Aug 15, 2020
@joc-cook
seen from Indonesia
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Japan
seen from United States
seen from Singapore
seen from China
seen from Yemen
seen from Australia
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from Tunisia
seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from China
seen from Germany
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
@joc-cook
❝Let’s go dress up like Batman and Robin and patrol the neighborhood.❞
hazy eyes widen as a little spark of excitement flashes through his face. damn, he really felt like wearing some latex that night. ❝ say no more, mate. ❞
Send 🌜for my muse to have a dream about yours.
non-verbal meme ( accepting ) + @joc-cook // cook
So like - maybe she’s dreaming or some shit. How would she know, save that trippy fucking light that echos through this hallway, like, the way she knew she was high that time with Jules beneath her sheets, as they giggled, held hands, and SWAYED TO THE MOTION of their perceived affection. Things that both felt real, and robbed, she finds herself floating above it all, but in it she sees him, him, the edges and the outline and the warmth that he fills. How he’s both familiar and distant to her, with all the things she knows to be true with him, how he’s, got that stupid smile, that swagger as if he couldn’t care less, how he gasps and sighs and grows soft when he’s done being hard, in more ways than one.
Wonders, why the fuck is it him that she always sees, the one that she always wants whenever she’s feeling low... or high... or simply being. How devastating and perfect it is whenever he wonders through, a stray without a care in the world for where he laid his he down, and she loves to imagine, in the moments like this that were purely HER OWN that this would matter more than it does. In her dreams, he’ll stay, with fingers that trace through that mess of her curly hair, a mouth that’s receptive against her own, that push, that shove, that strange taste of nicotine and coffee against the tip of his tongue, and in this, he’s close, a tangle of limbs and sleepy, tired, warmth that makes her feel like light, like sound, like maybe it’s worth being fucking alive after all.
Everything exists in the small space of her shared double room, him at the side of her bed and she’s on top, lounging, or Rue doing handstands as he watches and laugh, or they’re asleep and it’s peaceful, and she wants that one the most, she thinks. CAN’T IMAGINE why this is the image that haunts her when she’s in the middle of the deed, her head’s spinning, and she doesn’t know what to say on the morning when she wakes up and he’s there, just like she dreamed it to be, those awkward smiles, that push and that laugh. It’s dreamy, but he isn’t the type to stay, always a grin and a ‘see you’ to follow it that doesn’t really fit the dialogue that she’s made up for him, but ah, ah... not all can be as she dreams it, right? Sometimes you get to deal with the disappointment of being alive, of being near, of human mistakes.
ooooh ‘Trick or Treat! 🎃’
𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘥 ‘𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵! 🎃’ 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘣𝘰𝘹 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪’𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵! :acce[tomg
( a dual promo for you )
@joc-cook
❛ no one made me . i made me . ❜
vehement pintrest meme ( accepting ) + @joc-cook // cook
He’s on one, isn’t he, standing outside her place, pacing, sweating, WHAT’S THAT HUH, maybe cocaine? Either way, he’s on some aggressive shit, sweating out, ruddied cheeks. Rue thinks he’s been in a fucking fight too, from the way his eye looks bruised, but isn’t that just par for the course on a Tuesday out in London? And while she would usually be the first that’s out, she’s got her glasses on tonight, got shorts and a t-shirt that’s hanging out to her knees, she’s tired and studying and her mom’s facetimed her before she heard his yelling from outside, telling her mom that she needed to take a shower, before taking a bit of a rush outside to see what in the fuck was going on.
The yard’s a mess when he’s done with it. Someone’s gotten him good, Rue pushing forwards to grab at his hands from where he’s about to topple over a chair, there are, voices, sparking all about. People WAKING UP from midnight’s embrace, discontent a song that rings through the air that he’s brought here in the middle of a rush. “Hey hey hey!” Rue’s voice is horse, a shouted whisper in the night as she tries to get him to focus on her, palm framing his face, that shake, shiver, and reminder that she’s here: brown eyes wide and pleading, he’s always had a temper hasn’t he, but this is new.
He talks about how people are trying to take from him. Talks about his mom, his brother, and it’s all on a strained voice, a cut tongue, they’ve collapsed on the grass out front of her place, knees staining in the damp evening, feeling a chill that brings goosebumps to the surface of her flesh. “You’re right, you’re right.” everything repeated, a reminder that it was GENUINE. Through his hair, that bloodied fingerprints that press against his clothes that she notes, and she ignores, his head presses up against her bony shoulders, as if totally spent and exhausted.
So she starts slow. Did his mom call him or something today? Their parents so different, from overly involved, to too detached. How she’s always had a thing for BLAMING HIM for all her shortcomings, for the way that she’s come onto his friends, how he forgets his brother, too often. That he can’t remember her sober for anything, even work, and that she’s blown his best friend and he never knew how to feel about it. How tonight, she tells him that he’s nothing, and sometimes how he might believe it. But how in the same breath claims the best parts of him, too... what does he have, if he doesn’t have his own back? “I mean we got each other, right?” musing aloud, perhaps to her own detriment. She’s feeling it all, that slow creep of the emotions that threaten to choke her where she lays, there’s no confidence to give it a voice, but she’s careful, listening to the sound of his breathing grow more regulated. “You made you. But you don’t carry you alone.”
‘ i just need to feel something. ‘ // ‘ i need to feel you. ‘
late night meme ( accepting ) + @joc-cook // cook
Fresh close off her birthday, she’s riding high, high, high - maybe she ought to think something more of it, how she’s like, got the good times, that hyper focused time, how it’s all like pouring out into a weekend spent, straight partying through, from club, to house party, to someone’s pool, and then back at a club all over again. Somewhere in between it, they sleep, she thinks, why worry? Cook’s there, and he’s got that like, RIGHT STEADY SUPPLY right now, and so the good times roll, as do they. It helps that he’s like, always on, that it doesn’t matter where he’s waking up, or who he’s with, he tries to outrun his demons by remaking himself in the image of a monster. And Rue, well, she’s feeling so good right now, or maybe it’s because she’s got this like, brand new thing to focus on, so nothing else really seems to matter.
No, see, she’s just wrapped up another stint in rehab, her mom’s not happy ( obviously ), but at the same time it’s easy to say it was a one time thing, that she’s learned her lesson ( again ). The lesson never sticks, but neither did THEY, so she thinks she’s earned a bit of an opening, an extended fender bender worth of birthday partying to catch up on, with or without the blessings of those back home. It’s hard to think about them now, anyways, isn’t it? Right now she’s just thinking about -
What it’s like to kiss someone new and not like, totally hate it.
Not that she’s in love, no, she’s not that stupid the second time round. This time she gets it ( she thinks ). The palpable feeling of excitement, feeling, seen, is a weird one when she’s too used to having to shrink down in on herself. Watching the people you love disappear does something fucked up to you, doesn’t it, but Cook’s got his own HANDLE ON THAT, even if he doesn’t speak about it... kinda, hints at it maybe, when they’re out like this, with the things that slip when he’s not thinking about it, but, she thinks he always is. The ghosts of his own that she, herself, finds herself in flirtation with, the maybes, the ifs. Isn’t that what’s got this all totally electrifying?
They drink too much, they do lines in the bathroom. Cook says he wants to feel something, so they’ve got just the thing for that. Coming up red eyed and ABSOLUTELY AWAKE, now, and Rue can’t really say how long they’ve been going at it but they’re at some club and this place is totally filthy, but they make out against the sink, where, his hands lift her up and push her back, a hasty palm against her knees to push them apart for himself instead. He’s muttering, but Rue’s pretty sure he’s just fucked on powder, and someone’s banging on the fucking door, and at first they don’t care because he’s hitched his fingers beneath her underwear and they’re kind of in the middle of something but, the lock cracks and that puts a stop to that, the both of them left cursing for different reasons now as they push and shove their way outside instead, out themselves, before they’re tossed.
And in that back alley, where drifters from within are smoking out the last remains of their carton of cigarettes, they’re laughing, but, he’s heaving, cheeks flushed, the planes of his cheekbones made too all too sharp a focus before he leans in to kiss her again - and thank god because she’s thinking about the way he shapes against her mouth, and what that FEELS LIKE, with her chest hurting and her senses gone wild, that blind, fumbling step they take before she’s got him by the hand, and, they’re off down the street. He tells her that he needs to feel her, and she asks him, where’s his car again? She used to roll her eyes at how, he’d convince someone to lay it down in cramped quarters over empty pop cans and water bottles and balled up McDonalds wrappers, and yet here she is, splayed out, and laughing, wrapped up in the feeling of something new, something high, and for the first time in a long time, she isn’t thinking about home, isn’t thinking about Jules, isn’t thinking about her next fucking fix. Right now, this is enough.
46 softer 💖
a softer world meme ( accepting < my fave meme ever ) + @joc-cook // cook 46. We are terrible for each other, and, yes, we are a disaster. But tell me your heart doesn’t race for a hurricane or a burning building. I’d rather die terrified than live forever. (mistakes aren’t always regrets)
Rue doesn’t know what to do with this, you know - with someone giving back, the way that she’s slugging it out. She’s coming out of a depressive phase, and the hospital’s given her new meds - shiny little bottles lined up on the ledge of her window, reminders of what to take, on what days, how to moderate her mood and keep her from having another trip into NEVERLAND. The world always feels a little more hazy when she’s on them, like, how she’s moving in slow motion through the day, lost within her own world, her own thoughts... it’s a headfuck of a think, feeling as if she can speed up and slow down time, she takes one pill to put her level, another from Cook’s stash has her flying. He tells her about a friend he had who used to take so many pills just to feel normal, and part of that makes her feel at ease - he’s there in the mornings sometimes, after he’s spent the night. Helps her, line up her doses, with a glass of tap water, one, two, down they go.
Wants to feel guilty but she doesn’t, not now at least. It feels a little bit like Lexi, only, you know. More sex. And that part’s weird too, though she’ll never say it out loud, the awkward intimacy that comes with having him there slung out within her bed and, the fucked up way they’re constantly slicing lines of coke on her textbooks. This is the worst kind of idea... the two of them. She knows it, and, can tell that her mom would hate this if she knew. But mom’s not really here, and she got sent away for being TOO MUCH, too difficult, too dependant. So these weren’t decisions for her to toss aside because they were inconvenient, because it make her feel too much, and think in overdrive, she owns this, in a way that feels brand new. Because she likes him. Like, actually likes him, and not in the head rush, change your life kind of way that it’d felt like with Jules, because Jules had been so different, so new.
No, Cook’s not a lightning bolt in the middle of a bored existence. He isn’t there trying to push her to be anything other than her fucked up self - MIND YOU, an alive fucked up self, but that’s fair enough in her books. Perhaps because he’s so utterly and unapologetically himself, that childish grin, those eyes that light up with laughter over just about anything. How loud he is, all the time, so warm, against the cynical asshole persona she throws up until he’s got her trippin’ on something good, then she opens up, then she lets herself talk and talk and talk until she’s passed out. And he listens - fuck knows why he does. Half the shit she says is just that - pure fucking shit. But he notices things, you know, just like she knows she’s picking up on things from him, her fingers tracing out, small circles against his arm when he sleeps, curious about the scars, the tattoos, the small things that speak to a history that she doesn’t know.
In the hospital, she apologies to him - her voice wobbles a bit, unsteady like she is, with medicine dripping from an IV bag steady. It’s not the good shit - no. Her record’s screaming a warning signal to them all here, but that’s not what has her attention right now. Black pupils, dilated and focused, staring at him as her hand reaches for his, and she apologies, again. IT WAS SELFISH. And she isn’t sure why he’s still here, figures, even as just friends, this is the kind of thing that sends you running off once the heat’s gone and cooled down and instead he’s here crammed up on that itty bitty couch and sitting on the hard fold out plastic chairs that they have out here. Remembers him hauling her upwards and making her throw up outside, how her legs couldn’t move, how numb she felt, how close she’d felt to finally not having to fucking deal anymore, but thinking too, how awful it felt to disappoint him like this.
Worry will CONSUME THEM BOTH if they let it though, and, Rue’s not about to screw up a good thing. Again, that is. Fuck if she doesn’t have a fantastic track record, but this isn’t about all the things she’s managed to screw up in her now 18 years alive. College (as they call it here) is starting up again, and she’s another year to go, and while they’re living on borrowed time, with, a countdown ringing off in the background, a year is a hell of a long time to give. So even though she knows, intimately, that she will make mistakes and hurt him, and she’s positive that he’s going to hurt her back, despite all the clumsy smiles and the heartfelt way he promises that, he wants her to be okay and for them to do this together, she’s found some peace in that. That despite the war scars and the bullet holes, there’s still something worth creating and having, here.
So today, she makes her bed. She goes to class, she cleans her room, she puts on, clean clothes and does her make up. She calls her mom, talks to Gia, she plays some music, she walks, around, this strange and lovely city and sits by the Thames. And when the sun starts on setting, despite the NERVOUS THRUM within her chest, that boom boom, pow pow that jack hammers away, Rue texts Cook to come through if he can, and, makes the walk home herself. And when he comes in, without a knock because he’s here now, too often, too familiar, Rue’s there with the lights on and her homework finished and a grin on her face. Pushes off that shitty twin that they give her here and wraps her arms around his neck to hold on tight - face pressed there against the crook of his neck, and again she thinks, how warm he is, and how thankful she is in the moment. “How you doin’, Cookie?” voice all jumbled up against the collar of his shirt, not that it matters. “Sorry for being such a cunt the last few days. Come on. I owe you dinner. Like a whole ass combo meal. What do you say?”
👀 // grab my muse's jaw & direct their gaze towards yours .
aggression / sexual tension meme ( accepting ) + @joc-cook // cook
Look at me, look at me.
Please.
They talk so much shit in the car ride back, from rehab to the halfway house, the music’s on too loud, the junker fucking RATTLES with it. But that’s the point, it’s all screaming, happy birthday! And let’s get the fook out of here ( his accent’s a fuckin’ trip ), an arm about her neck as he drags her out while blowing kisses and flashing the middle finger to those left behind, ignoring the concerned looks that pass, from nurse to nurse, how they’re all taking silent bets on her relapse, and when she’d next be back. But let that be a losing game for them all, because this time, Rue isn’t looking to get caught, knowing that she’ll have her old tricks to roll with again, though it also meant that she needed to make a friend who didn’t roll the same way that the two of them did, and wouldn’t find it humiliating to take a piss in a bottle whenever asked, in case.
His car’s a fucking pharmacy, she’s barely in the seat before she’s got a TAB of molly, popped, dissolving beneath her tongue, stamped and sealed. A butterfly, it’s kinda sweet almost, her head lolls back within the seat and she feels herself get lifted. This time she isn’t talking, the music fills in all the blanks and spaces that sit between them, and, he can’t look at her right now. She wonders if he thinks he’s the reason that she’s gotten herself twisted up again, and maybe that’s right, but Rue knows she’s kinda fucked up either way, and that’s kind of the point, she’s perpetually hovering on the edge, arms spread wide as she waits for the wind to take her.
He makes a comment about the hospital scrubs - she bites back that she left them for the guard to jerk off into - they laugh about it, but she thinks he’s gonna try to kill the man, not that she thinks she’ll miss him very much. They sing along to the lyrics of the familiar ones that hit the dash, and her feet kick up at the molly starts to hit and she’s thinking about how it’ll be better to smoke weed when they get back to her place because it’s already fucking midnight and her roommate’ll KILL HER if she’s even home. Rue asks how it was like sleeping in her bed, and he makes a comment about how the sheets itch. "Yeah cuz they’re actually clean, you dork.” cue the rolling of eyes, the grins that are hard to fade.
But by the time they’re back from the bar ( just nipping in of course ), it’s 3 am and it’s hard to make the walk, up endless stairs, that spiral upwards and downwards. How heavy he is when leaning against her arm, and, how they find a sparse space out the front of the landing eventually to pass a poorly rolled joint, back and forth. Tonight she’s the quiet one, he talks and talks and talks, but THAT’S COOK for you - he talks about missing her and the girls that he’s seen, and she can’t tell if that’s good or bad, but he won’t look at her, will he, his emotions laid out in confusing sideways strokes that she can’t stand, because she’s not sure what that means, and she’s bad at knowing where to read her cues.
Until she just can’t take it anymore, longer fingers hooked beneath his chin, she MAKES HIM LOOK, despite the nervy way it’s got her wavy, or maybe that’s the drugs, it’s hard to tell if it is, or perhaps more accurately, which one. Rue isn’t even sure what to make of this revelation, if it is one, but there’s that feeling again, how he looks confused when staring at her, and she’s got that same emotion all hot and cold within her stomach. But she doesn’t want to lose her nerve, eyes narrowed and glittering and looking pissed right up until the second she kisses him, the streetlight overhead flickering, buzzing, the opposite of that bruising feeling that comes from being this close, how she gets it now - what it means to kiss someone without asking, what it feels like to want it that badly.
This time, he looks.