[didyoufeellikeheaven]

opposites. - pt 1 of ?

a loud, striking laugh echoed through the corridor.

you let out a long sigh before you even turned around.

of course.

there was only one person in the entire college who laughed like he owned the bloody place.

james cook.

the halls were already packed, students squeezing past one another with coffees in hand, bags bumping against lockers as conversations overlapped into one loud, constant buzz.

the smell of cheap deodorant mixed with damp coats drifted through the building.

you adjusted the strap of your backpack and kept walking hoping he wouldn't notice you.

maybe, just maybe, if you pretended not to hear him…

yeah. fat chance.

it was almost embarrassing how predictable you were.

the shy girl who always fell for the loud ones.

the ones who walked into a room like they belonged there.

the ones who could talk to absolutely anyone without thinking twice.

and james cook happened to be the loudest of them all.

everyone knew cook.

teachers knew him because they were constantly threatening him with detention.

students knew him because every weekend seemed to end with a story that somehow involved him, a bottle of vodka, and something catching fire.

he was the kind of person who couldn’t walk down a corridor without somebody calling his name.

and somehow…

you’d become part of his routine.

not because he fancied you.

god, no.

to cook, you were just… there.

someone he’d wind up because your reactions entertained him.

someone he could copy homework from.

someone he’d sit next to when he got bored.

someone he’d steal pens from and never give back.

someone he treated exactly the same as freddie or jj.

one of his people.

one of the lads.

and for once…

you wished he’d look at you like a girl instead. a girl he wanted to have around not only because it was convenient but also because he wanted you.

“OI mate! look who’s ere!”

before you could speed up, two fingers hooked through the loop at the top of your backpack.

one sharp tug.

you stumbled backwards, barely catching yourself before you walked straight into a row of lockers.

cook burst into laughter.

not just a chuckle.

a proper, head-thrown-back laugh that echoed through the hallway and earned him a few annoyed looks from nearby teachers.

“fuck off...what do you want, cook?” you muttered, straightening your backpack.

he flashed you that familiar crooked grin.

“hey, hey. no need to get all defensive now!”

he tilted his head, looking almost offended.

“bit hostile, ain’t ya glasses?”

“just say what you want already!”

instead of answering, he fell into step beside you, hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket as if he’d been walking with you all along.

“right…”

he scratched the back of his neck.

“you know mr byers is bein’ a proper pain on my arse ’cause of all the homework i never handed in.”

you glanced at him.

“not surprised."

he sighed dramatically.

“he’s makin’ me do this stupid essay on reproduction.”

another sigh.

“reckons it’ll prove i’m academically redeemable or some bollocks.”

you couldn’t help the tiny smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

“so write it.”

cook looked at you as though you’d suggested climbing everest.

“you know i can’t.”

“i know you won’t.”

“nah.” he pointed a finger at you. “different thing entirely.”

he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice with the confidence of someone who thought everything they said was hilarious.

“i’m a brilliant fuck.”

he shrugged.

“just can’t write an essay about bloody dicks and cunts.”

you rolled your eyes.

“twenty quid.”

his grin disappeared instantly.

“what?”

“you heard me."

“fuck off! you’re robbin’ me!

“twenty.”

he groaned loudly enough for half the corridor to hear before dragging a hand down his face.

“bloody hell.”

you folded your arms, waiting.

he looked at you for a long second, clearly trying to think of another way out.

“c’mon…” he said, flashing that impossible grin again. “there’s gotta be room for negotiation.”

you raised an eyebrow.

“forget it. i won’t negotiate with you.”

he clicked his tongue.

“cold...but i guess i deserve it don't i?"

he laughed quietly to himself before nudging your shoulder as the two of you continued down the corridor.

another grin spread across his face.

“…reckon i’ll wear you down eventually.”

“in your dreams.”

he bumped your shoulder again.

“worth a shot, glasses."

“pay me, and you’ve got your essay.”

cook let out an exaggerated sigh, digging through the pockets of his leather jacket with far more drama than the situation called for.

“right…” he muttered, pulling out a crumpled ten-pound note. “slight problem.”

you crossed your arms. "what now?"

“i’ve only got ten quid on me.”

“then come back when you’ve got twenty.”

“or…” his grin returned almost instantly, “you could swing by mine later an’ i’ll give you the rest.”

you stopped walking.

“absolutely not.”

he blinked innocently.

“what?”

“you seriously think i was born yesterday?”

that earned another one of those loud laughs that always seemed to bounce off the corridor walls.

students passing by glanced over, already used to whatever chaos james cook happened to be causing that day.

he shook his head, still chuckling.

“calm down, smarty pants.”

he held his hands up in surrender.

“i ain't tryna shag ya.”

“good to know,” you muttered, rolling your eyes.

“thought you’d appreciate the clarification.”

“give me the ten quid already.”

he stared at the note for a second before reluctantly holding it out.

“i’ll text ya when it’s done,” you said, slipping the ten-pound note into your wallet before zipping it shut.

cook’s face lit up immediately.

“knew i could count on ya.”

he grinned.

“you’re so annoying.”

“that’s what makes me charming.”

“no, that’s what makes you exhausting.”

he laughed again, rocking back on his heels.

“thanks, babe.”

he flashed you a smile so smug it was almost offensive.

“you’re an angel.”

he paused just long enough to add,

“…a cruel one.”

you rolled your eyes so hard it nearly hurt.

“piss off, cook.”

“see ya later, sweetheart.”

before you could answer, he’d already wandered off backwards through the crowd, somehow carrying on two completely different conversations at once.

someone called his name from the other end of the corridor and he immediately threw an arm around freddie’s shoulders, disappearing into the sea of students like he’d never been standing beside you at all.

you watched him for a second longer than you should have.

then forced yourself to look away.

—

by the time you got home, your head was pounding.

the bus ride had felt twice as long as usual, every bump in the road sending another dull ache behind your eyes.

you dropped your backpack by your bedroom door, kicked your shoes off somewhere in the general direction of the wardrobe, and collapsed face-first onto your bed with a groan.

you should’ve said no.

that would’ve been the smart thing to do.

cook never planned ahead.

he never did his homework.

he barely scraped through half his classes.

every teacher in the building had already accepted that james cook was probably going to leave every assignment until the last possible minute.

so why were you the one fixing it?

you stared at the ceiling.

because he asked.

because he’d flashed that stupid grin.

because somewhere along the line you’d become completely incapable of saying no to him.

“pathetic,” you muttered to yourself.

with another sigh, you pushed yourself upright and shuffled over to your desk.

your laptop whirred to life.

a blank document appeared on the screen.

reproduction.

honestly.

it was such a ridiculous topic.

if cook cared this little about his grades, why should you care any more than he did?

your fingers hovered over the keyboard.

you could’ve written complete nonsense.

he probably wouldn’t even notice.

…except you knew he would hand it in exactly as you gave it to him.

and somehow, the idea of mr byers realizing you had written absolute rubbish annoyed you more than the fact you were doing cook’s homework in the first place.

another groan escaped your lips.

“i actually hate that idiot.”

you cracked your knuckles, opened three different research tabs, and started typing anyway.

—

11:57 pm

it’s done.

you hit send before you could change your mind.

your room was quiet except for the soft hum of your laptop cooling down on your desk. the only light came from the bedside lamp you’d forgotten to switch off, casting a warm glow across the pile of textbooks you’d abandoned hours ago.

your phone buzzed almost immediately.

cook

you’re up late.

breaking the rules just because of me? ;)

you couldn’t help smiling.

idiot.

you

shut up before i decide to throw this essay in the trash.

the typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

disappeared.

cook

geez.

can’t even take a joke, glasses..

what u doin’?

you glanced at the time in the corner of your screen.

nearly midnight.

you

getting ready for bed.

some of us still care about school.

another few seconds.

cook

hmm.

can i see what you’re wearing? ;)

you stared at the message.

“…he’s actually unbelievable.”

your thumbs hovered over the keyboard.

he probably sent things like that without thinking.

that was cook.

everything that crossed his mind came straight out of his mouth—or, in this case, straight into your phone.

he’d probably laugh if you called him an idiot.

probably say he was “only askin’.”

probably tease you for blushing.

which, annoyingly…

you were.

you looked down at yourself.

an oversized hoodie.

old pyjama shorts.

thick socks because your room was freezing.

hardly the sort of thing anyone would want to see.

a tiny, embarrassing part of you wished you’d been wearing something prettier.

something that didn’t make you feel invisible.

something that might’ve made him stop for half a second and look at you differently.

you hated that thought the second it crossed your mind.

he was just winding you up.

he always was.

and yet…

your heart was still beating a little faster as you looked back at the screen, waiting for whatever ridiculous message he’d send next.

you

just wearing something boring

the typing bubble barely had time to disappear.

cook

why am i not surprised?

you frowned at the screen.

you

sorry i’m not like the girls you shag.

there was a longer pause this time.

long enough that you wondered if you’d pushed it too far.

then your phone buzzed.

cook

nah

i like that you’re not like them

makes this more interesting.

your eyebrows knitted together.

you

makes what more interesting? i’m not a challenge, cook.

the typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

cook

never said you were.

doesn’t mean i can’t try an’ figure you out.

you stared at the screen a little longer than necessary.

you

there’s nothing to figure out.

another pause.

cook

bollocks.

everyone’s got somethin’.

you frowned.

you

and what exactly do you think mine is?

the typing indicator flickered on.

off.

on again.

for someone who always had something to say, he seemed to be thinking surprisingly hard.

cook

reckon you spend too much time in your own head.

always look like you’re thinkin’ about ten different things while everyone else is just there.

pretty sure u have some mad desires u never tell anyone about, dontcha?

your stomach tightened.

that wasn’t the answer you’d expected.

you’d been waiting for another joke.

instead, he’d actually noticed something.

you

you don’t know me that well.

cook

don’t i?

you chewed the inside of your cheek.

you

no.

another few seconds passed.

cook

alright then.

tell me somethin’ i don’t know.

you looked around your room.

the lamp on your bedside table cast long shadows across the walls, and rain had started tapping softly against the window. your essay books were still spread across the desk exactly where you’d left them after finishing his assignment.

your fingers hovered over the keyboard.

there were a hundred things you could say.

instead, you typed the safest one.

you

i like things quiet.

his reply came almost instantly.

cook

yeah, i clocked that.

you hate parties.

you always disappear before everyone’s properly pissed.

despite yourself, you smiled.

you

and yet you still keep inviting me.

cook

course i do.

one day you’ll say yes.

you

don’t hold your breath.

cook

where’s the fun in that?

you rolled your eyes, smiling at your phone.

idiot.

for a moment, neither of you sent anything.

then, just as you were about to lock your phone, another message popped up.

cook

cheers for the essay, by the way.

seriously.

you blinked.

there it was.

buried underneath all the winding up and stupid jokes.

a genuine thank you.

you smiled to yourself before typing back.

you

don’t make me regret it.

cook

can’t promise that, love.

...

also, since you're not gonna send me what you look like getting ready for sleep, here's me.

he the to send a pic of his shirtless torso, capturing the huge cross tattoo in his abs and his black boxers briefs.

you freeze.

no boy had ever sent you a picture like that before.

what the hell were you even supposed to answer to that?

the phone screen glowed in the dim light of your bedroom, a stark rectangle of intimacy in the dark.

the image was there, seared into your retinas. the planes of his stomach, the hard cut of his hips disappearing into the waistband of black cotton.

and the cross, a massive, intricate thing of black ink, centered over his abs, the vertical bar following the line of his sternum down, the horizontal crossing just below his ribs.

your breath hitched, a tiny, trapped sound in your throat. the phone felt suddenly heavy, radioactive, in your hand. you set it down on the comforter as if it might burn you, but your eyes dragged back to it. *fuck, no boy had ever…* the thought fragmented, useless.

a slow, deep tremor started in your thighs, a quivering that traveled up through your core, settling low in your belly as a dense, liquid warmth. It pooled there, heavy and unfamiliar.

what were you supposed to say? ‘nice abs’? ‘cool tattoo’? every possible response withered in your mind, exposed as laughably inadequate, childishly naive next to the sheer, silent audacity of what he’d done.

your fingers trembled as you picked the phone up again. the glow lit your face. you typed a single word.

you

wow.

you deleted it. too revealing.

you tried again.

you

sick tat

deleted. stupid. obvious.

the silence from his end was expectant, a tangible pressure. he was waiting. he'd thrown a lit match into the dry tinder of your quiet night and was waiting to see what would catch.

forgetting words, forgetting how to be clever or cool, you did the only thing your body seemed to understand.

you lifted the phone, angled it down. you weren’t wearing anything special: just an old, soft sleep shirt, the hem riding up. you didn’t show skin, not like he had. you focused on your own bare legs, the quiver visible in the muscle of your thigh, the tense clutch of your knees together. you took the picture. the light was poor, the image grainy, intimate.

you hit send.

a second later, the three dots appeared. he was typing. the warmth in your stomach coiled tight. you waited, the tremble in your legs becoming a full, helpless shudder.

the three dots pulsed. a lifetime in a heartbeat.

them, his message appeared.

cook

that's too little princess. i want more.

"princess."

the endearment was a brand, a claim, wrapped in a demand that left no room for misinterpretation. he’d seen the silent admission in the grainy photo, and he’d found it wanting.

the liquid warmth in your belly turned to a slow, hot churn. a coy reply would be an insult to him, and to the raw truth now humming in your veins. he’d shown you his skin, his symbol. he wanted yours.

your fingers moved before your mind could fully censor them. you didn’t plan the composition. you flipped the camera, your own face filling the screen, eyes wide, dark in the low light, lips parted on an unsteady breath. you saw the flush high on your cheeks, the reflection of the screen like twin stars in your pupils. you held the gaze for a second, letting him see the dazed, overwhelmed surrender there. then, you slowly tilted the phone down.

the hem of your sleep shirt was soft, worn thin. you hooked a finger under it, lifting. not high. Just enough to reveal the plane of your lower stomach, the delicate indent of your navel, the faint trail of down that led beneath the waistband of your panties.

you sent it.

no text. just the photo.

the response was immediate. not a message. an image.

it was him again, but closer. his hand was in the frame now, resting low on his stomach, fingers splayed just above the waistband of his boxer briefs. his thumb was hooked inside the elastic, pulling it down a fraction, revealing the sharp V-cut of his hips, the dark trail of hair leading down.

then, your phone vibrated with an incoming call.

the sound was brutally loud in the silent room. his name flashed on the screen.

the warm feeling wasn’t just a feeling anymore; it was a deep, aching throb, a hollow need that clenched tight and then released in a slow, hot pulse. you could feel the dampness seeping through your cotton panties, a shocking, undeniable physical truth.

you stared at the ringing phone. the choice wasn’t in your head. It was in the tremble of your finger as it swiped across the screen, lifting the device to your ear.

you didn’t speak. you couldn’t. you just breathed, a shaky, audible exhalation into the receiver.

his voice came through, low, rough, and impossibly close. It wasn’t a greeting. it was a statement, a dark caress that coiled right into the heart of the warmth inside you.

“hear that?” he murmured, his tone a gravelly whisper. “that quiet? That’s the sound of you thinking you’re still in charge. now stop thinking. tell me what do you feel when you look at the picture I sent. tell me exactly.”