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sagitariusrising

Jun 24

pinksiamese

title: what kills you is also what you'll crawl for (chapter 1 of ?)

fandom: skins (uk)

pairing: james cook/female reader

rating: explicit (masturbation, exhibitionism, dirty talk, fingering)

warnings: older woman/younger man, age gap (30/19), reader is american, reader is a school social worker/mental health worker, extremely unethical therapist/patient behavior, power struggles, mentions of violent behavior, manipulative behavior, spit, spitting in the mouth, reader is married, reader doesn't give a shit about being married, writer has very little familiarity with the uk school system, writer has very little familiarity with the uk court system, alternative universe - contemporaneous/modern day, alternative universe - canon divergence

word count: 9396

author's notes: i should give credit where credit is due; once upon a time @thatsthewrongwallcraig lamented in the fandom tags that the idea of a cook/school counselor!reader fic was an absolute plague upon them & this idea sort of crept up on me after that (now it's a plague upon me---here's a slice of my whole cake, a bowl of my good soup, i hope you enjoy it)

read here on AO3

summary:

James Cook, junior; nineteen years old, intelligent but easily distracted, impulse control issues, probable undiagnosed ADHD, remanded by the court into mandatory counseling for anger management—

He’s your Thursday morning appointment and his acting-out behavior drives you straight up the wall.

Discussing it with your husband goes nowhere, so you keep the finer details to yourself—the posturing, the cocky attitude, the colorful profanity, the provocative language, the blatant sexual harassment.

So you grit your teeth, get ready for work.

Today’s just another Thursday.

Or is it?

chapter 1: petty shenanigans

He says to you sweetheart you’re awful tense these days.

He says if you like I can stop by the shops.

You squint at the mirrored shape of your lipstick, at the heroics of it all—husband hits the grocery, comes home! Touches stovetop!

And your husband, who is pacing somewhere, who is faffing about in the next room, says I could make us a fry-up tonight do not trouble yourself except it sounds more like dunnat rubble, all smeared-together and with a deliberate deficit of breath—it comes off almost archaic, stylized, like a distant bastard cousin of Shakespeare.

To your American ears, anyway.

It all seemed so charming back in San Francisco.

Five years ago.

Sweetheart you’re awful tense these days—and he says it with the same chummy yet underhanded tone every single morning: a refrain, a chorus, a thought-stopping cliché punctuating the long snooze of your life into a poem.

Or a song.

“A sucky one,” you mutter.

“So sorry darling, what was that?”

“A fry-up is fine if you want it.” You ignore the movement of your mouth in the mirror and your earrings are too dangly so you take them back out, toss them into a dish. You shrug, let just a whiff of indifference seep into your voice. “I guess I don’t really care.”

“Them boys, ya know it—they’ll run ya right ragged if you let em.”

You roll your eyes and catch yourself doing it—you do it again, study your face this time; your mouth flattens itself into a crisp plum-colored line. Your eyes look tired.

If I let em—yeah okay sure.

“They just takin the piss.” Your husband chortles until it simmers itself into a warm rolling distracted hum. “It’s practically a ritual at this age and you should pay it no mind.” He sniffles. “Just let it roll right off ya, duck-like.”

As if I let that little shit do anything.

You watch your face, monitor it for signs of sincerity.

I do not allow.

You pluck a tissue from its decorative box.

That word-choice implies a certain kind of gatekeeping, that there’s a mechanism for it, and if it were at all possible to gatekeep another person’s behavior, if such a mechanism existed, I would be out of a job.

You slick a bit of petroleum jelly over your plum lips, use the tissue to clean the color off. “Have you taken your antihistamines?”

Like I would allow him to shoot his mouth off like that, like I would allow him to just walk into my office and fill up that space in any way he fuckin well wants to—

The muscles in your neck fill with a faint effervescence, build the foundation for gooseflesh.

You crumple up the stained tissue, sprinkle sugar onto your voice. “What about your nasal spray?”

“I have not, as a matter of fact.” Your husband’s voice dims itself around a corner. “My apologies, love...it has been a very long night.” It boxes itself into a series of flat echoes. “Thank you for reminding me, I’ll be sure to take care of it.”

I could take the fuckin bus to work hell I could fuckin walk to work because it’s not that far, I might enjoy it even, it could be good for me, but to remind you of those facts—

You sigh and look down, sort through your tubes of lipstick.

To point out that the whole chauffeur routine is your particular style of self-soothing, is to start an argument on top of twelve hours of work.

“Straightaway,” you mutter, leaning in close to the mirror to finish up your smoky gray eyeliner. “Chop-fucking-chop yeah?”

It’s Thursday, and you no longer wear skirts on Thursdays—not even the long ones you think, nothing to catch a breeze or offer accidental glimpses of knees; you pull on palazzo pants, the kind with an elastic waist. No glamour at all in billowy workaday tartan, you think, or in the kind of bat-wing tunic top worn by American grandmas who take special trips out to desert Indian reservations to buy turquoise jewelry.

“You ready?”

“Just about.” You finish up the eyeliner, don’t bother with different earrings. You settle on a dark red lipstick—it’s a cardinal-like shade, a red rose photographed during dim and dismal weather—and twist off the cap. “Gimme a few.”

The flat shoes are comfy and dowdy of course but—you step into a pair of chunky-heeled pumps, turn sideways; you smile at your extra inches of height. I do appreciate a temporary ability to look down.

“Would you like a ride, love?”

“Of course.” You finish up with the lipstick. “Unless you’re too tired to drive?”

“I’ll be fine.”

He grins, big teeth flashing white in your background reflection—spent three years and ten thousand dollars to straighten the working-class Bristol childhood out, you think, and now every time he smiles at work he looks like an extra from Grey’s Anatomy.

“It’s not like’s it’s very far.”

“You’re right.”

You walk out of the house, climb into the car.

“I guess today’s your day with—”

You buckle your seatbelt. “That’s right.”

“He’s just a lad, darling.” Despite his detached and complacent tone; he’s still very handsome while he occupies his gaze with oncoming traffic. “He’ll grow out of it.”

The fog-white morning light flattens the front of your little brick-and-stucco house. It dulls the dark blue door; you watch in the sideview mirror as its handkerchief-sized yard with its low wrought-iron gate melts into a line of unruly hedges.

“Whether he does or doesn’t?” You glance at your husband’s profile. “It is one hundred percent not my concern.”

Your neighborhood disappears into the surrounding others: all row-houses with identical chimneys, the same patched asphalt, ragged shrubbery, brick and concrete partitions, the tiny car parks.

I don’t think I’ll never get used to the relentless sameness of British suburbs you think; it’s like living in a crowded crumbling high-wired maze.

“The only thing I really care about at the end of the day is—” You lighten your tone, favor him with a small but warm smile. “That I comply in full with all court orders.”

Two left-hand turns and five minutes later he’s pulling up alongside your campus.

“As it should be.” He puts the car in park, leans over; his smile is slight and warm and it reaches his eyes. “Your young mister’s petty shenanigans notwithstanding…” He presses a soft kiss to your cheek. “I do hope that you have a good day.”

“Oh believe me, attempts will be made.”

_________________

The moment you cross the building’s threshold, your face feels like it’s two sizes too small.

The moment you shut your office door, the swish of the palazzo pants around your thighs is enough to make the back of your neck crawl.

The moment you’re settled into your seat, your scalp’s too hot and your stomach’s buzzing; your nipples hardening enough to ache.

And he’s always on time.

Your white-haired assistant—Fiona, ancient and Irish, whom you share with the school’s four other counselors—knocks on your wavy glass window; the smudged shape of her hand coalesces into disorganized shadow to do it.

“Come in,” you call out.

The knob turns. The heavy wooden door swings inward and Fiona’s slight form occupies the doorframe. She smiles, her hand still resting on the doorknob; her blue eyes disappear into their nets of wrinkles. “Mr. Cook is on time,” she says.

You nod, cross your legs, adjust your posture until it’s casual. You smooth your pant leg, your voice mellowing underneath a touch of manufactured warmth. Your smile remains neat. “He always is.”

Mr. Cook swaggers in. He sees you and starts to grin, pulls his spine out of its slouch; he throws his gaze all over your outfit.

“It’s cause I like ya.” He smooches in your general direction and his grin widens. “Lookin bangin as usual.”

You tilt your head, shift your gaze away from him. You look at Fiona. You soften your smile. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it, ma’am.” She shuffles her way out of the doorframe, pulls on the door. It clicks shut.

Mr. Cook—James Cook junior, your mind whispers, nineteen years old, intelligent but easily distracted, impulse control issues, probable undiagnosed ADHD,remanded by the court into mandatory counseling for anger management—flops down into his favorite corner of the beat-up sofa. He leans back and folds his hands across his belly; he’s wearing a loose-fitting black hoodie and khakis, beat-up sneakers.

They’re trainers, your mind murmurs. That’s what we call them here.

His hair’s ruffled. It sticks up in the back and he’s puffy around the eyes, like he just rolled off someone’s couch after sleeping in his clothes.

He glances around, heaves a sigh.

The ghost of a cut folds into the faint beginnings of forehead lines. A thin purple shadow smudges the underside of one eye socket.

“Despite the frequency of your lapses into uncivilized behavior,” you begin, raising your voice and tightening your smile, “and this ongoing—” You twirl one hand. “Affectation? Or perhaps it’s a performance of stupidity, but either way I know you’re quite capable of comprehending the idea that flattery will get you nowhere.”

“Ooooh.” He wags his head, purses his lips; he slumps a bit and slings his hips forward, lets his knees gape wide. “She’s got them big words out.” The one-sided grin hesitates, caresses a razor’s edge between smug and suggestive. He snorts. “Bit flustered, are we?”

Your chest does a slow squeeze around your lungs and your smile freezes but you catch your breath before it takes off, muscle it back down into a casual rhythm.

In the parlance of my American brethren, young man—as if.

“No.” You shake your head, hold his gaze. “I’m so sorry, James.” Your voice remains calm. “But I’m afraid not.”

“Oh yeah?” His eyebrows shoot up, his smirk quick but keen. He narrows his eyes. “You sure about that?”

This is my job, young man, so it doesn’t matter whether I’m flustered—the show must go on and all that rot.

“What I am sure of,” you say, adjusting the pitch of your voice, “is that if I were to—as you say—roll out them big words—” You crook your fingers into air quotes. “A second time? You’d pretend that you don’t understand any of them and I’m not in the mood for that level of...tedium?” You glance at him, gather up a stack of papers. “Boredom?” You raise an eyebrow. “A total snooze factory?”

He snorts out a short sharp chuckle.

“So…” The skin around your knees crawls. You flip through his folder. “In other words...” Your stomach tightens, trembles like it’s knotted around a razor that will slice you open if you breathe too deep. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“A bit stroppy today.” He narrows his eyes, drags his lip through his teeth. “That’s all right.” He looks you up and down, begins to grin. “I like it.”

You glance up.

“It looks as though you made it through this last week with...let’s see, zero physical altercations, which is good.” You steer a sheet of paper into the bright pool of light thrown by your desk lamp. “And one instance of shouting into another student’s face that they were, and I quote—” Your eyebrows lift. “A thick-headed pig fucker.”

“Can’t help it.” He laughs a little. “I calls it like I sees it but you already know that about me.” He shrugs, gives you a shit-eating grin. “He is a thick-headed knob-gobbling pig fucker and them’s the facts.” He looks in your eyes. “Ma’am.”

Eye contact—you cut your eyes to the side and sit back, crave the stabilizing pressure of your teeth dug into your bottom lip. Eye contact remains excessive. It borders on yet does not quite cross the threshold of intrusive.

You set the paper down, watch his face. “You want me to admire your restraint.”

“Yeah all right.” He shrugs. “Sure.” He snorts like he wants to laugh but he bounces his knees instead. His slight half-smile turns snide. “Whatever makes ya knickers drop.”

So that’s a yes.

“Now...” You fold your hands, rest them on top of your desk. “You do understand that life is not going to reward you for choosing not to beat someone in the face?” You lift your eyebrows and press your lips together, bite them. Sigh through your nose. “I mean, not beating someone in the face is sort of a...a baseline expectation really.”

His eyes slip down to your mouth. “It weren’t worth the energy really.”

A touch of heat fills your cheeks and you move your head, toss it to one side like you’ve got loose strands of hair in your face. “And if it had been?” You shake your head, brush your cheek with your fingers. You lower your voice. “What then?”

He tips his head, looks down his nose. “But it weren’t.”

“I heard you.” You lift your eyebrows, slow the cadence of your speech. “And I do hear you but...” You sharpen your enunciation. “If it had been?”

“What you want me to say?” His forehead furrows and he resettles his folded hands. “That I mighta clocked ’im one?” He jiggles his heels. “That what you gettin at?”

“Only if it’s true.”

“Suppose I might’ve.” He quirks his mouth, tosses his shoulders around. He rubs his nostrils, keeps his eyes on yours. “Come right down to it.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“Told ya.” He snort-laughs. “Weren’t worth it I said.”

“And I heard you.” You keep your voice calm. “Both times.” You tilt your head and smile your blandest smile, ease a slow breath out through your nose. “But I’m asking you why, James.”

You wait for him to take his eyes off your lips.

“Or I’m trying to.” You glance at his mouth before looking in his eyes and you hold his gaze until it loosens your knees and tightens your throat, dries your mouth, sharpens your breath. “Exactly why wasn’t it worth it?”

He sits bolt-upright.

“It’s Cook!” He bounces the back of his head off the wall, his voice cracking with a swift burst of volume. “Fuckin hell I keep tellin ya!” He wilts back into the chair and mutes himself down to a mumble. He glances at your face. “You c’n fuck right off with this James shit.”

You soften your voice. “Your mother calls you Jimmy.” You don’t look away. “Would you like that better?”

He unfolds his hands. He snaps up out of his twitchy slouch, his voice dropping; it gains a husky edge. “You’ve talked to my mum?”

“Of course I have.”

He narrows his eyes. “What’d you go and do that for?”

It’s like pushing a button. Or poking the kind of bruise that only looks superficial but sinks its nasty blood-black roots all the way down to the bone.

“It’s customary.” You shrug, lean sideways in the chair. “To interview family members.” You swivel it from side to side. “In cases like yours, whenever it’s possible to do so.”

His face reddens. His whole body jerks, but he doesn’t change position. “But you need my permission for that!” He slaps the arm of the sofa. His mouth trembles. “I never gave it to ya!” He pulls his feet under him. “I fuckin didn’t!”

“Hold it.” You sit up straight, raise your voice. “Now hold on, Mr. Cook.” You keep your voice loud. “I didn’t ask her about you.”

He blinks and freezes, his face slackening; his eyes are both wide and unfocused.

“I asked her about her.” You lower your voice and breathe out, gentle your tone as much as possible. You keep your eyes on his face. “I will remind you that there’s no law against that.”

He blinks again and snorts. “Huh.” He drops back into the sofa and folds his arms. He bounces one knee. He starts to grin, rolls his eyes. “I bet she fuckin loved that.”

“You’d win that bet.” You start to grin, fight against it; the urge to laugh brims up the back of your throat. “She really did.” You slide a hand across your mouth, keep it there. Your breath shakes inside your nose before smoothing out. “I shouldn’t laugh but...I want to be honest.”

He watches your face and his expression sharpens; for a brief moment there’s hunger in his eyes and something else, something undressed.

“You know—” You glance at the easing tremble in his mouth and curl your legs under the chair, lean over the desktop. “Some people really do light right up when you ask them about their favorite subject.”

He grins, bursts into cackling laughter. “Oh yeah I bet.”

“Oh and I got to hear all about her latest installation at Fuck-All Gallery or whatever she called it, I don’t know, and its cutting-edge reflections on modern feminism, the female body, and charting the cultural drift of what she kept referring to as ‘the semiotic influences of the mothering breast.’”

He tilts his face down, lifts his eyebrows, mouths the words mothering breast.

“Yeah.” You nod and start to giggle, take a big breath in through your nose instead. “You think I’d make this shit up?”

He tips his head back, the cackling laughter dissolving into giggles. “Is that the lactating tits thing?” He waves a hand in a circle. “With the tea sets and all that?”

“Maybe.” Your snorting dissolves into giggling. “I’ll confess I wasn’t really listening all the way through that bit.”

He makes a brief bewildered face. “All them pink porcelain nipples.” His eyebrows knot and he shakes his head, watches you; he mimes tipping a teapot. “Ya pour the milk through em yeah?”

“I think so.” You snicker, cover your mouth. “I’m not sure.”

“I tell ya.” He shakes his head. “It’s barking mad what these fancy-rich cunts will pay for.”

“It is.” You blow out a sigh, lighten your tone. “It really is.” You shrug. “So…” You look in his eyes. “Were you going to hit me?” Your voice sheds its levity and wavers a bit, melts into something silky. “Just now?” You change the position of your head. “When you thought to stand up?”

“Course not.” His grin wavers and he scoffs. “I’m not gonna hit ya.” He slumps back, rolls his eyes. Folds his arms. “Fuck’s sake.”

“Not even a little corrective—” You lean with your head and shake it, lift your eyebrows. You mime a backhand.

“No!”

“But did you want to?” You soften your voice. “Even the slightest little bit?”

“No.” His voice quiets and he looks away. “It—it ain’t worth it.” His nose flushes a weak shade of pink. He rubs it. “And even if it were I ain’t so keen on hittin someone who’s not gonna fight back.” He folds his arms, glances at your face. “Takes all the fun out to be honest.”

Hitting people is fun for you?

He’s half-turned away from you with one knee leaned up against the other and his forearms sagged across his thighs, the merest shadow of a sulk still clinging to the shape of his mouth—he looks at you like he’s trying to look into you, his gaze bold, his shoulders poised despite the rest of his childish body language.

Is it the hitting itself you wonder, clocking the subtle shifts in his facial expression. The kinesiology of it, a stimulus of muscles firing and limbs processing abrupt shifts in proprioception—or is it the inherent metabolism of emotion?

His gaze slips down to the front of your neck and lingers there; he parts his lips, pries with his eyes at the position of your neckline.

The satisfaction of a strike, maybe?

You change position; the neckline of your top rubs against your skin with each breath.

The taste of your own blood? Or just a dispelling of well-built tension, a sort of prison-yard collision consummation.

You smile a little, shake your head.

“You think I won’t fight back?” You start to chuckle. “That’s quite an assumption, Cook.”

“Oh come on.” He snorts, looks up. “You mean for me to think…” He looks you over, sneers a bit; he rubs the back of his neck. “What?” He makes a lazy face. “That...you?” He puts on a fakes grin. “You’re gonna throw a punch?”

“Would you like to find out?”

“No!” He breathes like he wants to laugh. “Course not.” The grin deconstructs into a sly yet unsteady smile. “Oh…” Her jerks his chin at you. “Come on, what you think you’re playing at?”

“Might there be a bit of good old-fashioned chauvinism underpinning your extensive range of anger management issues?”

He blinks, wrinkles his nose.

“You don’t think that’s possible?” You pull back, sit up. You look down at your desk and rearrange some papers. “I guess that sort of thing’s not exactly…” You put on a light yet sardonic tone. “Culturally uncommon around here.”

He sits up and looks at you, his face wary but his mouth slack. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Your American ears spell it out like wots tha sposta mean and your mind conjures up every rough toothless drunk boatman caricature your husband’s fashioned for you over the years; more often than not over coffee in some sleek San Francisco cafe, back in your dating days, when he spent a lot of time convincing himself that he’d never want to come back here.

“It means I’m an outsider, Cook.” You sigh. “With the outsider’s perspective.” You reach for your notepad. “That’s all it is.” You pick up a pen. “I don’t want to peg you as a sexist but—”

“What are you sayin then? What’s all this bout ya fuckin—” His tone is brittle, mocking. “Outsider perspective?”

I’ve made him uncomfortable with the differences between us.

“It means that life here…” You sigh and put the pen down. “The way things work at a cultural level, at the individual social level, is not what—well okay.” You fold your hands, look at him. “I was about to say not what I was led to believe but it’s not accurate, I wasn’t led by anyone but myself.”

His eyebrows twitch upward. His mouth softens. “You don’t like it here.”

“It’s—” You feel the color creep into your cheeks. “I like it all right.”

“You don’t.” He blinks and sits back, watches you like you’ve changed somehow. “You don’t like—” He studies your face. “The way we are, like...how we do things yeah?”

“James.” You sigh and start to shake your head. “I’m sorry.” You shut your eyes, your voice mellowing. Your body relaxes. “Cook—”

He blurts it out: “You’re too good for this shithole.”

“That is—” Your shoulders fold in and you lean forward, slide your face into your hands. Your voice weakens. “Not what I said,” you half-whisper, your fingertips rubbing slow rings around your eye sockets. “Jesus Christ.”

“How’d you end up here?”

This is not an appropriate line of conversation.

“I got married.” You blow out a loud slow sigh and sit up. “It’s simple really.” You lean back and look at him, rub your collarbones. “It’s…”

Your hand drops into your lap.

He watches it fall.

You rest both hands, the fingers curled under, atop your desk. “The oldest green card in the book, for fuck’s sake—”

He eyeballs your wedding rings. “You married a bloke from Bristol?” He crinkles his nose, shakes his head. He glances at your face. “Why?”

“Why does anyone get married, Cook?”

“Well there’s lots of reasons really, at the end of the day, ain’t there?” He studies your face, starts counting on his fingers. “There’s for the money, a classic—there’s cause you’re lonely, or cause your family wants you to, there’s cause you wanna have kids—” He stops talking and rolls his eyes. “Though nothin never stopped anyone from bringin bastards into the world yeah?” He shrugs. “But there’s the whole respectability bit, the want to be proper about it, which is important to some people.”

“I got married for the traditional reasons.”

He breathes through his mouth, his eyes still narrowed. His upper lip hovers toward a sneer. He keeps his eyes on your face for a long moment but doesn’t say anything.

“While all of this has been a very amusing diversion, Mr. Cook.” You take a breath. “Let’s continue, regarding those cultural norms.” You pick up the pen. “I don’t like to hang a general chauvinism label on people without giving them a shot first but it’s always worth considering, when making a plan for anger management, to consider what sorts of influences your upbringing may have on your array of coping ski—”

He makes his voice hushed, soft. “Do ya love your husband?”

The corners of your mouth tuck downward and you stop writing, blow a sharp sigh through your nose. You arch one eyebrow. “I’m not discussing my personal life with you.”

“Your answer’s no, innit?”

You toss down the pen, look him in the eyes. “What business is it of yours?”

He blinks and pulls back, his face softening; his voice remains calm, rides a thin line between barely-there restraint and dawning realization. “Do you hate him then?”

“We are not here to talk about me.” You slow your breathing, struggle to keep your tone light. “And I am certainly not here to talk to you about me.” You resume writing. “Let’s focus on the topic at hand, Mr. Cook.” You glance at him. “Shall we?”

“They’s nothin wrong wi’ ma focus love.” His mouth curls into an unsteady but fleeting frown. “So…” He sniffs, purses his lips. “Izzat why you hate me then?” He works his jaw to one side, rubs his nose. His eyes stay on your face. “Cause you hate him?”

“I don’t hate you, I don’t—”

Have feelings like that for my patients.

You shut your eyes, pull in a deep breath through your nose. It shakes its way out of your mouth. “Hate you, James.”

“Don’t like me though do ya.”

“I struggle with some of your behaviors.” You open your eyes. “I can admit to that.” You watch his face. “But I can also admit that that struggle does not rise to the level of hate or dislike.”

He makes a tremulous yet incredulous face. “Got you a twee little answer for everything, don’t ya?” He scoffs. “Lookit you, handin them snappy retorts out just like playin cards.”

“I could say the same thing about you.” You put the pen down. “While your responses may not always be verbal ones, you do always have one at the ready—” You keep your tone even, work to maintain a shade of neutrality. “Like a back-pocket chess move.”

“It don’t feel like that.”

“Things don’t have to feel true to be true.”

“I gotta lot of bad qualities.” He sniffles, rubs his nose. “I know it.” He folds his arms, keeps his eyes off your face. “But I ain’t no fuckin chauvinist, I’ll tell ya that.”

“So is this you acknowledging—” You gentle your tone, utter a quick light laugh. You arch one eyebrow. “That you know what the word chauvinist means?”

“Suppose I am then.” His mouth forms a fleeting scowl. “And you can fuck right off with that idea.” His jaws tense. “I got respect.” His nostrils flare. “I got enough of it at least.”

You watch the slow creep of tension enter his posture. “Enough for what?” Your eyes drop to his curling and uncurling hands. “To keep your hands off me?”

His whole face flushes.

“Well I guess we can thank God for small miracles together then.” You slap the notebook shut, shove it away. “You’ve kept your hands off your cock, at least.” You sit back. “So far.” You sigh and return your eyes to his face, guard your tiny smile. “I suppose I should be grateful for that.”

“Awww.” The tremulous edge melts out of his grin and his whole body relaxes into a slump. “Y’know ma’am…” His eyebrows go up. “If I didn’t know better…” He licks his lips. “I’d think ya were a wee bit disappointed.”

“Surprise is not disappointment, James.”

“Awww.” He clucks his tongue and shakes his head. “An’ you were doing so good with it too.” He flashes a quick but giddy smile. “It’s fuckin Cook.”

“Well then.” The guard drops out of your smile and your voice takes on a slight saccharine edge. “I’ll call that a real milestone, Fuckin Cook.”

“Would be such a shame.” He arches his neck, shifts his hips. He stretches his arms, heaves a dramatic sigh. “To meet all of your expectations, you know…” He rolls his eyes. “Can’t have that.” He holds on to his half-grin. “It’d be so boring.” He shakes his head. “And we can’t have that.”

“My expectations?” Your smile hovers around your eyes. “Now they’re mine?

“Yeah—” He looks you over and his grin widens. “I reckon so.”

“When did that happen?”

“Dunno.” He puts on his most innocent expression. “Just now?”

“All right…” You shake your head and chuckle under your breath. “All right.” You hold up a hand. “If they’re—” You cut yourself off with a soft sigh, ease the lingering smile off your face. “If they’re now my expectations, and not the court’s expectations…” You tilt your head. “I’ll play your game.” You sweeten your voice. “Does that make you want to live up to them more? Or does that make you want to live up to them less?”

“Oh c’mon love.” His grin spreads across his face. “Y’already know the answer to that.”

“Oh? Do I?”

“Course ya do.” He shifts his hips around and reaches down, hefts his crotch; his grin wavers, collapses into something suggestive. “Makes my cock hard.”

You lean back into your chair, perform a dramatic sigh—I brought it up, I’m asking for it because that’s the argument right, why fuss over makeup, why put on heels, I’ve pointed out the existence of a permission structure when I could’ve just let sleeping dogs lie but—you shift your hips forward, shake your head. You hang your forearms over the armrests. You sigh. “Here we go.”

“Here we go all right.” He gives his crotch a little squeeze. His eyebrows go up. “D’ya think I’m lyin?”

You huff. “Did I say that?”

He tilts his head, puts on a sultry tone. He smooches the air. “Wanna come over here n feel it?”

He’s not kidding.

You shift in your seat and fold your arms, your heartbeat filling your belly with noise—you tune it with your breath, hold it back; you subdue the waiting shiver in your bones.

He pays attention to your restlessness.

“You ever get tired of brandishing that thing like its a loaded gun?”

He bites his lip, squeezes his cock. “Nope.”

“This—” You keep your eyes on his and lean back, slant your torso; you reach down, grab up a big handful of your huge pants. “Posturing shit.” You lift your chin, give the cloth a yank. “It must really work for you, under most circumstances…” You lean forward. “Or you wouldn’t keep doing it.”

“That’s fuckin hot.” He laughs at you and wields a dopey grin. “Do it again.”

“I was trying to make a point.”

“Go on.” He’s still grinning but there’s a sharp restless gleam in his eyes and far too much breath in his words. “Slip your hand down in them trousers, I don’t mind.”

“Okay.”

He blinks and his smile hesitates and your mind’s constant whirring backdrop flashes its bright neon reminders: embarrassment is the goal derailment of the current power dynamic is the goal the provocation of shame is the goal a calling-forth of the constantly looming social shadow of sexual violence is the goal—

The wild thudding of your heart, with its calamitous echoing rush of blood, dims down into the clinical cold forefront of your mind but your chest aches. Your fingers tremble.

You circle around the desk, take your time. The prowling momentum of your hips slinks down into your thighs, weakens your knees.

He pays close attention, reads your every movement.

You drag your fingers along its smooth surface; his eyes widen and his grin follows suit. He watches your face, his eyelashes fluttering. He bites his lip.

“All right, Fuckin Cook.” You sharpen your words but the stern undertone of it starts to erode. “If this is how you wanna play—”

The theatrics.

He relaxes as you come closer, flexes the length of his spine into a lazy position; he keeps his mouth half-open and breathes hard—he spreads his knees, pulls the hoodie up out of his lap. The well-maintained caricature of sneering machismo leaches out of his face and leaves behind a restless readiness, a subdued yearning, a cautious fascination.

Have left the building.

You cross the stuffy little box of a room.

He looks in your eyes, a slow red flush climbing up into his cheeks.

Your voice stays soft.

“Where’s all that swagger, Fuckin Cook?”

His swallows, his mouth jerks its way through a petulant pout. He blinks, lifts up his chest; he shifts his hips and watches you through lowered eyelashes, wets his upper lip with a slow slide of tongue.

He huffs, tilts one corner of his mouth into a narrow smile.

There’s my porn girl. Your breath squeezes until your temples throb. Your heartbeat thuds in your ears. There’s my rent boy.

He palms his crotch, runs the edge of one thumb along the curve of his straining cock. “It’s right fuckin here.”

Your mind’s constant background yammer tatters apart, dissolves beneath the rapid-fire thud of your blood—this is desperation, this is some cornered-animal bullshit, this is learned behavior—and the light but constant tremble in your belly drops a heavy shroud of heat over your skin. The backs of your arms tingle into a sudden sweep of gooseflesh.

Your nipples stiffen.

His gaze flickers toward them and he licks his lips.

Your breath swoons. “Show me.”

He bursts out laughing; his feverish eyes never leave your face. “You want me to take it out?” Incredulity drips from his words like slow syrup. “Innere?”

“I want you to stop talking about it.” You stand between his feet. “And put your money where your…” Your keep your voice light, slow your words to a sardonic crawl. “Big fucking mouth is.”

His voice quavers but he squares his shoulders and sits up, throws a show of force behind it: “Oh yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“How bout—” His voice withers into an agitated murmur and he fidgets, drops his gaze to your hips. He licks his lips. “You kick off them tart shoes, then?” He bumps the outside of your shoe with the inside of his. “And get down on your knees.” He rubs himself through the loose khaki and looks up at you, watches your face. His cheeks turn red. His breath speeds up. “And ask me again.”

What if I sat in your lap instead, big man, what then? What if I pull up this stupid tunic and stuffed a big fat nipple into your mouth, what then, would you shut the fuck up if I gave your wagging insolent tongue something to do—

Your breath quickens. “I don’t think I will.”

His eyes darken and his breath thins. He nods at your hair. “Take it down then.” He moves his eyes over your French twist, starts to pant. “Lessee it.”

“No.” You sigh out a short laugh. “I don’t think I will.”

He leans forward. “How bout I get up off this fuckin sofa then,” he half-breathes, half purrs; he reaches for the back of your knee. “Bend you right over that fuckin desk.” He plants his heels and stares at your mouth, squeezes the fullest part of your calf. “Pound that fuckin smirk right off ya face.”

You look down your nose, watch the shifting muscles in his forearm. “Is that what you think that’s gonna happen?”

He pulls up your pant legs and caresses your ankles, leans in, slips both hands up the backs of your thighs.

Your voice turns silky. “Is that what you want to happen?”

He squeezes. “Fuck yeah it is.”

You up lift a hand, hesitate; you breathe out and let it drop to the crown of his head. The shudder happens in his shoulders first, pushes the blades back and together before twisting through his neck and popping his jaw muscles. It wrenches his mouth open, crumples what’s left of his breath into a thin little gasp.

You curl your fingers into his messed-up hair, scratch light circles into his scalp; your voice stays low. “You know you have to take your cock out for that, right?”

His breath shakes, goose-pimples stippling the humped-up back of his neck. His grip on you loosens. He whimpers.

“And truth be told, Fuckin Cook…” You drop your voice into a whisper. “I don’t think you dare to.”

His voice shakes. “Ma’am—”

“You like that?” You start to turn away and he grabs the back of your knees. “Having to call me ma’am…” You attempt to step back. “When your cock is hard?”

“I do I—fuckin do yeah.” He pulls on you, doesn’t look at your face. His panting roughens. “I do.”

You start to smile. “Of course you do.”

He looks up. “A-Are you gonna—”

You raise your voice. “Am I going to what?”

“Touch me?” His voice cracks, goes soft; he studies your face, his breath shallowing. “Proper-like, I mean?”

“No.”

His face flinches. “Why not?”

“I’m still waiting for you to whip it out.” You pretend to check your notes. “Show me your—” You watch his face, make exaggerated air quotes. “Daddy-sized cock?” Your voice softens. “Or are you going to shut the fuck up about it?”

He scrambles backward and lifts up his hips and unbuttons, unzips, stares into your eyes. He chews his lip, works a hand down into his khaki trousers, chokes back a thin silky whimper; he holds your gaze and struggles to steady his breath, his eyes going in and out of focus, the whites of them glimmering. His breath shallows. His chest works harder. His half-open mouth flushes.

He works his cock free. Your eyes drop and it gets thicker as you look, lengthens, curves up toward his belly; the pale skin floods with faint pink flush, its fat veins standing out—your breath climbs up your throat as your legs weaken, a massive dump of adrenaline shivering its way through your knees. Your toes loosen.

Your heart pounds.

The room starts to spin.

“You’ve surprised me.” You shut your eyes and make fists, pull in a steadying breath. “Didn’t think you had the stones.”

“Don’t got much but stones I got.”

You open your eyes, find him enraptured by the look on your face.

“Fuckin big ones too.” He holds your gaze, wraps his hand around the shaft. He squeezes. “So you gonna do something about it or…?”

“No.” You keep your eyes on the lazy up-and-down of his fingers.

He breathes a little harder and a fat bead of precum wells up, hangs off the tip; he licks his teeth and closes his eyes, his chest heaving. He slides his foreskin up over the head until the drop fattens; it bumps into the frantic rise and fall of his stomach, thins into a long glistening strand.

You watch it soak into his shirt. “I don’t think so.”

“Reckon it’s big enough for ya.” He looks up, starts to smirk. “Told ya it was daddy-sized.”

I fuckin guess so Jesus Christ. It fills his grip, leaves a considerable gap between thumb and fingers. Maybe not exaggerated pornstar huge but—

“Sure you don’t wanna taste?” He keeps his eyes on your face, licks his palm. “Or is it like…” He settles back into the sofa, rubs it with short quick strokes. “Ma’am likes to watch?”

“You are putting on quite the show.”

“You’re enjoyin it.”

“You do crave an audience.”

He spits in his hand, cups it around the swollen head of his cock. “Pull that big top off then.” He rubs faster. “I wanna come on your tits.”

“Nah.” You shake your head. “That’s not gonna happen.”

He breathes through his mouth and lowers his eyelashes, doesn’t look away. “You wet?”

Your eyebrows twitch and you blink. You start to smile. “I bet you’d love to know.”

He works up a big wad of spit and purses his lips, lets it drip down into a finger-ringed well of precum. He rubs it in. “That ain’t a no, izzit?”

“For fuck’s sake.” Your face surges with heat and you shut your eyes, shake your head. “Would you quit it—” You cut yourself off with a huff. “With the goddamned spitting?”

“Awww.” His voice lowers. “You like it.” One corner of his mouth lifts and his tone turns conspiratorial. “Want me to spit in your mouth?”

Your breath surges, shallows until you’re lightheaded. Heat floods your head. It burns your ears, spreads down your chest; wraps your back in sharp gooseflesh, pulls your nipples into hard pebbled points.

Heart-thunder fills in your ears.

You shut your eyes and start to nod before your mind can catch up with what your body’s doing.

The smile deepens his voice. “Say please, then.”

You keep your eyes shut, shake your head; you pant through your nose, your jaws clenching. Your heartbeat blots out the shift of the cushions and by the time he stands up, by the time the rustle of his moving clothes stirs through the hairs on the back of your neck, his hand’s spreading across your mouth.

You go still, a slow creeping burn wrapping its way around your cheeks; your neck weakens, your breath shortening into sharp bursts.

He squeezes your cheeks just enough to loosen your jaw.

Your thighs press together and you choke back a soft withering moan.

“Open up, buttercup.” The tip of his nose touches yours, his breath warming your face with quick hot puffs. “Do ya want it?”

He loosens his grip and your mouth falls open. You nod.

“Awright,” he murmurs. “Let’s see that pretty pink tongue, love.”

Your breath flutters and you slide your tongue out, start to pant through your nose; each sucked-in breath heaves your chest, trails off into a muffled whimper.

“I do like them little whimpers of yours.” His hand finds one side of your face and caresses it; he brushes your chin with his thumb. His voice turns husky. “So fuckin hungry for it, yeah?”

“Just—” You gasp in a hard breath. “Fuckin do it.” Your voice stammers into a whisper. “If you’re gonna,” you pant. “This constant stream of commentary isn’t necess—”

“Here it comes.”

Your words end in a blast of hard breath.

He murmurs it against the side of your nose; “You ready?”

You shiver, move your head through a string of quick jittering nods.

He cups your cheek and skips the tip of his tongue up the center of yours; your breath backs up, catches on a soft moan.

He holds the back of your head, brings his mouth close to your upper lip; he smooches his lips, spills a thick rope of saliva onto your philtrum.

You gasp. It slides along your upper lip, runs down to the slick underside of it; it drips, sends soft waves of gooseflesh rippling down your back.

Thick and warm, it falls onto your quivering tongue.

“Taste good?”

Breath shakes in and out of you. You lick your upper lip and nod.

He drags the back of a knuckle down the center of your heaving belly. “Do it make you wet?”

You writhe your tongue into the corner of your mouth and scoop up the rest, swallow it down.

“Want more then?”

You open your eyes, find his eyes searching your face. You put both hands on his cheeks and he blinks, his breath jumping; he leans like he wants to pull back but you nod.

“Yeah,” you whisper.

He looks in your eyes, gathers up a fresh mouthful of saliva. Your thumb brushes his chin and he breathes a little harder, leans in.

You hold his gaze, open your mouth.

He launches a fresh wad of spit. It lands on the back of your tongue and heat slithers down your spine.

He leans in and nudges your bottom lip with his tongue and you make some noise—a big breath caught in the back of your throat, an accidental puff of air tripping over your vocal cords and rattling around inside your ribs and by the time your heart’s beat it up, covered it in bruises, he’s lunging with his mouth and wrapping yours in the kind of soft wet kiss that convinces your neck to back down out of its delicate vigilance.

He nudges you across the room and the rough thrust of his breath takes yours apart, his strained whimpers overtaking yours; he holds onto your shoulders, white-knuckles your upper body like a steering wheel. He pushes you flush against the desk.

He kisses like he wants to nuzzle his way into your lungs and lick the oxygen out of your blood.

He kisses like a desperate animal using all of its strength to mouth its way up to the glimmering silver underside of a river just long enough to taste one drop of air.

Your poor stunned body—your soft swollen soaked agonized flesh—your hapless guts, writhing in a flush of building heat; the shivering-cold knots knit into them by your anxious brain, your well-banked nausea held at a low simmer, the slow rumbling thunder pulsing through your slick channel and ringing your hips, vibrating your deep red walls—never stood a chance and that’s what you’ll say, much later, in the aftermath, when the dust has settled, your rivers of sweat crusted into salt. When it’s dark enough to speak the truth. When you’ve stumbled over your hubris and fallen, your foot cut wide open and bleeding on a random shard of your life.

He slips a hand between your heaving belly and the shirred elastic waist you picked out to deflect his targeted carnal interest and your huge swinging tubes of fabric make a welcome tent for his eager fingers.

You heave so much breath into him that it makes you dizzy.

He whimpers like a newborn puppy.

He curls past your panty elastic and aims the pad of his middle finger—the fuck finger, he might’ve bellowed once upon a time, that huge gaping grin shaped around the kind of hissing stuttering laughter that sounds like a cold engine struggling to catch a spark—through your matted tangles slippery hair; it grazes the wild pulse in your clit and you gasp, grab onto his shoulders.

The base of your spine flares with tight quivering heat.

Your thigh muscles loosen.

Your knees melt.

The crowing, the swaggering, the smug sneer doesn’t come—the I fuckin knew it, knew ya wanted it, knew ya’d get messy fuckin wet for big-cock Cook—but that finger-pad surveys the intricate geography of your swollen clit before it chases the shudder in you. It finds a sweet rhythm, moves light and soft and steady as the tap and slide of rain on a bedroom window.

The throbbing it stirs up shakes your breath and tightens your guts and curls your toes and smothers your brain in a tight snare of hot velvet.

“You think I don’t—” Your mouth smears his cheek, your breath clogging your voice. “Know about you,” you breathe.

“Shhhhhh.” He cradles the back of your head, pants close to your ear; his forearm readjusts but his fingertip doesn’t break stride.

“But I—” Your breath halts and shudders, trickles out of you with soft climbing whimpers. “Do,” you whisper, holding on to the back of his neck. “I do…I know you think this is all you’re good for—”

“Shhhhhhhhhhhh.” He breathes it louder this time, a soft tender edge creeping through his impatience. “Stop fuckin thinkin.” He kisses where your cheekbone meets the outer rim of your temple. “You don’ gotta—”

“That you’re—th-that you’re just—” You gulp, your voice stammering into a deflated moan. “But it’s not—” Your breath hitches. “Fuck,” you whimper.

He holds onto the back of your neck while his fingertip edges through its slow circuitous pace while the blood pounding away beneath it packs your pussy full of a sweet steady throbbing; the constant twitching grasp of you furls up tight, a sharp tremulous pleasure sinking its teeth into the pit of your belly.

He rests his lips on the corner of your mouth, breathes the softest murmur: “You want me to stop?”

“No—no no no.” You shake your head. “No,” you half-whisper, half-whine.

“Didn’t think so,” he pants.

He flips his hand, changes the angle of his gangly elbow; he hooks two fingers up into your slippery clench, chokes on a sudden mouthful of breath. The ache of it softens your knees, opens your thighs; he holds his air in his nose until the wet rattle of it bursts out, grinds into a thin soft high-pitched whine.

The unrestrained shiver of it drops down your spine, brings your throbbing clit to its brink. It firms your grip, pushes your hips against his palm.

His ragged noisy breath blankets your neck. He muscles in a third finger, the knobby shapes of his knuckles distorting the rim of your hole until it starts to burn; you cry out and his palm tucks in, his squeezed fingers pumping.

He knuckles into the sweet ache of you until blood thunders through your clit, until sparks shoot off behind your lids.

Your lungs spasm around a belly-deep groan.

He slaps a hand over your mouth.

“You gonna come?”

You nod, struggle to tamp down your moaning; he takes hold of your jaw, looks into your eyes. “Fuckin let it come then,” he murmurs.

You fight to hold his gaze but his other hand shifts its angle and moves faster. Your hips writhe at the gentle thrust of his knuckles; your moaning stutters, grows shallower.

“Thassit,” he whispers, steadying your face. He stares into you. “Give it.”

He rests the pad of his thumb on your clit, moves his fingers harder. You grab his wrist. Hold it still. You brace into the floor with your heels, work your hips against his hand.

“Oh yeah yeah,” he breathes out, murmurs your first name. “Lemme feel ya—”

The calamitous heat inside you seizes, sprints up a familiar steep ramp; it takes all your oxygen with it and you screw your eyes shut. You can’t help but moan and he smothers your mouth with a soft palm, speaks up against the back of his hand.

“You gonna bring that fuckin Fiona in here,” he utters in a harsh breath-torn whisper. “Iff’n ya can’t keep yourself quiet—”

The heavy heat in your belly thickens until your heartbeat floods your pussy, teases your light velvet flutter deep within you into a firm pulse. Your insides tighten around his fingers, the breath flying in and out of your nose; your voicebox struggles with its chokehold.

Your thigh muscles let go.

“Oh yeah tha’s good,” he half-moans. “That’s good.” He breathes out your name. “That’s so good—”

He leans his forehead into yours as the first waves of intense pleasure twitch to life; he murmurs a breathless litany out of your first name, falls into a mumbled and breath-torn ecstasy with it.

Your own name clangs around inside you like a bell. It strikes the inside of your chest, knocks debilitating vibrations down your spine.

“Oh fuck,” you gasp, your breath shortening. “Fuck…fuck fuck—”

He pulls on your nape, swallows the mounting gush of your breath with a kiss.

You whimper, your hips jerking their way through it.

“Yeeeahhhh.” He grins, lets out a breathless chuckle. “That’s m’girl.”

You whisper that you want him.

“Want me t’fuck ya?”

“Yeah but you need to hurry.”

He’s working the waistband of your pants down around your thighs when a brisk knock rattles the door-window.

You jump and gasp.

“Ma’am?” Fiona raises her voice, knocks a second time. “Just wantin to let ye know ya next one’s already here and waitin, owing to bein just a mite early.”

You shut your eyes, catch your breath. “Thank you, Fiona.”

He runs his thumb across your bottom lip while you’re still talking, rubs the edges of your speech into air-thinned blurs.

“I’m just wrapping up in here.” You grab his wrist, pull his hand off your face. “Please let them know I’ll be ready for them soon.”

“Of course Ma’am.”

“I don’t wanna go though.” He wraps his arms around you, buries his face in your neck. He starts kissing you. “Not just yet,” he whispers.

“But your time is almost up,” you whisper back, his kisses dropping hot little shudders down your spine. Your skin crawls with gentle gooseflesh. You rub his nape with your thumb. “There’s someone waiting.”

He puts his mouth against your ear. “I don’t fuckin care.”

“Cook.” You clear your throat. “I need you...to let go of me.”

He gathers up handfuls of your buttocks. “Thassa bit of a long pause you ’ad there.” He hauls your hips up into him, rests his lazy grin in the curve of your neck. “I heard that, y’know.”

“Let go.” Your voice firms. “Don’t push it.”

He stiffens. He drops his arms and moves back, looks down. His tone is hard and brittle. “Yes, Ma’am.”

You breathe hard, yank your pants back up.

He stands with his shoulders slumped and a dazed look on his face, his mouth rubbed pink all over with the ghost of lipstick, his chest rising and falling.

Your legs shake and you lean your weight onto one hand, walk yourself back around to the other side of the desk. You reach up and touch your hair, ease back down into the chair.

“I still have to make notes.” You look for the notebook. “I have to put something on those forms I sign off on every week.”

“Your mouth’s all ruined.” His voice is soft. “Your lipstick, I mean.”

“Yeah.” You grab some tissues, throw them across the desk. “You too.”

“Gotta sit there and make a note of things?” He snorts. “I guess this week’s will be a fuckin hoot.”

“It won’t be.” Your pen scratches across paper. “Because I’m going to lie.”

He huffs out a quiet breath.

“Wipe your mouth off, you look like someone rubbed your face in a pile of red paint.” You glance up. “Then you can go.”

“So I’m…” A fragile sneer twists through his voice. “I’m dismissed then?”

“No.” You sigh and put the pen down. “Not like that, not like—” You fold your hands and look up at him. You shut your eyes and turn your head, let out another sigh. “Not the way your tone suggests.”

“What you doin later?”

You open your eyes. “I’m going home.”

“Ohhh—right, that’s right.” His mouth struggles to stay neutral while shivering scorn drifts through his voice. “Yeah.” His voice strengthens. “Gotta go home to ya—”

“Empty house.” You keep writing. “To my house, my empty house, that’s empty because—” You glance up. “My doctor husband works nights.”

He blinks, steps back.

“He’ll wake up around five. He’ll make supper.” You return your attention to your work. “But after that, he’ll be off the emergency department from nineteen hundred alllll the way through to to zero-seven.”

“Oh.” His voice is soft. “It’s like that is it?”

“Yeah it’s like that.” You gather up his file, start to neaten it. “Is your listed mobile number current?”

“Uh—yeah.” He nods. “Yeah it is.”

“Good.” You spin around in the chair. “Now get out of my office.”

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#jack o'connell #james cook x reader #james cook x fem!reader #skins uk #fic title: what kills you is also what you'll crawl for #chapter title: petty shenanigans