#chippy chips

[youknowchippychips]

caught in the act-a cole palmer x yn story

words-450 words

It had started off simple enough — a casual Sunday morning plan. Coffee first, then maybe a quick stroll through town. Cole had been insistent: "Come on, YN, no one’ll even notice. It'll be chill."

You should have known better.

Wrapped up in one of his hoodies that drowned you in fabric (and his cologne), you tugged your cap lower as the two of you wandered into a high-end boutique tucked into a quieter street. Cole, in joggers and a beanie, looked just like any other twenty-something — except, of course, he wasn’t.

Inside, it was easy to forget who he was. You bickered playfully over which sunglasses suited him better, laughed when he tried on an absolutely hideous bucket hat, and pretended not to care when he sneakily paid for the jacket you had been admiring.

“Treatin’ you, innit?” he grinned, nudging you as you exited the shop.

You were halfway down the block, your hands swinging between you, when you heard the unmistakable click-click-click of camera shutters.

Cole stiffened for a fraction of a second but squeezed your hand tighter, not letting go.

"Just ignore 'em," he muttered under his breath, flashing a quick, half-hearted smile toward the swarm. You dropped your head slightly, trying to shield your face without being obvious.

One pap called out, "Cole! Is this your girlfriend?" Another shouted, "Looking cozy today, you two!"

Your cheeks flamed hot under the hoodie, and you glanced at Cole, who winked at you without missing a beat.

"Let 'em talk," he said softly, tugging you a little closer, his hand resting casually on your lower back now. His touch was easy, protective, claiming — as if he didn’t care that tomorrow the photos would be all over the internet.

You managed a small smile for the cameras as Cole leaned down, pretending to whisper something in your ear. Really, he just murmured, "Couldn’t care less what they say. You look mint today, by the way."

You laughed, the sound a little breathless, and it only made the cameras flash faster.

Later, piled into the safety of his car with shopping bags at your feet and adrenaline still buzzing through your veins, you turned to him.

“Next time," you teased, "we're ordering online.”

Cole chuckled, reaching over to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. “Nah. Where’s the fun in that?"

And with that boyish grin you loved, he pulled away from the curb, the two of you disappearing into the city, together.

[lilianism]

my son is made out of love, btw

[youknowchippychips]

homecoming blues-a cole palmer x yn story

You always knew Cole Palmer would make it.

Even back in Year 7, when he was the wiry kid kicking a ball around the playground like his life depended on it, there was something about him — focused, funny, frustratingly good at everything. And though your paths drifted as life got complicated and he got famous, somehow, you never stopped thinking about him.

So when you got a last-minute ticket to Chelsea’s match through a friend and spotted him on the pitch — sharp jawline, No. 20 on his back, glancing into the crowd like he was searching for something — your heart kicked hard against your ribs.

You didn’t expect what came next.

A message request later that night.

Cole: "You were at the Bridge today, weren’t you? Thought I saw you."

You smiled so hard your cheeks hurt. Of course he’d noticed. He always noticed you.

Two nights later, you’re standing in front of his apartment door in West London, stomach flipping. The city hums behind you, cool and electric, and your fingers hover over the buzzer for just a second before the door swings open.

And there he is. Taller, broader. Same mischievous eyes.

“Didn’t even give me a chance to buzz you in,” you tease.

Cole grins, tugging you inside. “Didn’t want to risk you changing your mind.”

His flat is minimalist — clean lines, navy tones, a hint of aftershave and something uniquely him. He offers you a drink, but you barely touch it. The air between you crackles, full of things left unsaid over the years.

You talk for a while — about school, about Manchester, about how weird it is seeing each other after so long. But eventually, the silence stretches just long enough for something else to slip in.

“You’ve changed,” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Cole watches you, leaning against the kitchen counter. “So have you.”

His eyes flick to your lips. Yours drop to the way his fingers are flexing, nervous, like he’s itching to touch you.

“You still think about it?” you ask.

He tilts his head. “About what?”

“Back then. Year 9. That night at Jake’s party.”

His breath hitches — barely, but you catch it.

“Course I do,” he murmurs. “Been thinking about it since I saw you in the crowd.”

You step closer.

There’s no one else here. No cameras. No pressure. Just Cole. The boy who used to steal your crisps at lunch, who once biked to your house in the rain just to give you your forgotten PE kit. The man who’s now standing so close his breath ghosts your skin.

You reach up, fingers brushing the side of his jaw. “Then stop thinking.”

He doesn’t need a second invitation.

His mouth is on yours like he’s been starving — rough, warm, familiar in all the right ways. You gasp as his hands grip your waist, pulling you flush against him. He tastes like spearmint and heat and want.

And when you break away just enough to breathe, you don’t go far. His forehead rests against yours, his voice rough and low.

“I’ve wanted this for so long.”

“Then take it,” you whisper.

You don’t make it to the bedroom right away. The couch does fine. So does the hallway wall. The night melts into skin and sighs and the kind of laughter only two people who truly know each other can share. There’s tension, sure — all those years of almosts and maybes — but under it is trust. Comfort. Home.

Later, you lie tangled together on the couch, his arm draped across your waist, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest.

“Reckon I’m gonna get distracted now you’re in London,” Cole murmurs.

You grin into his skin. “Reckon you’re worth the risk.”

He tilts your chin up to kiss you again, slower this time. Like a promise.

The next morning, you wake up to sunlight streaming through the curtains and Cole’s hand curled protectively around your hip. For a second, you just watch him sleep — the peaceful rise and fall of his chest, the faint crease between his brows even at rest.

You don’t know what happens next. Whether this turns into something real, whether the world makes space for the two of you again.

But for now?

You’ve got time. And Cole Palmer — the boy who never really left your heart — is right here beside you.

And that feels like the start of something.

its not very good this is my first story!! pls give me feedback so i can try make it better

[lilianism]

conked the fuck out

[lilianism]

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[waywardbiro]

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