cold. You grimace.

He winces. “Alright, round two then.”

“Step away from the toaster.”

He grins, hands up in mock surrender, backing away like you’re the armed one now. “You’re sexy when you take control of the breakfast battlefield.”

You feel his hand brush yours. Not by accident.

“You’re up early,” he says, voice quieter now.

You nod. “Smelled the chaos.”

“Was tryin’ to do breakfast in bed. But the toaster and I had words.”

You turn to face him, resting your hands on his hips, fingers skimming the warm skin of his back. He smells like flour and smoke and himself. You kiss the corner of his mouth, slow and unhurried.

He leans into it, his hand sliding up your side like he’s reminding himself you’re still real.

“I could ruin you on this counter,” he whispers, lips grazing your jaw, his voice low and ragged, “real quick. Before the gremlin wakes up.”

You snort softly. “Wouldn’t take much, would it?”

“Absolutely not,” he grins, already pressing you against the counter, hands slipping lower. “You in this shirt, I’m defenseless.”

“MOOM—!”

You both jolt, heads knocking.

Cook immediately yanks his hands off your arse like a schoolboy caught cheating.

Cook scoops him up before you can even react, lifting him high into the air, spinning him gently before settling him on his hip like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“A red dragon? That’s serious business,” he says, eyes wide.

“With horns! And I bit the bad guy. Like—RAHHHHH!”

“Course you did,” Cook says, completely sincere. “What happened then?”

“He exploded.”

“Exploded? No way.”

And for a second—just a second—it feels like maybe it always will be.

The toast still burns in the background.

You’ll let it

⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩

If Cook ever became a dad? Yeah, this is 100% the vibe. No question.

#fanfiction #fem!reader #angst #jack o'connell #skins #Cook #james cook #Jack #O'Connell #freddie mcclair #james cook x reader #fluff #home

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tellingtell5 · 9 days ago

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people say “write what you know” and then get surprised when i hand them 47 pages of unprocessed emotional trauma disguised as fantasy worldbuilding

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tellingtell5 · 12 days ago

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Well, here it is — my masterlist. I was kinda tired of having everything scattered all over the place. Hopefully this makes things easier to find. Thanks so much for all the love and support 💖

💔 angst

🍂 fluff

🔥 smut

⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩

Jack O’Connell

⟪ＲＥＭＭＩＣＫ │ＳＩＮＮＥＲＳ⟫

➙🇹🇭🇪 🇵🇦🇷🇹🇮🇳🇬 🇬🇱🇦🇸🇸💔

× The Parting Glass × Poor Wayfaring stranger

➙ɪ'ʟʟ ᴄʀᴀᴡʟ ʜᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀ🔥🍂

➙ᴛʜᴇ ᴀɪɴ’ᴛ ɴᴏ ɢʀᴀᴠᴇ🔥

➙ᴍɪᴅɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴍᴀꜱꜱ🔥

➙ᴘʀᴏᴍᴘᴛ🔥

⟪ＪＡＭＥＳ　ＣＯＯＫ　│ＳＫＩＮＳ⟫

➙ʜᴏᴍᴇ💔🔥🍂

× Bits of home

⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩

Max Minghella

⟪ＮＩＣＫＢＬＡＩＮＥ│ ＴＨＥＨＡＮＤＭＡＩＤ＇ＳＴＡＬＥ⟫

➙ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ʙɪʀᴅꜱ💔

× Part 1 × Part 2 × Part 3

⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩

Mark Grayson

⟪ＭＡＲＫＧＲＡＹＳＯＮ│ ＩＮＶＩＮＣＩＢＬＥ⟫

➙ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪɴɴᴇʀ ᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ ɪᴛ ᴀʟʟ💔

➙ꜱᴛᴀɴᴅ ʙʏ ᴍᴇ🔥🍂

× Part 1 × Part 2 × Part 3

⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩

Tom Hiddleston

⟪ＬＯＫＩＬＡＵＦＥＹＳＯＮ⟫

➙ ᴍᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴠɪʟ🍂

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tellingtell5 · 13 days ago

Note

Hiii i just wanted to say that as someone who has been dying for a cook fanfic, yours was a gift descended from heaven. It is AMAZING like seriously INCREIBLE. The descriptions, the dialogue, the ending??? It's all soo good. Loved every last bit. If you ever decide to write another fic for cook, just know i'll be seated!!

omg hiiii 🥺💛 this made me smile so big!! thank you sm for this—like truly, what a lovely message to find. I had so much fun writing that fic, and knowing it landed with fellow cook enjoyers like you?? literal heaven.

if the inspiration hits again (which it might 👀), just know you’ll have a front row seat. I’ll keep it warm for you✨✨

#fanfiction #jack o'connell #james cook #skins #tellingtells

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tellingtell5 · 13 days ago

Note

op i just read home and god i------. i have my feelings in my reblog drafts (hell) that will be posted Eventually but i just need to say immediately that you have made something so beautiful and incredible and just. thank you. (also i would absolutely die for more of this story that didnt make the final cut if you were to share it.🧎)

this is... so sweet omg 😭 thank you sm, really — it means a lot to hear that. it genuinely makes me want to dig back into the little ideas and scraps that didn’t make it in the final version. I’ve been thinking of editing them a bit so they’re shareable because honestly? they deserved a few more soft moments before things got messy 🥲

also 👀 I will be patiently waiting for those feelings in your drafts. I know they’re gonna hit.

#angst #jack o'connell #james cook

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tellingtell5 · 13 days ago

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So... that hurts.

He huffed a soft laugh, something breathy and light, and pushed it toward you. “What’s mine is yours.”

Not even funny😭

All That's Left Is Yours

Part II

Walter "Lion" Kaminski x fem!reader

summary: Walter Kaminski doesn't know how to be loved without bracing for impact. A washed-up fighter living out of motel rooms and underground leagues, he's spent years surviving hits—in the ring, from his brother, from the world. But when you, a runaway with a sharp mouth and a sharper gaze enters his orbit, everything starts to tilt. The closer you get, the more Walter fears what his hands—trained to hurt, never to hold—might do.

wc: 12.4k

a/n: Welcome back, masochists!! if you thought part one hurt, haha. anyway! here’s part 2, featuring: soft boys with shaky hands, found things that break, and a very ill-advised poker game. wear your seatbelt. don’t yell at me. (or do.) Big thank you to Liz @fuckoffbard for both beta reading and providing me with the speech Walter makes when he stands up to Stanley's bitch ass!!

Disclaimer: You DO NOT need to watch Jungleland to read this fic but I highly recommend giving it a watch, Jack absolutely crushes it!!

warnings: emotional trauma, PTSD, chronic pain (arthritis), memory loss, abusive family dynamics, sibling codependency, toxic sibling relationship, past drug use (mentioned), past physical abuse (mentioned), canon-typical violence, fighting/violence, objectification, implied sexual coercion (non-graphic), betrayal, trauma bonding as a form of intimacy, hurt/comfort, unhealthy coping mechanisms, unsafe living conditions, sub!Walter, praise kink, unprotected sex, fingering, creampie, oral (m!receiving), emotional breakdowns, angst with smut, crying during sex, abandonment

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

Fic Masterlist/Main Masterlist

Part II: Winner Take Nothing

The motel was quiet in that early-morning way, the kind of quiet that felt borrowed—like it wouldn’t last.

You woke to the sound of the bathroom door clicking shut.

The bed beside you was still warm.

Your hand reached out instinctively, finding only the crease of a pillow and the faintest trace of his scent—soap and sweat and something deeper, something that clung to your skin like sleep.

You sat up, blinking hard. The bedside clock blinked 6:17 AM in angry red.

The faucet turned on.

Then off.

Then silence.

It wasn’t the kind of silence you trusted.

You swung your legs out from under the sheets, soft carpet warm beneath your bare feet. Walter hadn’t bothered with the lights. A dim beam of sun cut through the edge of the blackout curtain. You padded across the room and pressed your ear to the bathroom door.

You heard the ragged breath first. Then something else. Something wet. The soft, slow slap of skin against skin.

You should’ve turned back. Gave him privacy.

But something in your chest tightened, because it wasn’t just the sound of him getting off.

It was frustration.

Sharp. Muffled.

A low curse. The thunk of a closed fist on the counter.

“Shit—fuck—come on—”

You opened the door without knocking.

Walter jerked like you’d thrown a punch. He was standing in front of the sink, shirtless, boxers pushed down, one hand clenched painfully tight around himself, the other braced against the counter, flexing like he was trying to shake the pain out.

His face flushed deep—mortified, more than angry. “Jesus—fuck—I didn’t—”

“Hey.” You stepped in, voice gentle. “It’s okay.”

He turned half away, still holding himself, jaw tight with shame. “I didn’t mean for you to see this.” He couldn’t meet your eyes. “My fingers keep cramping. It’s stupid. It’s fine. I’ll get it—”

“Walter.”

He stopped.

Your voice softened. “You don’t have to touch yourself.”

He blinked.

You stepped in, closing the door quietly behind you. “That’s what I’m for.”

That broke something in him. Not in a way that hurt—just in the way that made him look at you like you’d said the one thing he didn’t know he needed to hear.

You reached for his wrist. “Let me?”

He nodded. Wordless. Eyes wide and hungry and aching.

You gently pulled his hand away. He let you. His cock was flushed and heavy, twitching against the cool air. You wrapped your fingers around him, slow and sure, and he groaned like it startled him.

“Jesus,” he breathed. “That already—fuck, baby—”

You started stroking him with practiced rhythm, watching the way his head dropped forward, mouth parting. His moans were soft, hesitant, like he wasn’t used to giving in.

“That’s it,” you whispered. “Just let go. Let me.”

His hips jerked. “Fuck,” he groaned. “Your hands—feels so good—”

Then, slowly, you sank to your knees in front of him.

Walter’s eyes widened, breath catching in his throat as he looked down at you—his hand tightening on the counter like he needed something to hold onto. His mouth opened slightly, lips parted, barely breathing through it. His eyes were hooded, heavy-lidded with sleep and pleasure, and he looked at you like you were a dream he wasn’t sure he deserved.

You looked up at him, still holding him in your palm. That moment stretched—silent, sacred.

And then he reached for your face. Cradled it in one trembling hand.

His thumb gently swiped across your cheekbone, slow and reverent. Like he couldn’t believe you were real. Like he needed to memorize you.

You held his gaze. Didn’t look away. Not once.

Then you parted your lips and spit.

A warm string of saliva landed on the head of his cock, mixing with the precum already beading there.

“Holy fuck,” he whispered, voice gone rough. “Jesus—fuck.”

You wrapped your hand around the base and smeared it in slow, deliberate circles—mixing it, stroking him from root to tip until he was glistening, slick and twitching in your palm.

Walter’s head dropped back. His chest was rising too fast, too rough.

“Baby…” he moaned. “You’re gonna kill me—”

You didn’t stop.

You didn’t look away.

And then you wrapped your lips around the weeping crown of his flushed cock.

He sucked in a breath—sharp, ragged—as your mouth sealed around him. His free hand slammed flat to the wall behind you as he exhaled a breathy, “fuuuuck.”

It hit you deep in your ears—like that sound was stitched straight into the base of your spine. Walter’s whole body twitched. One hand gripped the counter so tight his knuckles blanched, and the other hovered—hesitating—like he wanted to touch you but didn’t dare.

You flattened your tongue along the underside of his cock and eased forward, slow and steady, until he hit the back of your throat.

“Holy shit,” he gasped, hips bucking before he could stop himself.

You moaned around him—soft, pleased—and his knees buckled slightly.

He reached out, instinctively, grabbing the edge of the sink behind you like he needed something to anchor him. His head dropped forward, sweat-slick hair falling over his forehead, breath stuttering out of his chest.

“Baby,” he whimpered, so quiet. “Fuck—your mouth—your mouth’s perfect—”

You pulled back until just the head was in your mouth, then sank down again—slower, deeper, letting him feel all of you.

He whimpered. High and raw. His abs tensed and twitched, thighs shaking.

“Atta girl…” he breathed, his voice breaking at the edges. “That’s it. That’s—shit, just like that…"

You looked up at him, keeping eye contact as you started a rhythm. Not fast. Not rough. Just firm and deep and steady—dragging your lips down his length, letting your tongue swirl, feeling him pulse in your mouth.

You peeled your hand off one trembling thigh to cup his balls gently, rolling them in your palm with practiced care, the way you knew would drive him insane.

And it does.

His hips jolted again, sharper than last time.

“Shit—sorry,” he gasped. “I didn’t mean to—fuck—I’m sorry—”

You patted the back of his thigh. Once.

Firm.

He froze.

You did it again.

Telling him everything he needed to know.

Walter groaned—loud—a sound torn straight from somewhere guttural. His head tilted back, jaw slack, eyes fluttering shut.

“Jesus Christ,” he choked out, rocking into your mouth like it physically hurt not to. “You want—fuck, baby, you want me to—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence. Could barely think.

You hummed low in your throat, the vibration making him shudder violently. His breath hitched. His thighs tightened. His mouth dropped open wider but no sound came out this time—just air, just disbelief.

“Atta girl…fuck, atta girl, just like that, you’re so good,” he babbled, voice thin and wrecked, as his hips began to roll gently, fucking into your mouth like it was instinct—like he was too far gone to stop.

You kept your grip steady, your throat soft, your eyes locked on his face like this was yours to claim.

And it was.

He wasn't going anywhere.

Not when he was already falling apart in your mouth, whimpering your name like it was the only thing keeping him from coming too fast.

But not yet.

You weren’t letting him finish.

Not until you said.

He was panting now.

Not breathing—panting.

Walter’s thighs trembled on either side of your face, tension coiled tight in his abdomen. His head had dropped again, lips parted, flushed from his chest to the tips of his ears. One hand gripped the counter behind him like it was the only thing keeping him upright. The other was buried in your hair—gently, reverently—thumb stroking along your temple in time with your pace, like he couldn’t help it.

Your mouth was slick, shiny, your chin dripping with spit and precum. You’d long since given up on staying clean—this wasn’t about that. It was about ruining him. Making sure the first time he came from your mouth would haunt every quiet morning and sleepless night after this.

You pressed your thighs together, whimpering quietly around him.

That sound made him groan—long and low. “Fuck, baby—fuck, you’re touching yourself? While you’re—Jesus—” He sounded delirious.

You didn’t stop. One hand still at the base of his cock, stroking in rhythm with your mouth. The other slipped beneath your panties, fingers working fast, messy, desperate. The more he squirmed, the wetter you got. The more his voice broke, the harder you chased that high for both of you.

“God, you look so good down there,” he rasped. “So fuckin’ pretty with my cock in your mouth…fuck, you were made for this…”

You moaned around him—deliberate. Loud.

He cursed again, jaw dropping.

The hand in your hair tightened just slightly. “Baby, please, I’m gonna—I can’t—fuck, I can’t hold it—”

His hips bucked. Just once. Hard enough that you gagged, eyes watering—but you didn’t stop. You wanted the tears, the wreckage, the string of drool now connecting your mouth to his skin when you pulled off just enough to swirl your tongue around the tip and then—

Back down.

Swallowing him whole.

He whimpered.

That’s all he could do. Just whimper.

Then it came.

“I’m gonna—” he choked, voice thick with panic. “Baby, I’m coming—gonna pull out—”

He tried.

He really did.

But you held him in place—both hands now on his thighs—and moaned.

And that was it.

His whole body locked up, shuddering, and he came with a cry that punched straight out of his chest.

“F-fuck—oh fuck—baby, oh my god—”

Warm, thick release filled your mouth. You swallowed greedily, messily, licking and sucking through it like you didn’t care how much he shook or gasped or begged. He was saying your name over and over—breathless, slurred, drunk on it—one hand trembling in your hair, the other still braced against the wall as his knees threatened to give out.

You sucked him through it. Every twitch, every drop. Milking him dry.

When you finally pulled off with a wet pop, you looked up—still on your knees, lips puffy, chest heaving.

He was staring down at you like he’d seen a ghost.

Or a goddess.

“…Jesus,” he whispered, wrecked. “What the fuck are you?”

His breathing was still ragged.

You kissed the corner of his hip bone, just below the stretch of his cross tattoo—ink faded and barely held on through scarred skin and years of sweat. The budded tip curved toward his ribs, the lower point dipping down low enough to kiss his waistband, and your fingers followed it like a prayer.

He twitched under your touch. Still trembling. Still panting like he’d been run through a war.

You leaned forward, tongue tracing a line up the tattoo’s spine. “You always make that much noise?”

Walter let out a breathy half-laugh. “Only when it’s…fuck, when it’s like that.”

You grinned against his skin. “So that’s a yes.”

He gave a little huff. “You’re a menace.”

“Me?” You looked up at him, hand sliding lazily up the back of his thigh, tracing the sharp cut of his muscle, the other wiping the drool from your chin, “You were the one whimpering like a virgin.”

His face went redder than you’d ever seen it.

“God, don’t say that—”

You stood slowly, dragging your hands up his torso as you rose. He didn’t stop you. Just stood there, flushed and softening, eyes still heavy-lidded with post-orgasm haze. His hand hovered at your waist like he didn’t know if he was allowed to hold you yet.

You leaned into him. “You didn’t wake me,” you said softly.

His expression faltered.

You cupped his jaw. “You should’ve.”

He looked away. “…Didn’t wanna bother you.”

“Bother me?”

His voice went quiet. “I’m not good at asking for help. Never have been.”

You traced his jaw with your thumb, gently turning his face back to yours. “You’re allowed to be rough with me, remember?”

His eyes met yours. Hesitant. Warm.

“But you’re also allowed,” you added, softer, “to need things. To ask.”

He swallowed hard. “I didn’t think—I just figured I’d take care of it and crawl back into bed before you even noticed.”

“You really think I wouldn’t notice if you were hurting?”

His silence said it all.

You ran your fingers across his cross again—soft this time. Reverent.

“You’re not alone anymore, Walter.”

At that, he reached for you.

Slow. Gentle. Both arms coming around your waist as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, still shirtless, still raw. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest. The way he breathed you in like he didn’t know what to do with kindness that didn’t cost him something.

You hugged him back.

And after a few quiet seconds, you pulled back, kissed his flushed cheek, and whispered, “Next time you wanna jack off, maybe start by waking me up.”

That earned a hoarse, surprised laugh.

“Fuckin’ menace,” he mumbled again—but this time, his voice was softer.

Grateful.

The diner wasn’t anything special.

It sat on the edge of a truck stop, caught between nowhere and someplace smaller. Vinyl booths. A counter lined with barstools older than either of you. The windows were fogged from the fryer, from the cold outside and the heat of bacon and home fries curling into the air like steam off wet skin.

You were tucked into a booth by the window. The Formica table glowed pale green under the flickering overhead light, and Walter sat across from you, legs sprawled obnoxiously far into your side—half on purpose, half because the man didn’t know how to sit in a chair like a normal human being.

He had a blue plastic straw hanging from his mouth, chewing the end like it had personally wronged him. His flannel shirt was unbuttoned over a worn hoodie, sleeves shoved to the elbows, a soft buzz of stubble grazing the sharp line of his jaw. The morning light hit the high points of his face, making his eyes look less blue and more stormy-grey, like wet asphalt after a rain.

You kicked his shin under the table.

He jolted. “The hell was that for?”

“You’re takin’ up half the damn floor, Kaminski.”

He chewed on the straw a second longer before pulling it from his lips with a grin. “I’m long.”

You snorted. “You’re not even that tall.”

His smile twitched. “I’m five-foot-eight.”

“Exactly.” You raised an eyebrow.

“That’s plenty tall,” he insisted, feigning offense. “Ain’t about how high your head sits—it’s about how you hold yourself sweetheart.”

“Oh, you’re one of those ‘it’s about the vibe’ guys,” you teased, leaning your cheek into your fist. “This some kinda Napoleon complex in flannel?”

Walter scoffed, flipping over his empty coffee mug to signal for a refill. “It’s statistical. Practical. I read somewhere five-eight’s the average for guys in the U.S.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You read that?”

“Yeah.”

“In what? A gas station bathroom?”

He gave you a flat look. “You done?”

“For now.” You reached across and snagged a sausage link from his plate.

He watched you eat it with mock betrayal. “You’re stealin’ from me now?”

“I’m borrowing,” you said through your bite. “Temporarily appropriating your resources.”

“You know,” he said, pointing his straw at you like a weapon. “I let you insult my stature, I let you mock my honorable research practices, and now you’re takin’ my food. What’d I do to deserve this abuse?”

“You brought me to a diner and looked at me with that face.”

He blinked. “My face?”

“Yeah. It’s infuriating.”

His grin broke through, helpless and boyish. “Jesus Christ.”

You both laughed, easy and full, echoing off the fake-leather booths and linoleum tile.

He looked at you like he was trying to memorize your smile.

Walter, when he wasn’t bracing himself, was something you didn’t know you’d needed. He looked softer here. His body still bore the marks of war—split knuckles, bruised forearms, those forever-healing cuts near his collarbone—but his shoulders had lowered. His posture was loose. That constant fight-or-flight tremor in his jaw was gone, even if just for the morning.

You caught him staring.

“What?”

He shrugged. “Nothin’. You just—you’re somethin’ else when you laugh.”

“Something else like cute?”

“Something else like dangerous.”

You smiled into your mug.

A waitress came by, topped off your coffee with the burned smell of bottom-of-the-pot brew, and Walter reached for the creamer. Then hesitated.

He pushed it toward you instead.

“Don’t let me forget again,” he said, tapping the little packet with one finger. “You always make that face when your coffee’s too bitter.”

You blinked.

“That face,” he added, making an exaggerated grimace and scrunching his nose like he’d swallowed battery acid.

You burst out laughing.

He just looked at you with a shit-eating grin.

And for a second, the whole world narrowed to this: a chipped mug, a stolen fry, your knees touching under the table.

“Hey,” he said after a while, stabbing at his pancake. “Wanna split?”

“You offering because you’re sweet, or because you already ate your hashbrowns and now you’re eyeing mine?”

“…both.”

You slid half your plate his way.

He looked at you with faux seriousness. “Gonna marry you someday.”

You paused, fork in midair.

He blinked, like the words had just fallen out of his mouth. “I was kidding. That was—Jesus, that was a joke.”

“Sure it was.”

“I mean—I meant it like—”

“You’re digging yourself deeper, Kaminski.”

He groaned and dropped his head against the booth. “Jury, please disregard my mouth.”

You reached out, wiped a smudge of whipped butter from the corner of his lips.

He went still.

Then you licked it off your thumb.

Walter’s eyes blew wide. The tips of his ears went red. His whole neck flushed like sunburn.

“I hate you,” he whispered.

“No you don’t.”

“…Yeah. I really fuckin’ don’t.”

And for one perfect morning, you were just two people in a booth. Laughing. Flirting. Pretending you didn’t know how it would end.

Because for now—just now—nothing hurt. And nothing would.

You noticed it first when he tried to pick up his mug again.

Walter’s hand trembled, fingers slipping slightly against the ceramic. Not enough to spill, but enough that he had to brace the bottom with his other hand. His jaw flexed. No comment. Just a quick look down, like maybe if he didn’t acknowledge it, neither would you.

You didn’t say anything.

Not yet.

The rest of the meal passed like a held breath. Conversation dipped, shifted. Laughter still lingered in the space between you, but now it felt thinner. You kept stealing glances at his hands—swollen knuckles, fingers flexing subtly in pain. He winced once while cutting a pancake. Tried to hide it by drinking more coffee.

Outside the diner windows, the wind pushed hard against the glass, rattling the loose pane near your booth. The neon sign that read All Day Breakfast buzzed faintly above the door. A waitress refilled mugs with a practiced hand while Elvis crooned low from the jukebox in the corner. You could smell syrup and cheap coffee and the faint sting of grease coming off the grill.

A couple across the aisle bickered gently over a crossword. Behind the counter, a cook flipped eggs one-handed. The bell above the door chimed every few minutes, and every time, Walter’s eyes flicked toward it like a reflex honed by too many years of needing to know who’s coming.

He was trying to read the menu when the next clue hit. His eyes scanned the page once. Twice. Then again. His brow furrowed like he was doing math, not trying to decide what flavor of milkshake he wanted.

You leaned in, resting your elbow on the table, chin in hand. “You okay?”

Walter blinked, then nodded—too fast. “Yeah, just…forgot what I was looking for.”

Your stomach sank.

He flipped the menu shut like it didn’t matter. “I’ll just get the usual,” he told the waitress when she came by.

“You don’t have a usual,” you said softly once she was gone.

He gave you a lopsided smile. “Guess I do now.”

It was easier not to push. Not here. But your throat felt tight, and your fingers itched to grab him by the face and make him look at you. Not in anger. In desperation. Because the man sitting across from you should have been wearing gloves in a ring somewhere televised—not icing his knuckles in a motel and forgetting what he was reading halfway through.

You bit your tongue so hard it ached.

You didn’t say his brother’s name.

Didn’t say Stanley.

Didn’t say, “You should’ve gone pro. You should’ve had a manager, a trainer, a doctor, a fucking shot. Not a leech bleeding you dry until your memory fades like old bruises.”

Instead, you reached across the table and tapped the corner of his plate. “You gonna eat that?”

He blinked out of whatever hole he’d been slipping into. “Huh?”

You smiled gently. “Your bacon. Looks lonely.”

He huffed a soft laugh, something breathy and light, and pushed it toward you. “What’s mine is yours.”

You took it without looking up, chewing slowly, chewing past the ache behind your ribs. He watched you eat with that same fond look he always tried to hide when he thought you weren’t looking—elbows leaning on the table, his thumb absently rubbing the edge of his napkin like he needed to stay grounded.

Walter. Twenty-five.

Fighting for scraps. Fingers already failing. Memory starting to fade.

And every part of it—every limp tendon, every sore joint—traced back to a brother who gambled on him like a dog.

You reached under the table, found his hand, and squeezed.

He looked down, startled for just a second—then smiled.

He squeezed back.

The waitress dropped off the check and left two mints, their wrappers crinkling like brittle leaves between your coffee cups. You watched Walter turn one over in his palm, slow and thoughtful, like it was something precious and not just a complimentary afterthought.

He was quiet again.

Not withdrawn, not exactly—but softer. Like his mind had tucked itself into a corner and was still trying to work out something unspoken. He cracked his neck and flexed his fingers beneath the table, thinking you wouldn’t notice. You noticed.

“You working today?” you asked, tone light, like it was just something to fill the air.

Walter nodded. “Yeah. Factory’s got a rush order goin’. Need to make numbers before Friday.”

You blinked. “Sewing?”

He gave a sheepish grin. “Yeah. Been there a while.”

You were quiet for a moment. “Does it help?”

He paused, a wrinkle of confusion between his brows.

“The arthritis,” you clarified.

That caught him. His mouth parted like he might lie—but something in your face, or maybe the fact that you already knew, made him drop it.

“No,” he admitted. “Makes it worse.”

“Then why—”

“Pays in cash,” he said simply. “No questions, no paperwork, no background checks.”

And suddenly it made sense. The cuts on his fingers that weren’t from fights. The slow, stiff way he sometimes curled his hands into fists. The shaking. The way he wore gloves even when it wasn’t cold out.

“They got me on the single-stitch machines. Old ones. Manual pedal, no assist. Good for precision, but rough on joints.” He shrugged, then tried to laugh it off. “Boss thinks it builds character.”

You clenched your jaw so hard it clicked.

“Sometimes I forget the pattern in the middle of a line,” Walter added, softer now. “Gotta start over. Or fake it. Sometimes I just…stall.”

He didn’t say how that felt. Didn’t need to.

You could picture it clear as day—him hunched over a rattling machine in some cracked-tile sweatshop, shoulder blades pulled tight beneath a hoodie, fighting against pain and memory loss just to meet a quota. All because someone else gambled his future away.

You wanted to scream. Or throw the table. Or track down Stanley and make him feel everything his brother had swallowed just to survive.

Instead, you slipped your hand across the table and took the mint from his fingers. You tore the wrapper open and held it out. “Open.”

Walter blinked. “What?”

“Your mouth, Kaminski. C’mon. You look like you need something sweet.”

He gave a quiet laugh, head tipping back, and opened his mouth. You placed the mint on his tongue like it was a communion wafer, then smiled when he raised both brows and playfully over-exaggerated the act of savoring it.

“You gonna give me a treat every time I look pitiful?” he teased, still rolling it across his tongue.

“Maybe,” you said, grinning back. “Guess I do now.”

He laughed again—real this time, not hollow or forced. Then he did something simple. Barely anything at all.

He reached for his napkin and folded it carefully into the shape of a flower—something lopsided and silly, made from cheap paper and calloused fingers that couldn’t quite bend the way they used to. But when he finished, he pushed it across the table and said, “That’s for being kind. Even when I don’t know how to ask for it.”

You stared at it for a second, something hot blooming in your throat.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

Walter leaned back, his smirk lazy, but his eyes warm. “You better keep that. That’s a one-of-a-kind Kaminski original.”

You pocketed it.

You wouldn’t throw it out.

Not now. Not ever.

Not when it said so much with so little.

It’s close to midnight when you hear the lock click.

Not loud—nothing ever is with him. But there’s a stutter in the rhythm. A pause. Like even the key didn’t want to turn tonight.

The door creaks open on its hinges, a long, low moan that makes your teeth ache. The kind of sound that feels too intimate for strangers and too sad for lovers. You don’t lift your head right away. Just lie there on your side, spine pressed to the cold motel wall, eyes half-lidded, watching his silhouette move across the room like smoke.

It’s dark, save for the flickering TV glow—muted and aimless, playing some nature documentary on repeat. The kind where every animal moves in slow motion and the voiceover too soft to register as human. It casts the room in washed-out flashes: the glint of the door handle as it shuts, the faded wallpaper peeling at the edges, the dull gleam of condensation sweating down the motel mini fridge.

Walter doesn’t say a word.

He drops his canvas bag by the dresser with a thump that’s heavier than it should be. Then he peels off his hoodie like it’s clinging to him, the cotton catching on the scabbed-over scrapes at his elbow. You see the way his muscles roll beneath the shirt beneath—tight, fatigued, like elastic stretched past its limit. His shoulders are hunched up high, all tension and bone.

He smells like a long day—sweat dried into fabric, a faint trace of oil from the machines at the sewing floor, something acrid underneath it like old blood or rust. It hits the air the second he moves past the bed, and you catch yourself inhaling like it might tell you how bad the shift really was.

His knuckles are raw again.

You track the movement of his hand as he kneels in front of the mini fridge. There’s a scrape of plastic, then the soft click as he opens the little door. He pauses, crouched low, elbows resting on his knees. There’s something cracked about his posture—like he’s been put together wrong tonight, joints out of order.

He reaches in.

Not much in there—just what little you’ve both managed to scrounge together. A half-eaten apple in a napkin. An old packet of butter. Two sodas. He grabs one and sits back on his haunches.

Then you see it.

His right hand shakes as he tries to twist the cap. Just a tremor at first—barely noticeable in the low light. But then the tremor grows. He tries to mask it with pressure, holding the bottle tighter, twisting harder. The joint at the base of his thumb gives a nasty little jerk, and the plastic cap resists him with a pitiful squeak.

You can see it all from the bed. The way his jaw clenches. The way he drops his gaze, ashamed to even be witnessed failing.

He tries again.

Fails again.

You close the book that’s been resting open on your chest. Your heartbeat’s already picking up, tuned to the tension in the room like it’s vibrating through the walls.

“Let me help,” you say softly, careful not to startle.

He doesn’t look at you.

Still crouched, still clutching that soda like he could will it open if he just tried harder, Walter lets the silence hang. His back is to you now—curved like a question mark, the fabric of his thin undershirt stretched across shoulders pulled too tight. One shoulder blade twitches, subtle but telling. His fingers flex. The bottle gives a weak, hollow squeak in his grip.

“I’ve got it,” he says, voice dull and low, like he’s answering something deeper than your words.

“I know,” you reply gently, not rising from the bed yet. “But I want to.”

That gets something. Not a flinch, not quite. But his posture stiffens like the words grazed something too tender.

His voice is quiet, but the edge is there. “You shouldn’t have to.”

“I want to,” you say again, slower this time. The quietest insistence.

He still doesn’t face you, but you see his head dip an inch. The fingers of his left hand come up to press at the creases of his right palm—almost like a stretch, almost like a plea. He tries again, twisting the cap with all the force his failing joints will allow. It slips. His grip falters. He mutters something under his breath that doesn’t make it past his teeth.

The soda falls.

It hits the carpet with a muted thunk and rolls toward the bed. He watches it go. Just watches it.

You move.

You rise to your feet and cross the room slowly, not touching him yet, not crouching beside him. Just standing there, waiting for him to let you in.

“Walter…”

“I don’t want help.”

There’s a little crack in the words. A break that catches like glass underfoot. Then, sharper:

“I don't want help,” he reiterates, louder this time. “I want to do it myself.”

His voice echoes louder than the small space should allow. The air seems to hold it, trap it, then stretch it until it hurts.

You take a breath.

“I know,” you murmur. “But—”

“I said I’ve got it, damn it!”

It rips out of him like a whipcrack—fast and bitter and louder than anything he’s said to you before. And the second it lands, the second it echoes back into the hollow of the room, his face caves in.

He blinks, stunned at himself.

“Shit,” he mutters, backing up a half-step like he wants to disappear into the carpet. “Shit, I didn’t mean that.”

His hands rise, fingers curling against his temples, pressing in like he’s trying to squeeze the moment out of his head. The tremor is worse now. Full-hand shaking, like his bones are vibrating loose under his skin.

“I didn’t mean it,” he says again, more broken this time. “I just—fuck—I’m so tired.”

His voice crumbles mid-word.

“I’m so fucking tired,” Walter says, barely above a whisper now. The fight drains out of him all at once, like a string snapped behind his ribs. “I didn’t mean to yell. I just…I can’t get my hands to work. My memory’s been shit lately. I keep…I keep forgetting where I put things. What day it is. What you said two minutes ago.”

He’s shaking, and not just in his hands now—his whole body’s doing this quiet tremble, like his bones don’t know how to hold him anymore. He shifts his weight to his heels but loses balance, so he steadies himself on the mini fridge. His knuckles knock against the side with a dull thunk.

You move before he can apologize again.

One soft step forward, then another.

You lower yourself until you’re kneeling in front of him, eye-level, and reach up—slow, deliberate—to place your palm on his chest.

“Hey,” you murmur.

His gaze is somewhere over your shoulder, jaw locked, lashes fluttering from the effort of not crying. He swallows, and it’s audible in the quiet of the room. A thick, dry sound.

You press your other hand to the side of his face, thumb brushing the faint stubble along his cheek.

“Walter.”

You say his name like it means something. Like it’s enough.

He finally looks at you.

And just like that, he breaks.

His whole frame folds forward like something caved in his chest. You catch him instinctively, arms wrapping around his back as his forehead finds the crook of your neck and rests there—hot, damp, his breath unsteady. One hand fists in the fabric of your shirt, not pulling, just holding. Needing.

“I can’t sleep,” he breathes. “Every time I do, I see the ring. I hear the bell. I feel the hits coming and I can’t fucking move. I wake up and I’m still in it. Still getting punched. Still losing.”

You stroke the back of his head, slow and steady, your fingers threading through sweat-mussed hair. His shirt damp near the collar. Smells like machine grease and old detergent and something uniquely him—salt and skin and heat.

“I forgot my locker combination at work today,” he goes on, shame thick in his voice. “Had to ask the floor manager to open it for me. First time in four years I couldn’t remember. And my fucking hands—” He pulls them up between you, trembling hard now, like leaves in the wind. “They won’t stop doing this. I can’t thread a needle. Can’t even hold a pen right. You think anyone wants a fighter who can’t make a goddamn fist?”

You guide his shaking hands to your chest. Cover them with your own.

“They want you,” you whisper.

His breath stutters again.

“I don’t wanna be like this.”

“You’re not broken,” you say firmly. “You’re hurting.”

And he lets himself sob then. Silent, body-wrecking cries that wrack his ribs. You hold him like he’s yours to hold. Like nothing he says or does or forgets could make you let go.

The tears don’t last long.

Walter’s never been someone who lets himself cry for long. But when he does, it’s like something sacred—something buried too deep to touch without bleeding. So when his shoulders stop shaking, when his breath evens out enough to speak, he pulls back just a little—not far, just enough to look at you.

His eyes are red-rimmed, lashes wet, cheeks still damp in streaks. But his mouth is soft now. Unguarded. A line across his lips where his jaw used to be clenched.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he murmurs.

“You didn’t.”

“Didn’t mean to yell at you, either.”

You reach up, swipe your thumb gently beneath one eye, then the other. “I know.”

His hands are still resting on your chest beneath your palms, warmer now, less tense. His fingers twitch like he’s not sure what to do with them. Like he still expects them to betray him.

You feel the urge before you even realize it—lean in and press your lips to the center of his brow. He goes very still. Doesn’t speak. But his fingers tighten, just slightly, bunching the hem of your shirt between them.

“I don’t like needing help,” he admits quietly.

“I know.”

“I hate feeling like a burden.”

“You’re not.”

His eyes flutter closed. His head tilts forward until his forehead brushes yours. The silence between you stretches again, but it’s different now—full of breath and blood and the knowledge of how close pain and comfort live side by side.

“I’ll get better,” he says softly, more to himself than to you. “I just need time.”

You nod.

“And rest,” you add.

That earns you a tired, almost-smile. “You trying to mother me?”

You cock your head. “Would it work?”

A pause.

“...Probably not.”

This time, the laugh you share is real—quiet and cracked around the edges, but real. And when he finally lets you help him up, when he lets you guide him toward the bed and ease him onto the mattress, you can tell he’s not letting go out of weakness. He’s letting go because—for once—he can. Because he's allowing himself to.

You don’t leave his side the whole night.

You curl around him, one arm beneath his neck, the other draped across his stomach, palm spread flat over the trembling rise and fall of his breath. You let him be held.

And when he finally falls asleep, deep and still and quiet…

You stay awake a little longer.

Just to be sure.

Because if the world insists on wearing him down to splinters, then fine—you’ll be the one who gathers the pieces and whittles him back into something whole.

You weren’t supposed to be there.

The car smelled like hot vinyl and the old fast food wrappers Stanley insisted he’d clean out weeks ago. You had your knees pulled up to your chest in the passenger seat, cracked window letting in a breeze thick with summer sweat and exhaust. It was early evening, but the sun was still clinging to the rooftops like a slow bleed, casting everything in a dull gold that made even the parking lot shimmer.

Stanley had said it would take fifteen minutes. Quick in and out. Just a friendly meet-up with a guy he “used to know.”

Walter had gone with him, jaw tight, fists in his hoodie pocket. He hadn't wanted to bring you—hadn't even wanted to come, really—but Stanley had a way of pulling people behind him like storm currents. That low, snide charm. The confident grin that always seemed to promise this time would be different.

Fifteen minutes turned into twenty-five.

You shifted, checked your phone. No service. No texts. Just the occasional shout from inside the low-slung building they’d disappeared into—some half-legal dive pretending to be a private club. The windows were fogged, too dark to see through. The sign above the door buzzed dimly in green neon: NOIR ROOM.

You hadn’t been inside. Hadn’t planned to be.

Not until the yelling started.

You heard Walter’s voice first, sharp and low—cutting off something Stanley had said. Then laughter. Not the fun kind. The kind with teeth.

Curiosity turned to dread real fast.

You slid out of the car and approached the building slowly. The door was cracked open just enough to let the heat and cigarette smoke pour out, along with the muffled rise and fall of voices. You peeked inside.

There was a poker table set up near the back, ringed with men in folding chairs and sweat-stained button-downs. Someone had turned on an oscillating fan that clicked every time it passed over the table. The whole place smelled like stale beer and ashtrays that hadn’t been emptied in days.

Stanley was in the middle, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled, grinning like he owned the place. His face was flushed—either from the whiskey or the string of wins he was on. He had a stack of chips piled in front of him like he was untouchable.

Walter was off to the side, arms crossed, leaning against the wall. He looked tense, but quiet. Watchful. He saw you in the doorway before anyone else did. His eyes widened, subtle but sharp. A warning.

You started to back away. But that’s when you heard Stanley speak.

“C’mon, boys. One more round. Let’s make it interesting.”

Someone jeered. Someone else tapped a beer bottle against the edge of the table.

And then the man across from him leaned forward. Big guy. Sharp suit. Slicked-back hair. He smiled like a shark.

“Interesting, huh?”

Stanley grinned wider. His voice slurred a little now. “I got a hot streak you wouldn’t believe.”

Walter took a step forward. “Stan—”

“Relax,” Stanley muttered. “I know what I’m doing.”

Famous last words.

Walter was the one who tugged your elbow.

You didn’t protest.

“C’mon,” he muttered, barely above the noise of the card shuffles and slurred jokes. His fingers grazed your wrist—not quite a grip, not quite a plea—but enough to make your stomach knot. “Let’s wait outside.”

You followed without a word.

The club’s door creaked behind you as you stepped back into the heavy heat of early night. Streetlights flickered lazily overhead, insects humming beneath them like static. The buzz of conversation and glass clinks inside muffled behind the cracked door. Walter exhaled hard and leaned against the hood of the car, stretching his neck with a pop and running a hand through his sweat-matted hair.

“God, I hate this,” he muttered, knuckles resting on the car roof. “Hate this shit. Every time it’s the same.”

You didn’t ask what he meant. You knew.

Instead, you climbed up beside him, perched on the warm hood with your legs swinging slightly. “Thought you weren’t even supposed to be here,” you teased softly, trying to lighten it. “Weren’t you gonna stay home and nap for fourteen hours?”

“Should’ve,” he grumbled, but you caught the twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Could’ve used it.”

A few moments passed in silence. A car drove by with its bass turned too high. Somewhere in the next lot over, a dog barked and wouldn’t stop. You could still hear the faintest hum of conversation inside—cards slapping on wood, a laugh here and there, a sharper voice rising before getting swallowed again.

You stretched your legs out in front of you, crossing your ankles. The hood of the car was still warm from the day, humming low through the denim of your jeans. Walter glanced over at you sideways, like he was trying not to smile again.

“You always sit like that?” he asked, voice low and a little amused.

You tilted your head. “Like what?”

He nodded toward your legs. “Like you’re on a damn front porch somewhere, not sittin’ on a rusted-out hood in a parking lot behind a place called Noir Room.”

“Maybe I’m making it romantic,” you said, with a shrug. “Some of us have an imagination.”

“Oh, yeah?” he chuckled. “You romanticizing this?”

You smiled. “Trying.”

His laugh was small but real, and the sound of it made your chest feel too tight for a second. He rolled his shoulder, leaned his head back, and let the streetlight catch his profile—jaw all sharp lines, the bruises on his cheekbone gone yellow at the edges now.

“I’m not good at this,” he said after a beat, quieter. “The sittin’ still thing.”

You gave him a look. “You’ve been sittin’ still for like five minutes.”

“Longest I’ve gone in a while.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I dunno. Just feels different with you here.”

The words slipped out and then just…stayed there. Weightless. Barely tethered.

You didn’t press. You just watched him, heart skipping sideways in your chest.

Walter reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled something out. A quarter. He held it up between two fingers and flicked it toward you.

You caught it midair.

“You keep flippin’ it when you’re thinkin’ too hard,” he said. “Figured you’d want one of your own.”

You stared at it—just a plain old quarter, ridged edges worn smooth in places—but it felt heavier than it should’ve.

“That’s stupid,” you said, and your voice came out way softer than you meant it to.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, getting up, brushing his palms off on his thighs. “I am.”

You looked up at him, and he paused before stepping away. The parking lot light silhouetted him, made the angles of him softer, somehow—like he’d been carved down just enough to let the world in.

“I’m gonna take a leak,” he said, slipping his fingers into his front pockets, thumbs hooked over the denim lip. “Try not to fall in love with me while I’m gone.”

You snorted, biting down on a grin, but he leaned in before you could reply—close enough that you could smell the smoke on his collar and the warmth of him beneath it.

Then, even softer:

“Or do. I wouldn’t mind.”

He walked off before you could think of anything to say back.

Inside the Noir Room, the air had thickened.

Smoke hung low over the table, curling from cheap cigars and half-dead cigarettes balanced on the edges of ashtrays. The oscillating fan clicked in its lazy rotation, but it didn’t help. Sweat slicked the back of Stanley’s neck, clinging to the collar of his shirt like it had grown there.

He was grinning too hard. That sharp, mean kind of grin that said he’d already won in his mind.

“Let’s make this last one interesting,” he said again, louder this time, slurring just enough that the vowels dragged. “I got one more in me, boys. You wanna walk out of here with something to write home about, right?”

Across the table, the man in the suit—DeSantis, they called him—watched without blinking. His pile of chips was sizable. Bigger than Stanley’s. But Stanley had swagger and booze and the high of three solid rounds stacked behind him.

He was reckless. And everyone knew reckless men were either lucky or stupid. And they all wanted to see which.

The dealer didn’t look up. Just started the next round.

Stanley slapped a hundred down, then another. Then the rest of his chips, pushing them into the center like he was still at the top of the mountain.

“Raise,” he barked, pulling the last of his cash from his wallet. “Let’s go big, baby.”

DeSantis leaned back, sipping his drink. “That all you’ve got?”

Stanley laughed, eyes gleaming. “Oh, I’ve got plenty. You just don’t know it yet.”

“Convince me.”

The table quieted.

Stanley’s hand hovered over his pocket. He didn’t have anything else. No car, no property, no IOU anyone in this room would take seriously.

But he had you. Not as a person. Not as someone real and breathing and waiting outside. He had you in the way someone like Stanley thinks they have someone.

He leaned in, tone dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “I got a girl. Real pretty. Tight little thing. Sticking around like she’s already mine.”

The table shifted. One of the men snorted. Another rolled his eyes. But DeSantis didn’t flinch. He just swirled the ice in his glass.

“Collateral?”

Stanley grinned. “Call it what you want. Just don’t say I never gave you nothin’.”

The silence that followed felt longer than it was. The air went still.

DeSantis reached into his coat and set a fat stack of hundreds on the table, placing them carefully, deliberately. His voice was cool, unreadable.

“Call.”

Stanley froze for a second. A flicker of doubt cracked through the drunk bravado, but he kept smiling. “It’s a joke, man. C’mon.”

DeSantis didn’t blink. “I’m not laughing.”

Someone at the table coughed. A chair creaked. The dealer looked up at last.

Stanley’s smile faltered. Just a little.

Then DeSantis added, without changing his tone: “She’s not yours to bet? Then fold.”

And that—that—was the trap.

Stanley couldn’t fold. Not in front of a room full of men who’d watched him swagger in like he owned the fucking place. Not with pride on the table. So he picked up his cards with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes and said:

“Let’s play.”

The cards slapped down like thunderclaps.

One by one, the dealer flipped them, the room leaning in with every reveal. A low chorus of mutters swirled through the smoke as hands tightened around beers and arms folded tighter across chests. Stanley’s grin wavered, then firmed—his poker face slipping back on like a bad habit.

He had two jacks in his hand. One red, one black. He was praying for a third. He was praying for anything that looked like luck.

Across the table, DeSantis watched in eerie stillness. He hadn’t moved since placing his stack of hundreds in the pot. His face was stone. His cards, untouched.

The flop came down.

Eight of hearts. King of clubs. Jack of spades.

Stanley’s heart leapt. He had two Jacks. One more face card, one more pair—and he’d have a full house. He shifted in his seat, swallowing the surge of adrenaline, trying not to show how it thrilled him.

DeSantis raised a brow, just slightly.

The next card: a Queen of diamonds.

The table exhaled like a single creature.

“Fuckin’ hell,” someone whispered.

Stanley’s knuckles whitened on the edge of the table. He leaned in, eyes flicking between the pot and his opponent. DeSantis didn’t blink.

The river card came.

Ten of hearts.

Stanley’s eyes danced. King, Queen, Jack, Ten. He had a straight.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. He sat back, smug, like the world had righted itself in his favor again. “That’ll do just fine.”

He turned his cards over with a flourish, letting the table drink it in: Two Jacks.

“Three-of-a-kind,” he said, voice loud, cocky. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

DeSantis didn’t react right away. He reached for his drink, took a slow sip, then set it down without a sound.

Then he placed his cards on the table like they meant nothing.

Queen of hearts. Queen of spades.

There was a beat of silence.

Someone coughed.

Someone else muttered, “Oh, shit.”

Stanley blinked. “Wait—what?”

The dealer nodded, monotone. “Full house. Queens over Jacks.”

Stanley just sat there.

His hand still rested on the edge of the table, hovering beside a stack of chips that wasn’t his anymore.

DeSantis tapped a finger once against the felt. “You just lost.”

Stanley’s grin evaporated. “No, hang on—hang on, we didn’t say this was real. That whole thing about the girl, that was just—”

“You made the bet,” DeSantis said flatly. “We played. You lost.”

Stanley looked around like someone else might step in, someone might laugh and call it a bluff, say the whole thing was a joke.

But no one did.

The dealer gathered the cards. The chips disappeared into DeSantis’s pile. And the money—the thick band of hundreds—got tucked neatly back into his coat.

Stanley was still sitting there, stunned and hollowed out, when the man added:

“I expect delivery. Tonight.”

Then DeSantis stood, adjusted his cuffs, and walked out—like the matter had already been settled.

Because to him, it had.

You were still perched on the hood of the car, flipping the coin Walter gave you—still replaying what he’d said before slipping inside to use the bathroom—when the door creaked open behind you.

You didn’t hear the footsteps at first. Just the click of a lighter, then the slow exhale of cigarette smoke carried on the wind.

“You must be her,” a man’s voice said, low and slick and sleazy like motor oil.

You looked up.

He was standing a few feet away, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a slate-gray suit that might’ve been expensive once, now worn thin at the elbows. His hair was slicked back with something too glossy, and he smiled without warmth—like a monster wearing the skin of a man. His cigarette burned lazily between two fingers.

“The fuck do you want?” you asked flatly, not bothering to mask your annoyance. You didn’t recognize him, and you didn’t like the way his eyes were moving—slow and deliberate, like he was appraising you.

His smile stretched wider. “Sharp tongue. Stanley didn’t mention that.”

You slid off the hood, standing now, spine straight. “And who the fuck are you?”

He took a step closer, ignoring the question. “Said you were loyal. Said you were sweet on his little brother, but you knew where your loyalty lay.” He let the words drag out, each one heavier than it needed to be. “Said you’d make good on a debt if it came to it.”

Your stomach dropped like a runaway dumbwaiter in an elevator shaft, swift and sharp.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

He didn’t answer. Just took another puff, eyes dropping deliberately to the conservative scoop neck of your faded black t-shirt, the one you bought at a gas station just outside of Reno when you needed a change of clothing, cracked yellow lettering stretching across your chest that read, “NEVADA: HOTTER THAN HELL” above a sun-bleached graphic of a devil lounging on a slot machine, one horn snapped clean off, loosely tied around your waist, teasing just a hint of your midriff.

And, despite the heat, you feel the cold, slimy crawl of your skin as his eyes drag back up the uncomfortable length of your body, grossly unapologetic.

“Back off,” you warned, voice low, feeling the warm sticky kiss of your pocket knife against your ankle from where it's tucked inside your boot, fingers curling over the right headlight, ready to pull it if necessary.

But he didn’t.

He moved in too close—intentional, invasive. His arm brushed yours, not quite an accident, and the smell of his cologne was sickly strong, like sour wine and cheap aftershave. His free hand hovered like he might reach out to touch your waist.

You didn’t flinch. “Try that again and I’ll snap every bone in your fucking wrist.”

He laughed softly. “Fiery. That’ll make it more fun.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but another voice cut through the parking lot like a blade.

“Back the fuck up.”

Walter.

He was standing just behind DeSantis, face shadowed in the amber glow of a nearby streetlamp. His jaw was clenched, lips a hard line, chest rising fast like he’d sprinted to get there. His hands were curled into fists at his sides.

DeSantis turned slowly, like this was all part of the evening’s entertainment. “Relax, champ. Just introducing myself.”

Walter didn’t blink. “You don’t touch her. You don’t even look at her.”

“Oh come on,” DeSantis said. “Your brother put her in play. I'm just following the rules.”

Walter stepped forward fast enough that you almost moved to stop him. He didn’t swing—yet—but his chest was close enough to brush DeSantis’s. “Say that again.”

DeSantis didn’t back down. “I didn’t stutter. Stanley made a bet. You know how this works—he loses, the house collects.”

Your heart was hammering now, pulse roaring in your ears. “He bet me?”

DeSantis turned slightly toward you, as if only now acknowledging your presence as more than a chip on the table. “Collateral,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Walter snapped. “She’s not a fucking thing.”

The air charged in an instant—thick with anger, with humiliation, with the kind of tension that only ends in blood or retreat.

DeSantis held up a hand. “Your brother said—”

“I don’t give a fuck what my brother said.” Walter stepped in front of you fully now, body tense, fists clenched at his sides. “Drop it.”

DeSantis’s gaze flicked between you and Walter. “Stanley bet her. That means she’s part of the pot.”

“She’s not.” Walter’s tone dropped to something deadly quiet. “She doesn’t belong to anyone. You want something else, I’ll find a way to cover the debt. But you’re not laying one finger on her, not if you wanna keep 'em."

For a long second, it looked like DeSantis might press it. But then Walter pulled out his wallet. Thin. Nearly empty. Constantly hemorrhaging money to cover the cost of motel stays and microwave meals. To pay the price for his older brother's fuck-ups.

He pulled out every single bill without looking at the amount and held it out, the natural tremor in his hand gone entirely.

“This’ll hold for now,” he said. “If it don’t—then make it hold. I ain’t scared of spendin’ a few nights in county lockup.”

DeSantis stared at the bills. At you. At Walter again.

And something changed.

He smirked, slow and oily, before snatching the cash, counting through the bills with an infuriating amount of nonchalance, like he hadn't just been moments from assaulting you before Walter intervened. “You’re loyal. I’ll give you that. Clearly doesn't run in the family. That brother of yours is a piece of work."

Walter didn’t respond. He just stood there between you and the man, breathing hard, still on the verge of violence, you could tell from the way he tightened his stance in his legs, his hands ready to come up at any moment and swing if pushed to it.

DeSantis turned towards the rest of the parking lot. “Might wanna keep her locked up next time,” he muttered over his shoulder. “Girl like that? Trouble.”

Then he walked off in the direction of his car, flicking the butt of his cigarette away, the burnt filter landing in a crop of weeds growing up through the cracks of the hot asphalt beneath them.

You exhaled a shaky breath, one you hadn’t realized you had been holding up until now, though your body remained tight as a bowstring, full of broiling tension.

Walter was still standing between you and the door, shoulders squared, chest heaving like he’d just gone ten rounds in the ring. You sat back on the hood, motionless, your hands shaking so slightly they might’ve gone unnoticed if not for the sudden stillness.

He turned to face you, but slower now. Like whatever fuse that had been lit was fizzling into something more dangerous—guilt, maybe. Or shame.

“You okay?” he asked, voice rough.

You didn’t answer right away. Didn’t look at him either. Just stared at the ground like if you focused hard enough, the earth might open and swallow you whole.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know he was gonna—Stanley never told me—”

“I figured that part out,” you bite, each word clipped and cold. Your arms were crossed tight over your chest like armor, jaw locked, shoulders stiff with barely-contained fury. “You think I’d be sitting out here if I knew your brother was trying to whore me out?"

Walter flinched. Not from the volume, but from the raw truth of it. He stepped closer, carefully, as if afraid he might break something else.

“I never would’ve let that happen,” he said, quieter now. “You believe me?”

You did. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that he had to say it at all.

You swallowed hard, fists clenched in your lap. “Why does he always get to gamble things that aren’t his? And why does everyone keep letting him?”

Walter’s lips parted to answer—but then the door creaked open again.

“Hey!” Stanley’s voice pierced the silence like a knife through gauze—jarring, careless, like he hadn’t just tried gambling your dignity like another fucking poker chip. “Lion, you got any cash on you?”

He stepped out into the dusk light, rubbing the back of his neck and squinting like the world was doing him some kind of injustice. His shirt was untucked now, half of it wrinkled from where he’d been tugging at it. “Goddamn game turned south real fast, but I can win it back if I get back in—”

He stopped when he saw your face.

Or maybe it was Walter’s posture. Or the dead silence that had fallen like a dropped curtain.

But if Stanley noticed the tension in the air, he didn’t show it. He just gave a shrug and a half-laugh.

“C’mon,” he said, waving a hand like the past ten minutes hadn’t happened. “It’s not a big deal. Just a few bills, some chips, you know how it goes.”

He didn’t mention the bet. Didn’t even glance your way.

That was what did it.

You stood up slow. Too slow.

Stanley barely turned in time to see your hand whip through the air.

Crack.

Your palm met his cheek with a sound that echoed off the parking lot walls.

He stumbled a half-step back, blinking in confusion like he hadn’t seen it coming.

“The fuck was that for?” he barked, touching his face.

“Don’t you ever talk about me like I’m something you can put on the table,” you hissed, voice shaking. “I’m not yours. I was never yours.”

Stanley looked at Walter like he might intervene, but Walter didn’t move. His arms were crossed. His jaw was tight. His silence was loud enough to make Stanley flinch a second time.

Then Stanley scoffed and rubbed at the cherried red handprint on his cheek, ignoring the sharp sting. “Maybe it’s time you start earning your fuckin' keep if you plan on stickin' around,” he muttered, looking past Walter to you. “Ain’t no such thing as a free ride around here, sweetheart.”

Walter’s expression didn’t shift, but something in him went stiller than silence. Still like a snare trap tightening.

His voice came out low. Controlled.

“Dog. Person. Doesn’t matter to you, does it?” he said. “You’ll sell whatever you can—whoever you can—to cover your own ass.”

Stanley’s brows twitched.

Walter stepped forward once, not enough to crowd but enough to command. “I’ll tell you one thing right fucking now.” His jaw clenched hard enough to pulse. “She is off limits. She isn't yours. Not mine either. Not anyone’s to speak for. And you're an even bigger piece of shit than I thought for even daring to.”

For a second, Stanley just blinked.

Then the mask cracked—not into rage, but something uglier. Wounded pride. Pettiness in its rawest form.

“Oh, that’s what this is about,” he said, stepping back with a bitter laugh. “All this bark, and it’s over some roadside hussy?”

He looked between the two of you, mouth twisted. “Jesus, Lion. What, she gives you a sob story, spreads her legs, and now you’re what—pussywhipped? Thought I taught you better than to go getting soft.”

Walter moved so fast you barely saw it.

He didn’t hit him. He didn’t even raise a hand. But he stepped in close—chest to chest, breath to breath—and the look in his eyes could’ve stripped paint off a wall.

“Don’t talk about her like that. Don't you ever talk about her like that,” he said, voice like a fuse burning low, "choose your next words very carefully, big bro."

Stanley raised both hands like he was being martyred. “Alright, alright. Christ. You two deserve each other.”

He backed off, but his gaze lingered like rot—picking, calculating.

Walter didn’t move until he was sure Stanley was really done talking. Not just with his mouth, but with whatever damage he’d planned to deal.

Only then did he glance over at you. There was a flicker of apology in his eyes—not for what he’d said, but for the fact that you’d had to hear any of it.

You didn’t raise your voice. Didn’t have to.

“Give me the keys.”

Stanley blinked at you like you’d spoken a different language, his smug grin already fading. You took a step closer, hand out, palm flat—an edge to your voice so unfamiliar even Walter looked up. You weren’t shaking. You weren’t breathing heavily.

But you were done.

“Now.”

Stanley fumbled in his pocket and tossed the keys like they burned him. They hit your palm with a dull slap.

He tried to laugh it off. “Jesus, you two—”

“Shut the fuck up, man,” Walter muttered.

You didn’t look at either of them as you turned toward the car.

The parking lot was lit in halogen yellow and lined in cracked asphalt. It smelled like oil spills and baked gravel. Your footsteps echoed on the pavement, heavy with purpose. Walter followed, silent, the gravel crunching under his sneakers. Stanley trailed behind with an exaggerated sigh, hands in his pockets, stumbling a bit as he caught his foot on a parking stop.

Nobody said anything.

The slam of the car doors punctuated the quiet like gunfire—yours, then Walter’s, then Stanley’s as he collapsed into the backseat like it was just another night of heavy drinking.

You started the engine. The click of the ignition felt louder than it should have been. The radio, still on from earlier, crackled with static before fading into a low, buzzing hum of country rock. You turned it off.

Still, nobody spoke.

The world outside blurred into silhouettes—flickering strip mall signs, closed storefronts, busted streetlights. The kind of town that didn’t sleep so much as it coasted, lights dimmed, just waiting for the next fight to break out.

Walter stared out the passenger side window, face hollowed out by the shadows flickering past. His jaw was clenched so tight the muscle twitched.

In the rearview mirror, you caught glimpses of Stanley with his head leaned back, muttering something under his breath, too low to catch. Probably to himself. Probably to no one at all.

And even with all the windows rolled down, the air felt too thick to breathe.

The extended stay motel’s flickering sign came into view like a slow bruise bleeding into the dark.

You pulled into the lot hard enough to make the tires groan, the crunch of gravel under the wheels loud in the silence. The engine ticked as it cooled, but no one moved right away. The car was still, thick with tension. You could feel it in your teeth. In your throat.

Stanley got out first. Wordless. He didn’t slam the door, didn’t look back—just slouched his way toward the room next door to yours and Walter’s. The key jingled on the lanyard around his wrist as he unlocked it, his silhouette briefly backlit by the yellow-orange glow spilling from the room.

Then the door shut behind him like the end of a bad dream.

You didn’t move for a long moment.

Then opened your door and stepped out.

The night air hit you like a slap. Still warm from the day but heavy with dew, clinging to your skin. The buzz of a faulty street lamp hummed above like a mosquito in your ear. Somewhere a TV played behind thin motel walls, voices tinny and laughing at something you couldn’t see. Muffled laughter, a commercial jingle, the faint metallic scrape of someone’s ice machine coughing out cubes nearby.

Walter didn’t say anything. He just followed.

The door to your room creaked open under your hand. The stale motel air met you with the familiar scent of mildew, cleaning chemicals, and over-laundered sheets. The curtains were drawn, casting the room in a strange, shadowed hush. It was the kind of quiet that made your ears ring.

You stepped inside.

Walter closed the door behind you, slower this time. He lingered there for a moment, palm resting flat against the wood. His eyes stayed on it like maybe if he stared hard enough, he could undo everything.

You couldn’t keep it in anymore.

“I didn’t run away from one hell just to land in another.”

Walter looked up.

You weren’t yelling. You didn’t need to. Your voice was low, thick, shaking—not with fear. With fury. With heartbreak.

“I didn’t leave behind fists and screaming and broken glass just to end up with a man who lets someone bet me like a goddamn coin toss.”

He moved to speak.

“No,” you cut in, voice rising now. “You don’t get to say you didn’t know. You knew what Stanley was like. You’ve always known. And you brought me here anyway. You kept me here anyway.”

Walter’s face cracked open like glass under heat. Pain spread across it slowly, too slow to matter.

“He’s my brother,” he said again, but it was barely more than a whisper now. Like he knew how small it sounded.

“And what am I?” you asked, voice breaking. “Just a girl in the passenger seat? Someone to patch your hands after a fight? Sleep next to you in a bed too small for two people and pretend it’s enough?”

He winced. Hands twitching. “You’re not—you’re not just anything,” he said, hoarse. “You’re the only good thing I’ve got left.”

“Then act like it,” you said, almost pleading. “I know you’re trying, Walter. I know that. But trying doesn’t change the fact that I’m scared. Not of you. Never of you. But of what being around all this is turning me into. What it’s already turned you into.”

His eyes were glassy now. He dragged a hand over his mouth. “You don’t think I know that?”

“Then why aren’t you doing something? Why are you still letting him win just by existing?”

Walter sat down hard on the edge of the bed like his knees had given out. “Because if I don’t keep an eye on him, he’ll burn the world down,” he said. “And I can’t let him do that. Not again. Not after last time.”

Your breath caught.

He looked up at you, and something in his face—wet-eyed, clenched, hollow—made your chest twist.

“I’m not asking you to pick me over him,” you said quietly. “I’m asking you to stop choosing nothing. Because standing there and letting it happen again and again, that is a choice.”

Walter looked away. Down at his shaking hands. At the carpet. Anywhere but at you.

“Say something,” you whispered.

“I don’t know how to keep you both,” he said.

“You can’t,” you answered. “So I guess you do have to choose.”

The silence that followed didn’t feel like peace.

It felt like grief, sitting between you like the last breath of a dying thing.

The air in the motel room was suddenly too still, too stale. The hum of the wall A/C unit ticked like a faulty heartbeat. A muffled thump came from next door—Stanley, probably dropping his boots or throwing something against the wall—and neither of you flinched. You were too used to the sound of his chaos to react.

You stared at Walter. He couldn’t look at you. Not really.

So you moved.

Not fast. Not loud. Just…deliberately. Like every step cost you something.

You crossed the room to the far corner, where your backpack sat slumped and half-zipped on the floor beside the dresser. It had lived there for weeks now—always packed just enough, just in case. Your fingers were trembling when you reached for it. You didn’t need much. Toothbrush. Phone charger. Spare clothes. What mattered was that you were moving. That you weren’t staying still anymore.

The soft creak of the mattress behind you was the only sign Walter had even moved at all.

Then you reached up, just over the headboard, where the wall was stained slightly darker with sun-faded dust. A tiny silver pushpin held it in place—creased, delicate, one folded edge coming slightly undone from being flattened too many times.

The paper flower. The one he folded out of a napkin back at the diner.

You cradled it in your palm as carefully as if it were alive. The edges were soft with wear. The center was still sharp where he’d creased it with the side of his thumbnail.

Walter finally spoke.

“You’re not…leaving for good, are you?”

The question was small. Like he was trying not to frighten it by making it too real.

You didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, the flower in one hand, the weight of your backpack over one shoulder, and everything else too heavy to hold.

“I can’t be here anymore,” you said. Voice breaking. “Not like this. Not with him next door. Not when I won't be able to go a single night without thinking about what else he’s capable of.”

Walter flinched, just barely. But you saw it.

“You keep defending him,” you whispered. “And maybe that’s loyalty. Maybe that’s family. But if you can’t choose…then I’ll do it for you.”

You stepped forward and pressed the flower into his palm. His hand closed around it instinctively, but you didn’t linger.

“I’m not waiting for you to catch up,” you said. “I love you. God, I love you. But I will not stay and be collateral to another man’s mess. Not again.”

Tears burned, but you didn’t let them fall. Not yet.

Walter’s throat moved like he wanted to speak, wanted to fight—but all that came was silence.

And that silence told you everything.

The door shut behind you with the softest click.

No shouting. No last-ditch plea. Just that quiet, final sound that broke louder than glass.

The night air slapped your skin like a truth you couldn’t swallow. Humid. Heavy. It stuck in your throat as you walked down the motel’s cracked walkway, one flickering overhead bulb buzzing above like it couldn’t make up its mind about staying lit. Shadows from the railing stretched long across the concrete, dragging behind you like old ghosts.

Your backpack weighed nothing and everything.

You didn’t know where you were going. Just that it couldn’t be here.

Behind you, through the paper-thin walls, the room stayed quiet. Walter didn’t chase you. Didn’t open the door. Didn’t call your name. That, somehow, hurt more than any cruel word ever could.

The smell of motor oil and old cigarette butts hit your nose as you passed the parking lot. You blinked hard. Once. Twice. Didn’t cry. Not yet. There was no one here to see it anyway.

Just the sound of distant traffic and a vending machine humming like it might give up the ghost.

You paused when you reached the edge of the lot, turning once to look back.

The motel looked smaller now. Like it had never really been big enough to hold what you and Walter tried to build. You thought of the origami flower in his palm. The way his hands had always trembled a little, even when they were careful with you. The way he never once looked away when you cried, even if he never quite knew what to do about it.

You loved him.

But love didn’t fix everything.

Sometimes, love sat in the middle of the wreckage and whispered, I’m not enough to save us.

You wrapped your arms around yourself and started walking.

No plan. No ride. Just your own two feet and the kind of hurt that made you wish you could unzip your skin and step out of the ache.

You made it to the street before the tears came. Hot. Silent. You kept walking anyway.

Each step away felt like tearing muscle from bone.

You didn’t look back again.

#leave me alone to die #Stanley Kaminski you piece of shit #that hurts #but thank you anyway #i love my poor lion #lion kaminski #jack o'connell

413 notes · View notes

tellingtell5 · 14 days ago

Text

A real photo dump of me mid-writing this. Like… does it even make sense that the characters just went and decided the plot themselves?

Because they did.

Home: 《James Cook, skins x reader 》

James Cook x femreader

Summary: Coming back to the city that watched you grow up? Yeah, that’s never easy — especially when you left things unfinished. And looking him in the eyes again? That hits different. Brings back stuff you tried to bury way deep down.

wc (I never usually mention this, but I think it’s necessary this time): 15k

A/N: Well... here it is. Can’t say I didn’t pour my heart into this story. Honestly, I had no idea it’d turn out like this when I started — but Skins hits close to home, and sadly, some things hit way too deep. I wanted to make it less painful, I swear... but yeah, a few tears might’ve slipped out. I don’t even know what this is — it’s a mess, for sure. Still, I needed to tell this story to ease something in my poor soul. I think this is the idea that’s taken me the longest — the one I’ve written, rewritten, deleted whole chunks of, and left a bunch of stuff on the cutting room floor (let me know if you'd wanna read those bits sometime).

Thanks for reading, for the support, and I hope you enjoy it 💛

You knew. You fucking knew the moment you stepped into your son's room and saw the little plastic bag lying there on the floor like it belonged. That flimsy wrap lit a fire in your chest, rage crawling up your throat like ivy, wrapping 'round your skull 'til it took root in your head.

If you'd been less angry, maybe you'd've sat him down, had the chat, told him again what it does to people. But all you could think of was your dad, shouting in your face, and how that only made you go harder. Made you do it just to spite him.

You thought about waiting, kitchen table drama, the bag in your fingers, trying to make a point with silence. Thought about telling your kid he could've told you, that he should've. That you would've sorted him better than whatever scumbag was dealing to him. But the thought of him not trusting you—of him looking at you like you'd looked at your own dad at that age—that cracked something inside.

So you took it. Stormed out. All logic drowned under the bile rising in your throat, and what bloomed in its place was cold certainty.

You could’ve bet your fucking arm you were right. That if you went to wherever the fuck he was pushing now, he’d be the one holding the bags. He always found a way to come out on top, didn’t he? You’d lost track of him ages ago. Didn’t know if he was locked up, dead, clean—nothing. But somehow, that one thing stayed the same. Cook and trouble—two sides of the same fucked-up coin.

You could've messaged. Maybe said, "I’m back. For me da, not for you. I had no choice but to crawl back to this shithole we used to call home." Could've told him to stay away. Not to drag your kid down the same pit you'd both rolled around in all those years ago.

Still, you knew there’d be no calm conversation. No sit-down chat. That wasn’t who you were. Not with him. Not ever. The rational, grown-up bit of you—the part that worked, paid bills, packed lunches—started to fade, dissolving like ink in water. The bile crawled higher in your throat and wiped all that sensible shit clean.

There was only one feeling left. Raw, rotting pain. The kind you’d stuffed down for years. The kind that never really healed, just got quiet until it exploded.

You knew exactly where to find him. And when you grabbed your keys and stormed out, there was no hesitation. You didn’t care how far you had to walk, or that it’d been over a decade since you'd wandered those streets. Your legs knew the way. The city hadn’t changed. Not really. Still the same miserable pit you'd clawed your way out of.

The air smelled the same. Damp brick, warm beer, stale piss. And just like that, you weren’t in the present anymore. It hit your spine like a ghost. You could hear your own laugh echo off the walls—too loud, too bright. The joke hadn’t been that funny, but you were happy. So happy, you wanted the whole fuckin’ world to know.

If you closed your eyes, you could feel the gravel crunchin' under your trainers as you ran through those streets. Young, breathless, and high on somethin’ better than drugs—freedom. Escape. The sheer joy of not givin’ a fuck.

You weren’t that girl anymore.

But you were about to see the boy who helped break her.

You saw him from down the road. Laughing, chatting with some teen in a hoodie, handing over something small. And that kid? Gone in a second. Cook’s hand in his back pocket, stuffing away the notes like nothing.

You didn't stop. Didn't even think. You didn’t hesitate. Shoved him hard from behind, caught him off balance so he stumbled forward, proper shocked. Your hands stung — muscle memory from a softer time, from when they used to hold him, trace his jaw like he meant something. You shook that off. Hit him again. Let his curses fly past you.

“Oi! The fuck?”

He turned, spitting fury, mouth curled like he was ready to rip into whoever dared touch him.

“Who the fuck d'you think you are, you stupid bitch?”

Your breath caught when you looked into those blue eyes again—the same ones that once held your whole fuckin' world together. For a moment, you forgot why you'd even come to this shithole. But then it hit you, sharp and cruel: his eyes were the same as your boy's. And he was the reason your kid was off his head on weed, sneakin' around behind your back.

"You fuckin' bastard."

You lunged. Fists clenched, ready to swing until he blacked out. He grabbed your wrists, tried to hold you back, jaw clenching with the effort. But it wasn't just 'cause you were flailin'. No—he was searchin', diggin' through his memory to figure out where the hell he knew this girl from, this girl who was throwin' punches like she wanted to break somethin' permanent.

His first thought was some bird he'd been with lately. Some one-night stand back to start shit. But then your eyes — filled with that same old fury, the same tears — gave you away. That flicker of recognition? It gutted him. He stopped fightin' back. Let your fists land. Took every hit like he deserved 'em.

He was too stunned to move. How long had it been? Fifteen years? Yeah. Quick maths. Fifteen years of missin' you. Of pretendin' he hadn’t been left with a heart cracked open and still bleedin'.

“You’re a proper wanker.”

Your hand had cracked across his face with all the fury you’d pent up for half your bloody life. He staggered a bit, jaw clenched, eyes wide, not from the hit—he could take a hit—but from the sight of you. Standing there like a storm that never passed, breathing like each inhale might rip you apart.

You weren’t hitting him anymore. Just staring. Shaking all over from rage, or something deeper. Trying to find your breath, trying to remember the woman you’d become, the one that had her shit together. But all you could feel was seventeen again. Seventeen, raw and bleeding, back in the streets that never let you heal. The city that had made you.

You looked away. Ran a hand down your face like you could wipe yourself clean of it all. What the fuck were you doing? This wasn’t you. Not anymore. But that version of you, the one this place had carved out with broken glass and sleepless nights, she clawed her way back.

He reached for you, hand brushing your hair like he used to — like he still had the right. You slapped him away.

“Not got nothin’ to say, have you?” You were baring teeth now, a wild thing uncaged. “’Course not. 'Cause you’re a fuckin’ twat, James.”

His eyes widened. James. His name. You said his real name. That hit harder than your fists. Nobody called him that anymore. Not like that. Not with meaning.

“What the fuck am I meant to say?” Now it was him unraveling. Shock turning to fury. The kind born in sleepless nights and stitched-up scars. “What the fuck do I say to the girl who vanishes for fifteen fuckin’ years and shows up swingin’ like some mad bitch, yeah?”

His voice cracked, rough with hurt.

Another slap. And this time, you were crying.

You reached into your pocket and pulled out one of those little plastic baggies—the kind he used to deal in. You hurled it at his face, daring him to say something.

“You high? That what this is?” he mocked, chucking it back. “You want somethin’ stronger? That why you dragged your sorry arse back here?”

He threw it back at you.

“You’re fuckin’ scum. Peddlin’ shite to kids without losin’ a wink of sleep. You’re filth, Cook.”

The name didn’t sit right in your mouth. You’d said it like everyone else did. Not like back then.

“Always been, though, ent I?”

And your heart cracked. Because through all the bravado, all the posturing, you saw it. That pain. Buried deep, still festering. He looked older. Sharper round the edges. But beneath it all, the same lost boy who once made you feel like the world could be more than just surviving.

“That why you did it, yeah? Fucked off like a slag an’ left me to rot?”

His voice was steel now, colder than you remembered. Void of anything soft. He spat the words like poison.

“Fuckin’ jog back in like nothin’s changed and act like you’re better than me? like we ain’t got history, and try to lecture me? Who the fuck d’you think you are?”

You had no answer. Because deep down, you knew he had every right to be furious. You left. You didn’t look back. You never told him about the baby, about how scared you were. You never gave him the chance. You never planned on seeing any of them again. But the city had a way of dragging you back into its rot.

“Yeah, thought so. Nothin’ to say. You’re mental. Proper fuckin’ mental.”

He flinched, like he might say something else. Like maybe he wanted to tell you he’d missed you every damn day. That you’d wrecked him. That your ghost had never stopped haunting him. Instead, he turned his head, spat blood on the pavement, wiped his lip. Walked past you like a stranger. Your shoulders brushed. For a second, you both stopped.

His warmth stunned you. Like a memory refusing to die.

Then your voice stopped him.

“Stay the fuck away from him.”

He stopped dead, turned slightly, eyebrows pinched in confusion.

“What?”

Now he turned fully, frowning at you like you’d lost your mind.

“What the fuck you on about?”

You let out a dry, bitter laugh and ran a hand through your hair, trying not to scream. The disbelief hit you harder than expected. He hadn’t even looked the kid in the eye when he sold him that shit. If he had, if he’d just looked, he might’ve seen it — those same bloody eyes. His eyes. A mirror he didn’t even recognise

“Unbelievable. You didn’t even look at him when you sold him that crap, did you?”

Something inside you cracked open, a bubble of rage and irony all twisted together, and you laughed — loud, manic. You’d come here full of fire, ready to unload years of anger onto him, but now it just felt… empty. He hadn’t even seen the boy. His own fucking son. You could’ve killed him. “Of course not, 'cause you're a proper fuckin' idiot. Leavin' was the smartest thing I ever did”.

Your words cut through him like glass. You saw it. The way his face twitched, jaw tightened. Like you’d pulled the stitches off wounds he’d buried deep under pints and pills. They’d never healed proper—just got rotten beneath all the filth he’d poured over them.

"Tell your dealer to stop givin' you whatever the fuck you’re on. You’re mad. Proper gone.

"Say what you want," you added, voice low and lethal, "but don’t come near him again. You hear me? Stay the fuck away from my son."

That shut him up. Stone-silent. The bloke who always had some clever line, some cocky deflection—now he was just standin’ there, mouth half-open, tryin’ to make sense of the words you’d just thrown at him like bricks. He just stared at you, stunned, trying to make sense of it. Like he was watching someone he used to know twist into something unrecognisable.

"Your son? You got a kid?"

His mind got flooded with old memories. Playin’ footie in the park, skivin’ off school, sittin’ on rooftops with that loudmouth girl with freckles on her cheeks and too much fire in her gut. He remembered the day she just walked up to him, JJ and Freddie on the school yard like she owned the fuckin’ place and went, “You lot are my mates now. That’s just how it is.”

The other kids didn’t take her in. She didn’t give a toss. She’d just said, “I didn’t wanna be their mate anyway. Got you lot now.” And somehow, that was it. You’d decided, and they didn’t argue. None of ‘em knew where the hell you’d come from, but they’d shrugged and let you stay. Like you were always meant to be there. Part of their broken little trio.

He tried to see that same boldness in the kids he’d sold to lately. Searched their faces for wide eyes and that look—like they’d punch the world in the teeth before lettin’ it touch them. For freckles spattered across skin like someone flung paint at ‘em.

But there was nothin’. Not one face that matched.

"How old is he?"

You saw what he was doing. The mental maths. The way his voice shifted, softer now. But fear gripped you too fast to answer.

"What, you givin' a shit now 'bout how old your customers are, Cook?"

Your name slipped out from those lips that once made you sigh. You own lips trembled, because you’d missed the way he said it, like it tangled up with his very soul.

"Fifteen."

His eyebrows shot up. And you saw it—the maths landin’. Fifteen years. The same amount of time since you’d vanished. Since you’d been... you and him. But he didn’t speak straight away, because things were never that easy. Not with you two.

“Don’t sell to him again, Cook. I fuckin’ mean it. Or you’ll regret it.

He snorted, tried to twist it into a joke, something he could use to deflect. "Yeah? What, his dad gonna come smash me up or somethin’?"

You didn’t flinch. Still knew him too well. Knew he was digging for answers. Knew exactly how his brain worked — like it hadn’t been fifteen years at all.

"No dad, Cook."

He blinked. Again. And then, one by one:

"Prison?"

You shook your head.

"Dead?"

Another no.

"Did a runner?"

You hesitated. Because yeah, there had been a runner. But not your son’s father.

"Freddie’s?"

That caught you off guard. Sharp like a punch to the chest. Your lungs forgot how to work. The ache behind your ribs, the way your heart flipped — fuck, you’d thought all that was buried. You crossed your arms, guarding yourself from the memories. From him. But he saw it. Of course he fucking did.

You remembered being ten, fallin’ in the park, scrapin’ your knees. You tried to hide it, didn’t want to cry, didn’t want to look weak. But Cook had known. He always knew. Told you, “Our bond’s forever, innit? I know when you’re hurt, stupid. Can’t hide nothin’ from me.”

And now, that same look was in his eyes. Like he still saw right through you. All the time and space in the world hadn’t changed that.

You shook your head again.

His voice came quieter now. Less of the bravado.

"...Mine?"

You lifted your face. Eyes red, cheeks wet. And you didn’t have to say a word.

Your name spilled again from his lips like a memory half-sung, cracked at the edges. Like he'd been carryin' it round in his chest all these years, not sayin' it out loud 'cause it hurt too much. It trembled on his tongue, that name, yours, the one he used to whisper when the lights were out and the world had gone quiet. It came out raw. Frayed. Familiar.

Fifteen years. And suddenly it all meant something. Every missed call, every time he’d cursed your name. Every fucked-up thing he’d done since. You’d left, But not just him.

You’d taken him with you.

He saw you again, and for a moment, everything else vanished. All the years, all the scars, all the pretending. Just your eyes. The ones that used to fill his dreams and keep him awake in equal measure. And the pain? The pain came back all at once, rushing through him like a freight train.

His mind, always loud, always chaotic, went still — just a dull roar of memory crashing in waves. Of laughter under streetlights, bruised knees, whispered dares, nights spent hiding from the world in each other’s presence.

"Our bond is forever."

You’d said it when you were six. Like it was gospel. Like it meant something unbreakable. And maybe it had, back then. Back when the world was smaller, and the monsters only lived under the bed. He’d believed you — with the kind of blind, feral devotion only a child can manage. And those words etched themselves deep, carved into bone, into blood.

With time, words started to weigh heavier on your chest. That crew – that mad, messy, beautiful crew – had once seemed unbreakable. Like kids made of velcro, always sticking back together no matter the mess. Their laughs used to warm the whole bloody street. It felt like family. The kind you picked, not the one you were born with. And even though most of them always had a home to crawl back to, arms half open no matter how twisted they came back, for Cook nor you – it had always been different.

He didn’t need to shout to be seen. People noticed him anyway. Especially you. The girl who'd pull him up with one hand, then trip him with the other, only to fall beside him laughing her head off. Always beside him.

But time twisted you. Pain does that. Made you careful, made you distant. Still, you leaned on them – the ones who held you up when you couldn’t float. Everyone carried their own kind of ache. You all tried, in your fucked up little ways, to meet somewhere in the middle – past the shouting and the silences, past the scars that never properly healed. You'd built a bubble. Inside it, you could forget who the world wanted you to be. You could just... be.

But who were you now?

He looked different. Older, sure. Harder around the edges. But when you met his eyes, something clicked. That thread, the one you’d both tied knot after knot in, hadn’t snapped. Not really. You wondered if he felt it too. If that old shed of Freddie’s still stood, would it feel the same? Could you tuck yourself between him and JJ again, let the noise in your head drift off while Freddie went on about his latest trick, JJ pulled coins out your ears, and Cook traced lazy shapes on your legs, spread across his lap?

Now... you weren’t sure where to place it all. You’d unplugged from them so violently. From the only people who’d really seen you at your worst. But in Cook’s eyes – fuck – it was like he remembered too. Like he was back there, where you’d built each other up with the bits that no one else wanted.

"You left."

It wasn’t sharp. Just a fact. A truth too big to hold in.

You nodded. Tears stinging. Heart crumpling in your chest.

"We were a mess, yeah?"

You shook your head, firm.

"Not always," you whispered, your voice barely air. "Not all the time. There were good bits, Cook."

And you both remembered.

°°°

You’d barely turned ten. Still had milk teeth hanging by threads. Just the two of you outside school, sat on the curb. Freddie and JJ had already legged it home – warm dinners waiting, family fussing.

Not you two.

Your legs were scraped from a fall you pretended didn’t hurt, backpack half-open, books spilling like you couldn't be bothered anymore. He sat next to you, legs crossed like a question mark, fiddling with a busted shoelace. Neither of you said anything for a while. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was the kind you only get when someone knows your kind of quiet.

"My dad’s a mess too," you muttered, eyes fixed on a chip in the pavement like it held answers. Voice small, but steady. Not crying. Not asking for pity.

Cook didn’t flinch. Just looked over, his face unreadable. Maybe he already knew. Maybe he saw it in your hunched shoulders or the way you kicked at pebbles like they owed you something.

"He’s working," you said, like you were trying to make it sound okay. "Says we need the money. Said he’d be back in a few days. There’s beans in the cupboard and my uncle’s number stuck on the fridge. But not to call unless I’m really dying or summat."

You laughed then. But it was dry. Hollow. The kind of laugh that tries to keep your throat from closing up. Cook didn’t laugh. Just nodded. Like yeah, that made sense. Like it wasn’t the worst thing he’d heard that week.

You stood up, dusted your trousers, slung that old worn backpack over your shoulder. Reached a hand down.

"Come on. I learned how to work the hob. Not eating tinned crap again. You can stay at mine."

It wasn’t said like an invitation. It was a fact. Like the sky being grey, or Mondays being shite. He took your hand without a word, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because it was. With him, it always was.

That night you cooked something that vaguely resembled food, even if the noodles were half-crunchy and the sauce came from three different expired packets. You laughed when he made a face. He ate it anyway.

You gave him that hideous purple pyjama set you’d grown out of. He swam in it, looked absolutely ridiculous, and wore it like it was made of gold. Called it his superhero suit. You mocked him mercilessly, but secretly kept the matching top buried under your pillow. Just in case.

It became a thing. Not just staying over, but staying close. He’d swing by with half a sandwich, you’d share a single glove when one of you lost theirs. He’d show up on bad days without asking what was wrong. You’d walk beside him when he needed someone to pretend nothing was.

He remembered the first time his chest did something stupid around you. That weird pirouette inside, then you handed him instant soup like it was gourmet.

"This bond, it’s forever, James. So eat this and say it’s the best shit you’ve ever had, yeah?"

Something cracked in him then. Not like with Freddie and JJ – he loved them, no doubt. But this? This was different. Warmer. Deeper. Scary, if he was honest.

You weren’t just surviving anymore. You were building something. A quiet, scrappy little life made of instant soup and mismatched pyjamas and the kind of loyalty that doesn’t need words.

°°°°

You were thirteen when all your mates had buggered off for the summer. Off to some beach town or cosy village with ice cream and swimming pools. But not you. Not him either. The two of you were stuck. Stuck on the estate, where heat curled up off the pavement and the air sat thick and lazy, unmoved by even a whisper of breeze.

You were sprawled out on the grass in that sad little park, the one near the shops with the broken swing and the bin that always stank. Silent—not because there was nothing to say, but because everything felt too heavy to speak aloud. Maybe, deep down, you just didn’t want to be left alone with your thoughts. Not that day. Not any day, really. You were just kids then, but you both knew loneliness like an old song. Familiar. Mean.

Across the field, some couple were snogging like their lives depended on it. Arms tangled, lips smacking, all dramatic and disgusting. You rolled your eyes, but it was Cook who cracked first. Started taking the piss—moaning, miming, flailing like an idiot. A proper knobhead. But it worked. You laughed so hard your ribs ached, folding in on yourself as the air left your lungs in gasps. He was holding his sides too, wheezing, grinning, eyes bright with mischief. You wiped a tear from your cheek, the laughter still fizzing.

“That was vile,” you gasped, catching your breath.

He nodded, that daft grin still plastered on his face. But then he went quiet. His mouth was still curved up like he might keep laughing, but his eyes drifted—miles away. You knew that look. You knew him too well not to.

“Spit it out, before your brain explodes.”

He bit his cheek, weighing something up. But of course, he said it.

“We should try it.”

“What?”

“Snogging. We should give it a go. Everyone’s doing it. Might as well get some practice in, yeah? Don’t wanna be shit when it matters.”

You looked away. Something twisted in your chest. You didn’t know what it was—not exactly—but it stung. That last bit. When it matters. Like this wouldn’t. Like you didn’t. And that hurt in a way you hadn’t planned for.

So you did what you always did when things hurt: something stupid.

“Alright then. Let’s do it.”

He froze. Didn’t expect that—not really. He always talked big, but deep down he must’ve known you’d do anything he asked. You always had.

You leaned in, hands on his shoulders, a little rougher than you meant. Trying to seem cool, to ignore the way your fingers trembled. Your head felt full of static. It didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel funny. It felt like falling.

He licked his lips—nervous, clueless, drowning.

“Ew. Why’d you do that?”

“Dunno. That’s what they do in films.”

“Yeah, well, this ain’t some bloody film, James.”

And before you could think it to death, you kissed him. Slammed your mouth against his like it was a dare. Clumsy. Fast. A bit gross. You stayed there for a second, lips mashed together, not moving. Just existing in that weird, hot space between what you were and what you might’ve been.

Somewhere in that messy, awkward press of lips, something shifted—not outside you, but inside. A slow, startling warmth unfurled in your chest. Not like fire. More like the sun, rising somewhere deep in your ribs. It made it hard to breathe. Hard to move.

You always liked being near Cook. His warmth was different. Like home. He smelled like sun and grass and cheap soap, and somehow that had started to mean something.

His nearness made your heart twist.

It scared you.

You pulled back. His eyes were still shut, lips puckered like he was waiting for more. You gave his shoulder a little shove.

He coughed, awkward. Didn’t have the words. Probably never would. He looked lost—too many feelings with no names yet. Just two kids, barely keeping their own heads above water, trying to figure it out one clumsy kiss at a time.

“Dunno what the fuss is. Wasn’t even that good.”

He winced. You saw it. But he swallowed it down, did what he always did.

Turned pain into jokes.

“You taste like crisps.”

“You’re a dickhead, Cook.”

You flopped back on the grass beside him, squinting up at the sky. He laid down too, close enough your elbows touched.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

Because yeah—maybe that was easier than admitting your heart had just cracked open a little.

°°°

You'd been waiting outside for over ten minutes. Maybe that wouldn’t’ve felt like much to another kid who’d just turned fourteen, but for you it was turning into bloody eternity. Time felt warped, stretched thin and cruel, the kind of waiting that made your hands itch for something to do—like pressing the buzzer and messing about with the loose bits on the porch, or digging through that box of shite Cook kept outside, pretending you weren’t just standing there feeling small. But you knew how it made him feel—coming down and finding you alone with his mum.

You’d known Ruth longer than you’d known your own way home. Spent more afternoons in that house than you cared to count—killing time, mucking about, waiting for your dad to remember he had a daughter. Back then, you didn’t think too much of it. It was an escape, sort of. Your house had no rules, sure—but Cook’s was real anarchy.

You’d sit on the floor drawing for hours, paper smudged with colour, making worlds out of felt-tip pens. Ruth’d snatch your sketches up and slap 'em on the fridge like they meant something. "This one’s got it," she’d say, holding your paper like a fucking relic. "Don’t lose her, James. She’s got light."

You don’t even realise your finger’s pressed the buzzer until it’s done. Regret floods you fast, heavy and choking. You can already picture his face—Cook’s—tight with hurt, confused why you didn’t wait like you promised. The door creaks open and there she is. Ruth. Wine glass in one hand, makeup smeared like war paint. She smiles like a knife.

"Well well. If it ain’t the little threat herself."

You force a grin. Polite. Hollow. Just long enough to slip past her and into the house. But once you're in, it’s like the walls start watching you. Her eyes rake over you—up and down, inside out. You feel flayed.

"All grown up now, eh? No wonder my Jamie can’t shut up about you. Always on about his special little mate."

The air snags in your chest. Something twists deep down, hot and weird and aching. You’d started feeling things lately. Not just for anyone—for him. Feelings none of your mates had names for. A tug in your chest when he looked at you too long. That burn in your cheeks when he touched your wrist by accident and didn’t let go.

You keep your mouth shut, lips tight. Just nod, just smile. But your eyes are locked on Ruth, taking her in, trying to memorise every bit of damage. Every sharp edge that made you learn how to fix him.

She leans in too close, breath warm and sickly with booze and smoke, and plants her hand heavy on your shoulder.

"Let me give you a bit of advice, sweetheart. Since your mum ain’t here to do it, yeah? Don’t let yourself get dragged down. You’ve got future in you—I can see it. That fire in your eyes, it’s real. You’ve got ambition."

You blink. Once. Then twice.

"Sorry, I don’t quite—"

"Don’t let that little monster ruin you. He don’t mean to, but he will. It’s in his blood. Everything he touches, he rots. Just like his dad."

That’s the first time you taste rage. Real rage. Not kid anger. Not sulking or stomping or shouting. Real, white-hot, burning fury. She’d just called him a monster. Him. The boy you stayed up late worrying about. The one who called you when his nightmares got bad and who never told you what they were.

Your mouth twists. You feel your shoulders square without thinking.

"Take care, darling. Best stay away fro—"

"Told you to wait outside."

Your head snaps toward the stairs. There he is. Cook. Slouched and tired and barefoot, shirt unbuttoned like he couldn’t be arsed to finish dressing. His face says everything—he heard enough.

You break from her touch like it burned. Move toward him. Raise your hand, slow but sure. It’s not just a gesture. It’s a message. Come with me. Let’s go.

He hesitates. Always does, like he’s checking to see if he’s allowed to want something. But then he moves, steps down, takes your hand in his. Warm and rough and real. You squeeze. Too hard, maybe. But you don’t care. You’re telling him everything in that grip. I’m here. I’m not leaving.

You pass Ruth together, hand in hand, her perfume still clinging to your lungs. But you don’t look back—until the very last moment. You hold her gaze like a dare.

She snorts. Disbelief, not laughter.

"What did I tell ya? Eyes like fire. Gonna burn the whole bloody world."

"Goodbye, Ruth," you spit, her name bitter on your tongue.

Outside, you don’t let go. You rub your thumb over the back of his hand. Small circles. Like you can undo what she said. Like you can stitch up all the places she left him bleeding.

"Our bond’s forever, yeah?"

Your voice is too soft. Too vulnerable. And he doesn’t answer with words. He lets go only to pull you into him, arms tight around your shoulders like he’s building a shelter out of himself.

You bury your face in his chest and grip the back of his shirt. Because this is how you’ve always talked. Not with words. With skin. With the way he holds you like you're the only thing that feels right in the world.

°°°

At fifteen, it was all just too much. Emotions that once felt simple started twisting, folding in on themselves, turning into something you didn’t have the words for. Your body spoke a language you couldn’t bloody translate, and it was driving you mad. You wanted to scream half the time. The other half, you were just tired. Tired of feeling too much and not enough all at once.

Cook? Cook decided the best way to cope was to be louder. To let the world know he was a mess inside by being even messier on the outside. He didn’t give a shit who he pissed off or what got broken along the way. If it hurt, he made it louder. Like pain meant less when it echoed.

You took the opposite route. You locked it all down. Ignored the noise in your own head, pushed the thoughts back so deep they started to rot. You didn’t let yourself think about what it meant to sit alone in a house that never felt like home. You tried not to notice the twist in your gut when Panda's mum made her cake and warm milk, or when Katie and Emily argued over nothing but still sat down to eat together. And JJ's mum? Bloody hell, she made your skin itch with all that love. Asking him how his day went, reminding him to take his pills, cheering like a loon when he did some daft magic trick.

You knew none of their lives were perfect. Hell, you knew too well. But that didn’t stop you wanting a piece of it. Just a bit of the warmth. Just something.

So that one night, when you waited for Cook with that sad little dish you’d spent hours learning to make, something cracked. Just the two of you, like always. You told yourself it’d be okay once he got there. That he'd laugh at the burnt bits, eat it all anyway, and then the two of you would take the piss out of that show with Freddie’s sister dancing like she’d been electrocuted. That you’d feel less alone, just for a bit.

But he was late. Real late. And that cold plate on the table started looking like a fucking eulogy.

You called. Once, twice. No answer. By the third, you were angry. Angry and scared. Told yourself you wouldn't ring again. That if he was lying in a ditch, it served him right.

Then he picked up.

His breath came heavy, like he'd legged it down the whole of Bristol. His voice was rough, but it wasn’t the good kind. And then you heard it – laughter. A girl, muffled but clear. Something clicked in your stomach. Jealousy. Ugly, sharp.

“Cook?”

A shushing noise, then that daft voice of his. “Yeah. Shit. Sorry. I lost track.”

“You forgot experimental dinner night.”

“Fuck. Was that tonight?”

“Yeah. It was.”

More noise. A girl again, asking him to come back to bed.

You felt it then. That bite. The heat rising in your cheeks. But not the good kind. This wasn’t blushing. This was burning.

“Give me a bit, yeah? I can—”

“No, Cook. You can’t. Don’t you dare come over.”

“Oi, don’t be like that, sweetheart—”

But you were already gone. Phone across the room. Dinner in the fridge. And just like that, it was empty again. You were empty.

At night, curled up in a bed that suddenly felt twice as big, you heard the knocking at your window. You didn’t move. Just buried your head deeper under the pillow, tightening it around your ears until his voice was nothing but a muffled hum in the storm of your own thoughts.

You knew it was him. Of course it was him. Who else would be daft enough to throw stones at your window past midnight in the rain? Who else would show up after fucking everything up like it meant nothing, like it was just another night?

But this wasn’t just another night. And it wasn’t just some dinner.

It was your thing. Thursdays. You’d started it as a joke. Experimental dinner night. You’d make something weird, he'd pretend to hate it, and you'd both end up on the floor laughing, talking about fuck all till it was late enough to forget the rest of the world.

You’d made something new that night. Put effort in. Set the table. Waited. And waited. You told yourself he was just late. That he'd show up with some stupid excuse and that you’d forgive him before you even got angry.

But he didn’t come. You felt something sharp twist inside you. Not just jealousy. It was betrayal. It was the cold realisation that he'd forgotten. Not flaked, not ditched. Forgotten.

Forgotten the one thing that was yours.

And not because he didn’t care. Because he did. That’s what made it worse. He cared, but he was still Cook. Still running from his own feelings like they were fire at his heels. Still diving headfirst into chaos instead of sitting still long enough to feel something real.

You’d seen it before. When things got too close, he’d blow it all up. Not on purpose—but not by accident either.

He couldn’t bear the quiet. Couldn’t bear how good it felt when you looked at him like you saw all the wreckage and still wanted him anyway. That kind of safety terrified him. So he ran. Straight into the arms of anyone who didn’t ask questions. Anyone who didn’t look at him like you did.

He showed up that night because a part of him knew what he’d done. Knew he’d fucked it. Knew that he’d broken something that wasn’t easy to glue back together.

You didn’t let him in.

And outside, under your window, Cook was falling apart.

Because you had been the only one who never asked him to be anything else. Who never expected perfection or promises. Just a seat at the table. A bit of warmth in the mess.

And he’d forgotten it. Like it was nothing. Because he'd been too busy trying not to feel jealous about you and Freddie. Too scared to ask what you felt, too hurt to admit what he felt himself. He'd bottled it all up like always, let it fester, and then found a body to disappear into instead of saying the one thing he couldn’t:

That he was scared of losing you.

°°°

There were no more Thursday experiments. That part of your life had vanished, like a dream fading in the morning light, and nothing came close to replacing it.

But still, you stayed. Maybe not in the same way, maybe not with sleepovers and secret smiles, but you never truly left him. You were still there—still laughing at his jokes, still showing up when he called, still walking into the chaos just to pull him out again. You kept orbiting each other like planets with wrecked gravity, doomed to circle forever without ever quite touching.

Things had changed between you. Not in loud, dramatic ways—but in the silences. In the pauses between jokes. In the way your eyes lingered too long and your hands pulled away too quickly. There was a weight between you that neither of you dared to name, the kind of tension that makes your chest ache because it’s too full of things left unsaid. Every time you looked at him, you felt it—that ache. And he felt it too, but neither of you was brave enough to step into it. So you let it grow, let it rot into something heavy and bitter, something that pressed against your ribs whenever he smiled at someone else.

You tried to kill it. You both did. You went looking for numbness, for distractions. For something to drown out that god-awful feeling of almost. Cook found it in strangers—flashes of skin and noise and temporary warmth. He was always good at pretending none of it mattered, that he didn’t feel anything. He’d wrap himself around anyone who’d have him, chasing that brief second of being wanted, of not being alone.

And you? You chose quiet. You chose Freddie. Gentle hands. Calm words. Someone who wouldn’t explode at the drop of a hat. He made your life feel less like a car crash and more like a walk through the rain. With him, it was softer. Safer. You knew he loved you in a way that hurt because you couldn’t love him back the same. He’d whisper it into your skin—"I love you, I love you"—like it could make you stay, like it could make you forget the way your heart still twisted at the sound of Cook’s laugh.

And all you could say was, “I know.”.

He saw it in the way your eyes always drifted across the room. In how your voice changed when Cook was near. Freddie knew your heart belonged to someone who never quite knew what to do with it. And still, he stayed. Let you carve a home out of his chest and never asked for more than you could give.

You weren’t Cook’s girlfriend. Never were. You weren’t Freddie’s either, not really—just someone who drifted close enough to feel safe for a while. But Cook, he hated the idea of you choosing anyone else. Not because he’d claimed you, not because he’d ever said the words—but because deep down, he always believed you were his. His anchor. His person.

It twisted something in him, the thought of someone else holding you when your hands shook, of someone else knowing the sound of your breathing when you finally fell asleep. He couldn’t stand the idea that someone else got to see you soft, see you small. So his jokes turned sharper, crueler. His laugh louder, more manic. Every room you walked into, he made sure you saw him first—made sure you couldn’t look anywhere else.

He'd do anything to keep your eyes on him, even if it meant becoming a caricature of himself. Because being your nothing was still better than watching you belong to someone else.

And it worked. Somehow, it always worked. You’d end up beside him, always. Fingers tracing nothing on his arm while Freddie looked on from across the room, too kind to say anything, too in love to look away.

You were both broken. You and Cook. Too mangled by life to know how to say what needed saying. Too scared of ruining what little you had left. So instead of building something, you burned everything around you just to feel alive.

But no matter how far he spiralled, no matter how messy the night, Cook always found his way back to you. Battered and bleeding, eyes glazed over from whatever he’d taken, fists bruised from fights that didn’t mean anything. Somehow, his feet would always carry him to your door.

And you’d always open it. Even when you shouldn’t. Even when you were exhausted from carrying too much that was never yours to carry. You’d open that door and there he’d be—your wreck of a boy. All scraped knees and bleeding knuckles. Lost. And you’d take his hand, still the same hand you held when you were kids, and you’d guide him out of the dark again.

You’d clean him up. Sit him down, wipe the blood off his stupid face with that same gentleness he never felt he deserved. You’d dress his wounds like he hadn’t ripped your heart open a hundred times. Leave fresh clothes for him, not the old purple pyjamas anymore.

Then you’d pull him into your bed and wrap your arms around him like you could hold him together. Like if you held him tight enough, he wouldn’t fall apart again. Like maybe you could keep the pieces from slipping through your fingers this time.

And he’d let you. He always did. He’d let the warmth swallow him whole. Let you be the one place that didn’t hurt. And he’d think it—every time—that he loved you. That he needed you. That it killed him, not having the right to say any of it out loud. Because he didn’t know how to love things gently. He only knew how to want so much it broke him.

Instead of saying it, he’d make a joke. Always. “You really need to wash these sheets. They fucking stink.”

And you’d roll your eyes, your heart aching in your chest. “If you didn’t cover them in blood and sick every time, they wouldn’t, twat.”

And somehow, in all the mess and damage and wreckage—you’d fall asleep beside him. Pretending, just for a night, that love didn’t have to ruin everything.

°°°

You didn’t even remember gettin’ up to your room. Everything’d been so fucking loud, so overwhelming—all screaming and chaos, a storm in your head that felt like it’d drown you. You wanted to feel pain. Real pain. Something sharp enough to split you open, just so you’d know you were still alive. But there was nothing. Just that heavy, humming nothing sitting inside your chest like a weight.

You could see yourself sitting on the edge of the bed, dead still, staring at some random spot on the wall like your brain’d shorted out. It didn’t feel like it was happening to you, couldn’t be. You weren’t there, not properly. Like you’d split from your body and drifted off somewhere else.

You didn’t remember picking up your phone either. Didn’t clock the moment you called Freddie. He didn’t answer. Probably asleep. Maybe off with Effy. You weren’t even upset. No anger, no disappointment. Just more of that fucking void. Didn’t even know why you rang him first. Maybe deep down, you knew he wouldn’t pick up. That way, you wouldn’t have to say it out loud—wouldn’t have to make it real.

Your fingers moved on their own, calling another number. You didn’t even know what you were doing ‘til you heard his voice.

"What’s happened?"

He always knew. Didn’t matter if you hadn’t spoken in months, Cook just fuckin’ knew when summat was off. Like he had a radar for your pain or something. You just breathed, trying to find your voice beneath all the noise.

"You home? I’m comin’."

And suddenly, something. Your heart banged against your ribs and the heat came with it, warm and dizzying, like the blood was rushing back into dead limbs. You held onto it. Clung, like it might stop you from falling apart completely. Because that feeling, even buried as deep as it was, was better than that cold empty nothing.

When you stepped outside, you saw him. Loud as ever. Car that probably wasn’t his, windows down, music blaring through the estate like a fuck-you anthem. You knew he did it on purpose. For your dad. For anyone who thought you were alone.

He leaned out the window, waving a tub of ice cream.

"Weren’t no mint, babe. Got what I could."

Your chest twisted so tight it felt like it might snap. You smiled with your teeth clenched, trying not to fall apart.

"You gettin’ in or what? This shit’s already turnin’ to soup."

You got in without a word. Took the tub off him. It was a mess. Melting and sticking to your fingers. Just like you. Just like him. Perfectly fucked.

Back at his flat, you lay side by side on his bed, eyes stuck on the ceiling. The air was thick. Every breath a fucking effort. You reached out, slow, your thumb grazing his hand—a silent SOS. And he answered. That touch turned real. Present. Dangerous.

You started stroking his hand, like it meant nothing, like it was casual. But it weren’t. Not for either of you. You used to touch all the time. Back when you were just mates. Before it got complicated. Before it started hurting to be close.

He shifted closer. Your shoulders brushed. The weight of it pressed down on you like concrete. You couldn’t breathe properly—not through your nose, not through your fucking lungs. But you didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

His fingers gripped yours. Tight. Not soft. He was saying something. That he was there. That you weren’t alone. His breath hitched. You turned your head to look at him. His eyes were moving, restless, chasing answers in the plaster above.

Then he said it.

"I fuckin’ love you."

Too fast. Too real. Too late.

“No, Cook, please. Don’t”

You tried to shut him up. Hand over his mouth, desperate to stop the words before they fucked it all up. But he pulled it away.

"I love you. Not like Freddie or JJ. Not like that. It’s fuckin’ awful. Makes me feel sick, how much I do."

Your mouth opened but nothing came. Just tears. Blurry, burning, useless.

"You don’t have to say owt. Just... I need you to know there’s people out there who love you. Who think you’re gold, yeah? Proper gold. And you need to hear that. You need to believe it."

The world tilted.

Not just around you—inside you. It cracked. Your bones felt hollow. Your skin too thin. Your chest too tight to hold the weight of what he’d said. You were glad you were lying down because if you’d been upright, you would’ve collapsed under the force of it. You felt like glass, straining under pressure, seconds from shattering. He’d made you glass, and he didn’t even know it.

He was still next to you, breathing, waiting. Waiting for something you didn’t know how to give.

You loved him too.

Of course you fucking did.

You felt it blooming in your chest like a bruise, dark and tender and obvious. But you didn’t say it. You couldn’t. Because saying it would make it real, and real things could be broken. Could rot. Could ruin the only constant you’d ever had in your life—him.

You didn’t know how to love without ruining it. Didn’t know how to hold something without crushing it in your fists, how to touch something good without setting it on fire. You didn’t have soft in you. Not the kind people deserved. Not the kind he deserved.

And you knew, with this cold, awful certainty, that he would take anything you gave him. He always had. That was the worst part. He’d let you have him in pieces. He’d swallow your confusion, your silence, your mess, just to stay close. That confession? That reckless, beautiful fucking confession? It only proved what you’d already known deep down: he’d let you hurt him if it meant you’d let him stay.

You hated yourself for it. For needing him this much. For not saying what he needed to hear. For letting him drown in your silence just so you wouldn’t have to face your own fear.

You were selfish. And you knew it.

But you couldn’t risk losing him. Not him. Not the only one who’d stayed. Because once you fucked it up—and you would, it was in your blood—there’d be no going back. No arms to run to. No place left in the world that felt like home.

So when you saw him take another breath, gearing up to speak again, you did the only thing you could.

You kissed him.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t anything out of a film. It was sharp and clumsy and almost panicked, your lips crashing into his like you could knock the words back down his throat.

And just like that, everything else fell away.

The years of confusion. Of longing. Of pretending. That ache in your chest that never had a name. It all burned up in the heat of that kiss. Because the truth was, your body had always known what your mouth couldn’t say. His mouth on yours was gasoline on everything buried. Your whole soul lit up.

You kissed him like a secret, like a scream, like a fucking prayer. Letting him feel all the things you couldn’t give shape to. All the love you didn’t know how to carry. You poured it into his mouth, frantic, desperate, hoping it would be enough.

His breath caught. His hands didn’t move. For a moment, it was just you—wreckage and want and all the things you couldn’t speak, pressed against the one person who might still want you anyway.

It only lasted a second. Maybe two. Just a graze of fire and salt and skin. But when you pulled back, you couldn’t breathe.

And he understood. Of course he did. That was the thing about him. He always fucking did.

°°°°

You don’t talk about it. Not the kiss. Not the way his hand clung to yours like he couldn’t stand to let go. Not the I love you he dropped like it was nothin—like he wasn’t tearing the world in half with it. You just pretend it didn’t happen. Both of you. Like it got swallowed up in the dark. Like it never cracked you open.

But everything’s different now. Even the silence. It hums. Stretches. Pulls at the edges of every moment. He still shows up, still takes the piss, still crashes at yours like always. But now, there’s a weight to everything. Like the air’s thicker when he’s near. Like you’re both waiting for the next mistake.

You wake up with him behind you.

Not heavy. Not suffocating. Just… there. Warm. Familiar. The kind of weight you used to think would mean safety, before you learned better. His arm is around your middle, loose but certain. His chest presses into your back, breath soft against the nape of your neck. You can smell him. Sweat, cheap shampoo, something vaguely like the smoke from last night’s spliff still clinging to his skin.

You blink at the light slipping through the crack in the curtains. Too early. Too cold. You should get up. Instead, you lie there for a moment longer.

It’s not the first time he’s crawled into your bed after a night out or a fight or just because he had nowhere else to go. He never asks. Just slips in beside you like it’s natural. Like it’s always been this way.

You try not to read into it anymore. You’ve both gotten good at pretending this doesn’t mean anything.

When you shift, his grip tightens. A sleepy groan vibrates against your shoulder.

"Don’t,” he murmurs, voice like gravel and honey, barely awake. ��Warm here. Stay."

You smile despite yourself. That stupid, lazy voice of his—so close it feels like it could climb under your skin.

"We’ve got class, idiot," you whisper, turning just enough to glance at him over your shoulder.

His face is buried in your pillow, one eye cracked open, bleary and annoyed. He doesn’t move.

"Skip."

"You skip."

"I am."

You huff out a laugh. You should be annoyed, but he looks so fucking peaceful like that. Like some other version of himself. One that doesn’t burn everything down just by being near it. You push a bit of hair from his forehead, slow and careful. His eyes flutter closed again.

"Go back to sleep, Cook," you whisper.

He doesn’t answer.

You stay there a second longer, watching him. Trying to fix this version of him in your mind—the one that sleeps, the one that clings, the one that doesn’t talk. Then you ease out of his grip and tuck the duvet back around him.

By the time you leave, your fingers are still tingling from touching his skin.

The day’s shit from the start. Cold wind. Missed bus. You nearly spill coffee on your jumper, and someone plays Mardy Bum too loud in the hallway and it hits too close. But then—silver lining: your third period’s cancelled.

It’s barely noon. You could go to the library. Get ahead. Be a normal person for once. Instead, your feet turn toward home like they’ve made the decision for you.

You’re already smiling when you climb the stairs. He’ll still be asleep, probably starfished across your sheets. Maybe snoring, definitely drooling. You’ll crawl back in beside him, just for a bit. Maybe steal his warmth before he wakes up and ruins it with his mouth.

You push open the bedroom door, ready to say, You’re not gonna believe this, they actually—

And then you stop.

Because he’s not asleep.

He’s on your bed, one hand wrapped tight around himself, the other holding—

Your knickers.

Pressed to his face.

You don’t move.

You don’t breathe.

For a second, the world tilts.

Your voice gets caught in your throat, stuck somewhere between shock and—something else. Something hot. Something low and coiling.

You freeze, caught in the doorway like you’ve stepped into someone else’s dream—or maybe a nightmare you don't hate quite as much as you should.

He’s sprawled across your sheets like he owns them, like he belongs there, flushed and messy and loud, moaning your name like a curse. Your panties are bunched in his fist, pressed to his face like a drug he’s too far gone to quit.

And the worst part is: he doesn't even flinch. Doesn’t try to hide it. Just blinks through the haze, lips parted, hips twitching up into his fist like this is the most natural thing in the world. Like you walking in on this was just part of the plan.

Your heart stutters. Your skin prickles.

You should slam the door. Should scream at him. But instead—

You laugh. It bubbles up, breathless and sharp, just as your hand flies to your mouth.

“Are you actually jerking off in my bed?”

He grins, wild and unrepentant, eyes glittering with something feral. “Took you long enough, princess. Thought you’d never get home.”

“You absolute pig.”

He groans like that helps, head falling back into your pillow like he’s sinking into something holy. “Go on. Call me more names. Call me your filthy little secret.”

Heat coils in your stomach. This isn’t new. Cook and his disasters. Cook and his wreckage. But this—this thing he’s doing in your sheets with your scent on his skin and your name in his mouth—this is new. And it’s working.

“Is this what you do the second I leave?” Your voice barely works. You lean on the doorframe, arms crossed, trying not to melt. Trying to look unbothered. "Raid my drawer, get off with your nose buried in my underwear?"

He doesn’t startle. Doesn’t even stop. He just groans loud, lets his head roll toward you with a grin that’s all teeth and trouble.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

You arch a brow, your stomach tightening.

He laughs again—breathless and soaked in sweat. “Alright, maybe do. You smell like sin, babe. Like fuckin' heartbreak. How'm I supposed to behave when you leave me here like this?"

Your mouth goes dry. There's heat curling behind your ears, a deep throb low in your stomach. You shift without meaning to, thighs brushing, sensitive.

"You're a menace."

"And you fuckin' love it," he pants, voice getting louder now, filthier. He's putting on a show and he knows it. All messy rhythm and flushed skin, muscles twitching under the strain. "Bet you think about this too, yeah? Think about me when you touch yourself in that bed?"

Your breath hitches. Everything inside you pulses.

"Not Freddie," he growls, jaw tight, hand still moving. "Me. It’s me you think of with your fingers between your legs, innit?"

Your legs lock, throat too dry to speak. Every nerve ending is on fire. You can feel the ache building between your legs just watching him. That hot-cold shame that feels like lightning.

" Because it’s always been you for me. Always have," he spits, eyes wild. "But after that kiss? Fuck, princess. I can’t stop. Every fuckin' night. You think I’m loud now? You should hear what I sound like with your name in my mouth and your taste still stuck in my teeth."

You squeeze your thighs together so tight it hurts. Your skin feels too hot. Your breath too shallow. He catches the shift in your stance and moans, filthy and guttural.

"You like this. Bet you're soaked just watchin' me. Bet you can't even look away."

You can’t. You don’t want to. Your body’s humming, aching, practically begging for something you haven’t even admitted to yourself.

You knew it was a provocation—everything he was doing was meant to make you snap, to make you say what you couldn’t that night. But the words caught in your throat again, stuck fast with no way out. He clicked his tongue, saw it in your eyes—the denial of the obvious—and moaned a little louder, just to fuck with you, just to see if that would finally pull you out of your own head.

“You’re such a dick.”

"Big one too," he grits out, voice almost breaking, hips bucking like he’s chasing the edge.

Your heart stutters. Your pulse thrums between your legs.

And he falls apart with a shout, like he wants the whole damn street to know. Loud, messy, shaking, like he can’t take it anymore.

Your name breaks out of him like a plea. Like a prayer.

You watch.

Burning. Silent. Shaken to your core.

He lies there for a second, chest heaving, hair stuck to his forehead, your ruined knickers still clutched in his hand. Then he looks up at you and laughs, soft and breathless.

“What d’you say, princess? How ‘bout we don’t talk about this?” He wipes his stomach with the fabric, grinning. “Just like we don’t talk about that night, yeah?”

Your whole body pulses. And still, you don’t say a word.

You can’t.

°°°°

Everything had gotten stranger. Your door wasn’t always open like it used to be, like you’d built a wall of bricks and silence around you. And Cook—he’d started wondering if he’d pushed you too far, properly fucked it by trying to force all the shit inside you to come spilling out.

Thing is, he never knew how to love right. Never learned how to want something without breaking it. But that didn’t stop him saying it, that jumble of feeling that had been growing inside him for years. Stuff too big to bury, no matter how deep he shoved it down.

And yeah, maybe you'd thrown yourself into someone else’s arms—Freddie’s—but he could almost understand that. The dizzying fear of handing your heart to someone who might actually take care of it. Still, he hadn’t given up, even if he stopped showing up at your door at 3 a.m., even if he kept his distance now like it might spare you.

But it didn’t help. There was a storm inside you that even Freddie couldn’t quiet. No one knew, no one else had seen that side. You didn’t let them. Too ashamed, maybe, of the mess you’d made trying to pretend you didn’t need anyone.

So you said yes to every plan, every distraction. Anything loud enough to drown the chaos in your head. That’s how you’d ended up at that party, half-cut and ignoring JJ’s warnings about exams and hangovers. You bit your tongue before telling him that forgetting was the plan. Blanking it all out—especially the parts that still mattered.

And then, like always, there he was.

You two always ended up in the same place, like it was fate or some sick joke. That night, you were dancing with Freddie, the world spinning, his hands on your hips trying to keep you grounded. But it was Cook’s eyes that scorched you, following every movement like they had something to prove. He wasn’t even trying to hide it.

And that made it worse. Because that kiss—it kept echoing in your head, louder than the bass pulsing through the floor. That brutal, honest confession you couldn’t shake: “I fucking love you.”

You couldn’t breathe. Pulled away from Freddie, gasping, some excuse about needing air. “Don’t worry, stay—I'll be back in a bit.”

The club door slammed behind you, and the stairwell felt thinner, heavier. You didn’t even know if you meant to go outside or just get away—away from those eyes.

Then the door creaked again.

You didn’t turn. You already knew it wasn’t Freddie.

You shut your eyes, wishing the ground would open up and swallow you whole. Anything would’ve been easier than facing him.

“Always runnin’, innit?”

That’s what made you spin.

His breath was ragged, lips parted like there was still more to say.

“Fuck you, Cook.”

You turned to face him fully. A thousand things slammed into your chest. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to hit him. Scream until your voice broke. Tear something down just to match the ruin inside.

“What d’you want me to say, ah?”

You were close now. You could feel the tremble in his chest, his breath hitting your skin.

“That I’ve been a fucking mess ‘cause you made me listen to what you feel?” Your voice cracked, trembling. “That it’s fucked me up ‘cause I can’t say it back?” Your eyes were wet now. “And not ‘cause I don’t feel it. Christ, I think I’ve loved you since the day we met, Cook. But I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to hold it. It scares the shit out of me that it’s this strong.”

You were sobbing now, your voice barely a whisper.

“Everyone who’s meant to love me has smashed me to pieces. And if I tell you how much you mean, it’ll be in your hands. You could destroy me.”

He froze. Eyes locked on you, wide, taking in every inch of your face like he was memorising it. His hands cupped your cheeks, rough but careful. Fingers shaking a little.

And then he smiled. Soft. So bloody gentle it hurt.

“Yeah. S’pose it’s a bit like that.”

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t one of those reckless, angry kisses you’d shared before. Not a distraction. Not a dare. It was soft. True. Full of all the words you’d never said aloud.

And you let it happen.

But softness scared you too. It was too raw, too open. So you kissed him back with hunger, with fire, like asking him to take everything you couldn’t put into words.

The kiss turned messy, desperate. Your nose knocked his, your fingers found his shirt. Cook growled into your mouth, hands gripping your jaw, angling your face just so.

He was all teeth and tongue and breathless want, like he was trying to burn his name into your bones.

By the time you broke apart, you were both gasping. But he didn’t pull away—he chased your lips like they were the only thing keeping him alive. Tiny kisses, feather-light, tracing the corners of your mouth. Whispering your name over and over like a prayer.

You buried your face in his neck, breathing him in. It smelled like memories. Like home. You nearly cried again.

“I was scared. I couldn’t—”

You didn’t finish. The stairwell wall slammed against your back. You had no idea when you’d started walking backwards, probably somewhere during that blazing kiss. Maybe when his tongue brushed yours and you stopped caring where you were.

He kissed you again, rougher this time. His hand slid under your top, warm on your spine, and the gentleness in his fingers didn’t match the urgency in his mouth. Your gasp gave him the chance to deepen the kiss, tasting you like he’d waited a lifetime.

Your hands flew to his neck, anchoring yourself. A low growl rumbled from his throat and tugged a whimper from yours.

He gripped your waist, dragging you closer, until there wasn’t a sliver of space between you. One hand dipped lower, bold now, until he cupped your arse firmly. You didn’t think—just wrapped your legs around his waist, letting him hold your weight. He hissed at the heat of you against him.

“Let me,” he murmured, scattering kisses along your cheek, your jaw, nipping lightly at your skin. One hand traced your thigh, skin to skin, making you shudder.

With Cook, words always failed you. But they weren’t needed.

So you nodded, lost in the spiral of everything you’d buried for years.

He tilted your chin with two fingers, gaze locked to yours. You braced for something cutting—but instead, he kissed you again. Gentle. Almost too tender for this hallway of secrets and mistakes.

“I’ve waited so fucking long for this,” he whispered. His hand ghosted across your chest, not quite touching. Like he had all the time in the world.

“No rush.”

His mouth finds your neck, and you're powerless to stop the moan that tears from your lips. He starts grinding against your heat, lost in the promise of it. With every shift of your body, desperate for more friction, you brush against his erection, making him lose the rhythm of the kisses and bites he was scattering across the sensitive skin of your throat.

“Please…”

The plea tumbles from your lips in desperation, because you don’t even know what you need—just that you need him.

“James, I need you. Please…”

He chuckles low in his throat, swallowing a groan when your hips buck forward, chasing the heat of him.

“Now you say what you want, huh?”

You’d curse at him, but the words tangle uselessly in your throat as he finally starts to hike up your skirt. His hands drag achingly slow over your skin. You’re about to tell him you’re not in the mood for teasing when you feel his fingers slipping between your bodies, still separated by too much fabric. He runs one fingertip over the damp spot that’s already soaked through, clicking his tongue when he feels how wet you are.

He comes into view, and you can’t believe he’s got that smug grin on his lips—like the two of you aren’t about to go up in flames.

“All this just for Freddie?”

Then he pushes the fabric aside, and the lazy caress he trails over your burning flesh makes your eyes snap shut, head pressing back against the wall. His warmth had always felt comforting, always felt like home—but this closeness, this hunger, was overwhelming.

“Of course not. Because you’ve always thought about me, haven’t you?”

Your heart thunders so loudly you can barely hear him. You feel the firm pressure of his thumb parting you, gliding easily through the slick heat that welcomes him with no resistance. He touches you with maddening care, never quite where you need him, and just when you're about to whine, he sinks a finger inside you. You gasp, sharp and breathless, the sensation too intense to be real. His voice brushes your ear again, warm and wet:

“You’re soaked.”

You don’t even realize you’re shaking until his fingers curl inside you — slow, deep, deliberate. Like he’s carving a place there for himself. Like you’re not already full of him. Your breath catches and he grins against your neck, cocky and smug and so goddamn beautiful it hurts.

“Fuck, you’re perfect like this,” he whispers, voice hoarse and full of things he’ll never say out loud. His thumb finally finds your clit, circling with maddening pressure, and your back arches off the wall with a gasp that dies somewhere between your teeth and his.

You cling to him like you’re drowning. Maybe you are. In everything he is, everything he’s always been to you. In every bad decision you both swore you’d never make but are making anyway, right here, right now.

He bites down gently on your shoulder as he works you open, every stroke pushing you closer to something sharp and inevitable. You moan into his hair, tug at it with one hand while the other fists his shirt, needing him closer, deeper, anchored in the only way you’ve ever known how.

“You want me?” he mutters, almost like he’s teasing — but there’s something underneath, a raw edge, a crack he can’t quite cover. “Like this?

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just grind down against his hand like it’s the only thing tethering you to earth, because maybe it is.

“Say it,” he demands, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. “Say you want me.”

Your voice is wrecked when it comes out. “I want you, James.”

And that’s all it takes.

He lets out a guttural noise and shifts, unfastening his jeans with a desperation that makes your pulse stutter. You help him, fumbling, frantic, the two of you lost in your own chaos. The second he’s free, you feel the heat and hardness of him pressed against your thigh, and your mouth goes dry.

You wrap your legs tighter around his hips as he slides your underwear to the side, lining himself up with a grunt. One last look into your eyes — something unspoken flickering in his — and then he pushes into you in one long, aching thrust.

You choke on a gasp, fingernails digging into his shoulders.

He groans like he’s finally home.

The stretch is intense, overwhelming, and right. He stills for a moment, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you trembling, breathing each other in like you’ll forget how if you stop.

Then he moves.

He thrusts into you slow and deep, the drag of him inside you maddening, hitting places no one else ever has — not like this, not with this knowing. It’s messy and raw and so damn intimate it makes your heart lurch. His lips find yours again, sloppy and bruising and full of every word neither of you have the guts to say.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” he groans, voice unraveling as he picks up pace. “So tight — fuck — always thought about you like this. Every goddamn time you smiled at him.”

You whimper, because it’s too much. The way he moves, the filthy things he says, the heat in your stomach building into something devastating. You press your face into his neck and he grinds deeper, fucking you like he’s trying to claim every part of you that’s ever belonged to someone else.

Each push forward is full of purpose, and with every thrust, it's like he's pressing a piece of himself into you, anchoring the years he never spoke into the softness of your body.

You're still clinging to him, arms looped tight around his neck like you’re afraid he'll disappear. But he’s here. All of him. And you feel it in the way his hand skims up your back, in the press of his forehead against yours, in the breath he lets out when he sinks all the way inside you again — a sound that cracks open your chest from the inside.

“Look at me,” he whispers, voice hoarse and breathless.

You do.

And it wrecks you.

His eyes are wild, glassy, filled with something so raw and full it almost hurts to meet them. He’s not just fucking you — he’s memorizing you. The way your breath catches. The way your legs tremble. The way your walls clench around him when he whispers your name like it’s something sacred.

“I didn’t know how much I needed it… you… until I couldn’t take pretending anymore.”

You don’t speak. Can’t. Your voice is buried beneath the waves of sensation building too fast, too sharp. But tears burn at the corners of your eyes,

Every roll of his hips is a confession. Every grind of his pelvis against your clit makes you cry out his name like it’s a lifeline. And he listens. God, does he listen — with his body, with his hands, with every whispered "I've got you," he leaves on your skin like a promise.

You feel yourself tightening around him, everything coiling and rising, your release hovering so close it makes your vision blur. And then—

“I’ve always been yours,” he pants against your mouth. “Even when you didn’t look at me. Even when it was him.”

That breaks you.

Not just physically.

Something inside you shatters in the most beautiful way. You come with a gasp so deep it feels like being reborn, and he holds you through it, kissing your face like you’re something holy.

He follows right after, hips stuttering, breath breaking apart as he spills into you with a moan that sounds like your name turned prayer.

°°°°

You walk into the party with Cook like nothing happened.

Like he didn’t have his hands all over you on the stairs. Like he didn’t look at you with something burning behind his eyes and say he’d been waiting for that moment for years.

Now it’s just music. Lights. Laughter. You two again, as always — shoulder to shoulder, knocking shots back like war buddies, bumping hips and stealing each other’s drinks.

You make him laugh. That loud, ridiculous Cook laugh. And you feel it twist something inside you, because it sounds like him. Like before.

He throws his arm around your shoulder at one point, and you lean into it automatically, like muscle memory. You know every version of this boy. You know how to pretend with him.

You’re both pretending now.

Pretending it didn’t mean anything. That the weight of him still isn’t echoing in your bone

But you’re both so drunk you’ve forgotten how to keep your distance.

Somewhere between the third shot and the stolen bottle of rum, you end up with your back against a wall, Cook’s mouth on yours again. It's messy and rough and soaked in everything you didn’t say earlier. Everything you won’t say now.

His hands are on your waist like he owns the moment — like this is something you've done a thousand times. And maybe, in his head, you have.

You laugh into his mouth, dizzy, half out of your mind, and he presses closer like he needs you to stay tethered. Like you’re the only solid thing left in the spinning room.

People are everywhere. Music’s pounding. Bodies are dancing. And you two? You’re falling. Fast.

“OH MY GOD,” someone yells.

You both flinch.

Panda’s standing there with her hands in her hair, looking like she’s about to cry from joy or scream.

“Fucking FINALLY. Finally, you two! You’ve had everyone going insane for months, man. Thought you were gonna combust or something.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

Cook laughs. His forehead rests against yours for a second and you feel his breath on your lips. But then—

“No,” you mumble.

Panda blinks. “What?”

“We’re not… it’s not like that,” you say quickly, shaking your head.

Cook’s already back to kissing you — your cheek, your jaw, your neck. Sloppy, drunk kisses that make your knees weak, but you don’t stop him. You can’t.

“She’s right,” he mutters against your skin, voice low and wrecked. “Not like that at all.”

Panda looks confused. “Mate, you’re literally—what do you mean—?”

But you’re not listening.

Because Cook’s murmuring things in your ear now, nonsense and maybe truths, too far gone to care. Something like mine, something like fuck, I missed this even though you never had this.

You grab his shirt to steady yourself and smile at Panda like you’re not unraveling.

“It’s nothing,” you lie. “Just drunk.”

Panda stares like she knows exactly what kind of lie it is.

But she lets it go.

And Cook?

Cook just keeps kissing you like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.

°°°°

You wake in his bed with the sunlight coming in sideways through a curtain that never quite closes. The room smells like him—sweat, smoke, the lingering sweetness of last night. It should feel gross, maybe. But it doesn’t. Not today. Today it feels like something new. Like you’re allowed to be here. Like it means something.

You lie still for a moment, head turned toward him. He’s facedown, limbs sprawled like he’s just been dropped from a great height. There’s a purple bruise blooming on his shoulder from your teeth. You smile.

Your body aches in places you didn’t even know could ache. You pull on his shirt—one he probably found on the floor and declared clean by smell alone—and tiptoe toward the bathroom. The mirror is cracked, the faucet leaks, the tiles haven’t been scrubbed since the last ice age, but it’s fine. You look at your reflection, hair tangled, eyes lit up. Wrecked and radiant. You press your fingers to the glass like you might fall into it.

This. This is yours. For a minute, at least.

You’re brushing your teeth when arms wrap around you from behind. He’s warm and heavier than you remember in the mornings, chin hooked over your shoulder, eyes barely open.

“Morning,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

You smile around the toothbrush.

He kisses your neck. Then your jaw. Then your cheek. Then—

“Wait. Wait, is that my toothbrush?”

You pause mid-brush. Turn your head just enough to see him in the mirror.

“Seriously?” you say, mouth full of foam.

He’s frowning, nose scrunched. “That’s rank. Why would you use my toothbrush?”

You pull it out of your mouth with a snap. “You had your tongue in my arse like, eight hours ago.”

“Yeah, that’s completely different.”

“HOW?!”

He grabs the toothbrush from your hand like he’s rescuing a puppy from a burning building.

“Boundaries, babe.”

And then he kisses you. Not soft. Not sweet. It’s filthy. He tastes like sleep and last night’s whiskey and the toothpaste you just spit out. His hands are on your hips, dragging you back against him like he’s starving. You choke a little on your own laughter, try to push him off, but he doesn’t budge.

He’s all tongue and teeth, messy and hot, mouth greedy against yours.

“Jesus—Cook—” you mumble between kisses, still foamy at the corners.

He finally pulls back, eyes shining with something wicked. Picks up the toothbrush off the sink and just shoves it back in the cup like nothing happened.

“You’re fucking gross,” you laugh, wiping your mouth on his shirt.

He winks. “You like it nasty, innit?”

You’re both laughing now. He’s got toothpaste on his chin, and you’re gasping, breathless, heart beating too fast.

“I hate you,” you whisper against his mouth.

“Liar,” he says, grinning.

°°°°

The reality of what you once were hits you like a lorry with no brakes.

Fifteen years. And still, it’s all right there. Still him. Still you. Still that version of love that didn’t make sense but somehow felt like the only thing that ever had.

You see it in his eyes first—same Cook, only older, worn in the ways no one should ever be. But there’s that glint of pain buried deep, like he never stopped waiting for you to come back through that door.

He stares at you like you’re still seventeen. Like you’re still that girl who used to press her fingers to his ribs and tell him he was more than what the world saw.

And he speaks—rough, guttural, voice splintered at the edges.

"You said our bond was forever. Said you wouldn’t fuckin’ leave."

It doesn’t even sound like him—not the version you built up in your head over the years. It’s not the brash, laughing boy who used to dive headfirst into every wrong decision and drag you along for the ride. This version? He sounds... small. Young. Like the scared kid life never gave a chance to grow slow.

And you... you almost break right there.

But you don’t.

You owe him the truth. And you owe yourself the choice you made, no matter how much it hurts now to stand by it.

"Nothing was ever enough, Cook."

You say it without flinching. Not cruel. Just honest. Raw. A blade wrapped in cloth.

"I tried. You know I did. But you—you wouldn’t let me stay."

He looks away, but you can feel the weight of his stare anyway. Feel it pressing into your skin like old ghosts.

"Maybe if you’d stayed... if—"

He stops, because the words die on his tongue. Because whatever he was going to say, it’s too late for it now.

You shake your head, voice steady, even as your chest cracks open under the weight of it all.

"You weren’t gonna drag just me to your heaven. You’d have burned it down before we ever got there. I couldn’t let you destroy everything."

He flinches. That gets him. That lands deeper than any hit he ever took in a fight.

And for a second, you’re both silent. Letting the years stretch between you like a trench too wide to cross.

He’s not that boy anymore. And you? You’re not that girl. You both had to learn how to survive without each other, and it left you stitched up in all the wrong ways.

You think about apologizing. For leaving. For running instead of holding his hand and fighting through the mess. But then you remember why you did it. Remember the child growing inside you and the life you refused to offer up to chaos.

You made a choice.

And now it’s time to deal with the fallout.

He breaks the silence.

"Who’s he like?"

You blink. The question doesn’t register at first.

"Who?"

"The lad. Our son."

It knocks the breath out of you like he’s punched you in the stomach.

You weren’t ready for that. For him to say "our son" like the words belonged to him, like he'd known all along. But he hadn’t. And somehow, hearing it now is worse than if he had.

You smile, but it’s the kind that’s wrapped in something heavier than joy.

"He’s... brilliant. A menace." You laugh a little through your tears. "He’s got that spark in his eyes, right before he does something mad. Laughs louder than everyone else. Can ruin a room or light it up, depends on the day. He’s a bloody bomb, James."

You say it like it’s a confession. Like loving someone that much should come with a warning.

And Cook—he just nods, sharp and sudden, turning his face away like maybe if he hides it, the pain will go somewhere else. But it doesn’t. It lands heavy, shattering whatever pieces of him were left intact. He rubs a hand down his mouth. Tries to swallow it. Tries not to fall apart.

And then, like a reflex, your hand reaches out. Shaky. Uncertain.

His eyes meet yours—bloodshot, worn down, but still the same underneath.

Everything in his grown-up self tells him not to take it. Not to fall for the same girl with the trembling fingers and the war in her eyes. But that younger version of him—the reckless boy who loved you with no armour at all—he grabs it.

And he holds on.

You close your fingers around his like it’s the only thing keeping either of you afloat.

"He loves hard, too," you whisper, your voice barely holding. "All-in. Like you. And sometimes that screws him over, because he doesn’t get why the world doesn’t love back the same way. But he’s learning."

Cook doesn’t speak. Just tightens his grip like if he lets go, you’ll disappear again.

"He’s got the best of both of us," you say, softer now. "And I won’t let you ruin him, Cook. Please."

His nod is almost invisible.

"I can do that," he says. Quiet. But firm.

You don’t wait. You pull him into a hug so hard your bones ache.

He smells different now. But he’s still warm. Still Cook. Still the boy who once built you a home out of broken glass and cigarette ash.

You cry into his shirt, no longer trying to stop it.

And when you finally let go, you kiss his cheek—gentle, trembling.

"Thank you."

And then you walk away.

He watches you go. And even though you’re not leaving town this time, it still tastes like goodbye.

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tellingtell5 · 15 days ago