we all have our courses, don’t we?

Tom Hiddleston and Tilda Swinton as the vampires Adam and Eve

ONLY LOVERS LEFT ALIVE (2013)

directed by Jim Jarmusch

summary: when cook crashes into your life, friendship and blurred boundaries turn into something more. pairing: james cook x reader word count: 3.9k+ a/n: hi! it’s been a while, i’ve been super duper busy lately! this fic is based off of this request so thank you anon! it’s not necessarily based off of a song but i thought these lyrics were fitting in all honesty, plus i really just like this song in general haha. please don’t be shy to leave any other requests this was really fun to write :) thank you @snitches-getstitches for choosing the theme and @asthecrowfliesalliance for proof reading you’re the goats mwahehe >:3

Not a lot, just forever. Intertwined, sewn together.

—

You don’t even want to be there.

That’s the first thing that crosses your mind when you step into the house. The music is too loud, the floor is sticky, and the smell of beer and cheap perfume hits like a wall. Someone you barely know insisted “you have to come, everyone’s gonna be there”, and against your better judgment, you showed up.

The plan had been simple: make a brief appearance, drink something vaguely tolerable, leave before anyone could rope you into small talk.

But then, out of nowhere, someone crashes into you hard enough to nearly knock the cup out of your hand.

“Oi—shit! My bad, my bad!”

The voice is loud, unapologetically so. You look up to find a guy grinning down at you — tallish, scruffy brown hair, eyes bright and wild in a way that makes him seem both charming and dangerous. There’s a half-empty bottle dangling from one hand, and a smear of lipstick on his neck that doesn’t look like his.

He’s all energy. Movement. Like the room spins around him.

“You good, yeah?” he asks, leaning in too close like you can’t hear him over the music. His breath smells like beer and mint, his grin still glued to his face.

“Was,” you reply dryly, flicking your damp sleeve. “Until you decided to rugby tackle me.”

He laughs, really laughs. It’s loud, carefree, like he hasn’t got a single regret in his entire life.

“Didn’t mean to! You just showed up outta nowhere.”

“You literally walked into me.”

“Semantics,” he says, waving his bottle like that settles it. Then, with a wink: “Name’s Cook.”

You raise a brow. “That your real name?”

“Course it is.” He pauses, eyes sparkling. “Well. It’s what people call me. You can too.”

“Lucky me,” you mutter, but your lips twitch despite yourself.

Cook notices, of course he does. His grin widens, and suddenly you’re being pulled toward the kitchen before you can argue. “Come on, you look like you need a proper drink. That one’s basically piss.”

He’s already talking, rambling, telling you stories that don’t sound remotely true — something about stealing a canoe once, and another about getting kicked out of a pub for dancing on the bar. You should be rolling your eyes, but instead you find yourself… entertained. He’s ridiculous, and he knows it, and somehow that makes it work.

He leans in close when he talks, too close. His shoulder brushes yours every time he laughs, and he has this way of tilting his head like he’s trying to memorise your reactions. You catch yourself smiling back more than once.

When someone yells for shots, he lights up like a match. “You in?”

You hesitate. “I don’t—”

“Ah, c’mon.” He’s already pouring. “First one’s on me.”

You sigh. “You just spilled beer on me.”

“Then we’re even.”

You laugh, despite yourself.

Hours slip by in fragments; a blur of noise, music, laughter. Cook drifts in and out of conversations, but somehow always finds his way back to you. Every time you think he’s wandered off for good, he reappears, plopping down beside you with that same infuriating grin.

At one point, he throws his arm around your shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “We’re mates now,” he declares.

You snort. “We literally met two hours ago.”

“Two hours, three lifetimes—same thing.”

You glance at him, trying to decide if he’s joking. He’s looking at you like he means it.

“Do you always talk this much?” you ask, shaking your head.

“Only when I like someone,” he shoots back without missing a beat.

That catches you off guard, the easy way he says it, like it’s a fact, not a flirty comment. His eyes stay on you just a second too long. You tell yourself it’s just how he is. Loud. Playful. Overly familiar.

But when you finally leave the party, his voice follows you out the door.

“See you ‘round, yeah?”

You almost say no.

Almost.

But instead, you glance back at him — still leaning in the doorway, still smiling like the world’s his to ruin.

“Yeah,” you say before you can stop yourself. “See you around.”

And that’s how it starts.

Cook, with his chaotic grin, his wild stories, his habit of standing too close crashes into your life and never really leaves.

—

The thing about Cook is he never really asks before showing up.

The first time he knocks on your door, it’s two in the afternoon and he’s holding a plastic bag filled with crisps, two beers, and what looks like a stolen DVD.

“Afternoon, sweetheart,” he greets, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. “You busy?”

You blink. “It’s Tuesday.”

“Yeah.” He grins. “So?”

And that’s how it starts.

From then on, Cook becomes a regular feature of your life, sometimes expected, sometimes not, but always loud. He drops by after work, after nights out, after days when you swear he should be somewhere else. Half the time, he’s got a story that ends with “and that’s why I might need to crash here.”

At first, it’s annoying. He leaves dishes in your sink. Plays your music too loud. Eats the last of your cereal.

But then, somewhere along the line, it stops bothering you.

Because Cook makes things feel lighter. Easier.

He fills every silence with laughter or bad singing or stories you’re ninety percent sure are lies. When you’re upset, he distracts you with something stupid like a dance in your kitchen, a terrible impression, a random trip to the corner shop just because he wanted “a twix and some air.”

He’s chaos, and yet, weirdly, he feels like home.

You notice his lack of boundaries gradually.

At first it’s little things like sitting too close to you on your sofa, leaning over your shoulder to read your phone, tugging at your hoodie strings just because they’re there.

Then it escalates.

“Cook,” you mutter one day as he flops across your lap, dramatically pretending to die. “You’re so fucking heavy.”

He doesn’t move. “I’m comfortable.”

“Get off.”

“Make me.”

You roll your eyes but end up laughing anyway. It’s impossible not to.

Another time, you’re brushing your teeth and he walks into the bathroom like it’s his own.

“Mate!” you choke, mouth full of foam. “Privacy!”

He shrugs, grabbing something from the shelf. “You’ve got toothpaste on your nose.”

“Get. Out.”

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He grins in the mirror, ruffling your hair on the way out. “You’re welcome.”

Despite your complaints, there’s never any malice in him. His closeness feels… safe.

Warm, even.

When he slings his arm around your shoulder, it isn’t heavy. When his fingers brush yours as you pass him something, he doesn’t pull away. He just stays.

Sometimes you think he doesn’t even realise how much space he takes up, both literally and otherwise.

You find yourself used to it. Expecting it. Missing it when he isn’t there.

One evening, he shows up again.

He’s already halfway through a packet of crisps, talking about some ridiculous adventure involving his mates Freddie and JJ, a bicycle, and “a very pissed-off swan.”

He’s lying across your bed now, shoes off but otherwise sprawled like he owns the place.

You’re sitting beside him, trying to read, but every other minute he pokes you.

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?” he says, grinning.

“This.” You grab his hand mid-poke. His skin is warm, his smile smug.

“You like me botherin’ you,” he says, that teasing lilt in his voice.

You scoff. “In what world?”

“This one.” He shifts, propping his chin on your shoulder. His breath ghosts over your skin, and you freeze — not because it’s unwelcome, but because your heart reacts before your head can.

You shove him lightly, forcing a laugh. “You have zero concept of personal space.”

“Don’t believe in it,” he says, his grin widening. “Life’s too short for space.”

“Boundaries exist for a reason.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t seem to mind me breaking yours.”

You open your mouth to argue but then stop, because he’s still close. His eyes are watching you, searching for something. It lasts only a second before he grins again, playful as ever, and the moment evaporates like steam.

You start noticing other things too.

The way he looks at you sometimes when he thinks you’re not paying attention.

The way his voice softens when he calls you “sweetheart” now it’s less teasing, more… sincere.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. That’s just Cook.

The same Cook who forgets to knock. The same Cook who steals your blankets. The same Cook who sits shoulder-to-shoulder with you every night like he can’t stand being more than an inch away.

Still, when he falls asleep against you one night, head resting on your shoulder, you don’t move him.

You should.

You don’t.

Because the truth is as much as he invades your space, you’ve started to realise that you’d rather have him too close than not at all.

—

The change sneaks in quietly.

It doesn’t announce itself, there’s no big moment, no revelation. It just happens in pieces.

A look that lasts too long. A touch that lingers.

The growing realisation that every time Cook is too close, you stop minding quite so much.

You still call him out on it, of course. It’s a running joke now.

“Cook, you’re in my bubble.”

He smirks, leaning even closer. “Didn’t know you had one.”

“Everyone has one.”

“Not me,” he says, eyes glinting. “And clearly not you, either.”

And you hate that he’s right.

Because he’s everywhere.

He’s in your kitchen, rummaging through your fridge.

He’s on your couch, half-asleep with his legs thrown across yours.

He’s in your head when you’re trying to sleep, his voice replaying the way he says ‘sweetheart’ like it’s a secret nickname.

It gets harder to pretend it’s nothing the night you two go out together.

You hadn’t planned to but Cook had appeared at your door with that usual reckless grin and a promise: “We’re goin’ out, yeah? You look too sober.”

The pub’s crowded, warm, buzzing with noise. Cook knows everyone somehow. He’s like a magnet; laughing, joking, talking to three people at once.

You nurse a drink, watching from the edge of the chaos.

He glances over every few minutes, checking you’re still there. Every time, he smiles — that big, easy smile that never fails to disarm you.

But then, as you’re leaning against the bar, someone else slides up beside you.

They start flirting and it’s subtle at first, then not so subtle at all.

You don’t stop them. You’re single. You can.

Still, your chest feels strange.

And before you can even register why, Cook appears behind you like a stormcloud.

“Alright, mate,” he says, voice deceptively cheerful, arm casually sliding around your shoulders. He doesn’t look at you he’s looking straight at the person beside you, eyes sharp, smile a little too wide. “We were just leavin’, yeah?”

You blink. “We were?”

“Yeah.” His grip tightens just enough to make his point. “Come on.”

You let him lead you outside, half annoyed, half confused.

When the cool air hits, you turn on him. “What the hell was that?”

He shrugs, lighting a cigarette. “Didn’t like him.”

“You don’t even know him.”

“Didn’t need to.” He exhales smoke, gaze flicking toward you. “He was starin’ at you like—like you’re a meal or somethin’.”

You raise a brow. “And that’s your business because…?”

He hesitates. Just a flicker. Then, that grin again. “Because you’d miss me if he nicked you from me, that’s why.”

You roll your eyes, but your pulse doesn’t slow down.

He grins, stepping closer again, and before you can stop him, his hand is brushing your jaw, thumb tracing a streak of something from your skin.

“There,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “You had a bit of glitter on you.”

You can barely breathe.

His voice drops lower. “You go all quiet when I’m close, you know that?”

You swallow hard. “You’re always close.”

He chuckles softly, lips curving but there’s something softer behind the grin this time. “Yeah. Guess I am.”

The moment stretches — long enough to make your stomach twist, long enough that for a second you think he might actually kiss you.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he flicks his cigarette away, bumps your shoulder, and says, “Come on, I’m starving. Chips on me.”

Like it never happened. Like your heart isn’t still racing.

After that night, the air between you changes.

He still jokes, still teases, still takes up every bit of space around you but now, his touches feel heavier. Intentional.

When he slings an arm around you, his hand lingers at your waist.

When you talk, his gaze drifts to your mouth.

When you laugh, he looks at you like he’s memorising it.

And you notice you’ve started doing it too.

Your eyes follow him without meaning to.

You lean into his warmth before you even think.

You start to realise you can’t remember the last time you didn’t want him close.

It all comes to a head one late night at your place.

You’re both lying on your bed, you’re reading some random magazine, Cook’s absentmindedly flipping through channels on your tiny TV. The room’s half-dark, quiet except for the faint murmur of whatever show he’s not actually watching.

He rolls onto his side, facing you. “You’re quiet tonight.”

“Maybe I’m tired of you being in my space 24/7.”

He smirks. “Nah, you love it.”

“I really don’t.”

He hums, unconvinced, propping himself up on one elbow. His fingers find a loose thread on your sleeve and tugs gently. “You’d tell me to leave if you meant that.”

You look up. He’s closer than you thought.

His eyes flick between yours, his breath brushing your cheek.

Neither of you move.

And then, suddenly too suddenly he sits back, grin breaking the tension. “You hungry? I could murder a kebab right about now.”

You exhale, trying not to sound disappointed. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yeah, but you like me this way,” he says, already typing a number in on his phone for delivery.

You shake your head, but you can’t hide your smile.

Because he’s right. You do.

Maybe a little too much.

—

You should have known it would happen like this.

Not in some slow, delicate moment. Not under candlelight or confessions. No, it happens in the middle of Cook’s chaos — loud, clumsy, a bit of an accident.

It starts at another party.

He’d begged you to come. “Don’t be a bore, yeah? You love watchin’ me make a fool of myself.”

You’d rolled your eyes, but gone anyway. Because deep down, you knew you couldn’t ever really say no to him.

The house is full. Bodies pressed close, bass shaking the floorboards. Cook’s already in his element, dancing, yelling, half the room knowing his name. You stand by the kitchen counter, watching him spin some poor bloke around like he’s in a music video.

You can’t help it, you smile. He’s ridiculous. Infuriating. Brilliant.

And for a second, you forget that this friendship has been sitting on a fault line for months now.

Then someone else joins him: a stranger, someone too close, hand brushing Cook’s shoulder.

And something hot and uncomfortable coils in your stomach.

You look away.

But he sees it.

A while later, you feel him before you see him — warm, familiar, all presence.

“Hey,” he says, breathless and grinning. “You alright, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” you say, taking a sip of your drink. “Having fun flirting with the entire room?”

He blinks, surprised. “What, jealous?”

You laugh, too sharp. “You wish.”

He leans in, eyes glinting. “Maybe I do.”

You freeze.

He’s close enough now that you can smell the faint mix of beer and cologne, the same one that lingers in your clothes every time he leaves.

“Cook,” you start, but he cuts in — soft, low, serious for once.

“You look bloody gorgeous tonight, you know that?”

You blink. “You’re drunk.”

“Little bit,” he admits, grinning again. “Still mean it, though.”

You roll your eyes, but your pulse is already skipping.

Because no matter how many times he’s flirted before, this feels different.

He watches you for a beat, his eyes scanning your face, lingering on your mouth.

Then, in classic Cook fashion, he blurts out:

“Why d’you never let me kiss you, eh?”

Your drink nearly spills. “Because you’re—” You stop. You don’t actually have a reason.

He takes a step closer, tilting his head. “Go on.”

You swallow. “Because you’re you.”

That makes him laugh — not meanly, but soft, disbelieving. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It usually is.”

He grins, then quiets. “Not when it comes to you.”

Something in your chest breaks a little.

You don’t even realise how close he’s moved until his fingers brush yours, light and hesitant.

“Cook…”

“Yeah?” His voice is barely above the music now.

You should walk away. Make a joke. Say something to break the moment.

But you don’t.

Because all those half-touches and lingering looks, all those nights he fell asleep on your shoulder, all the stupid flirting that stopped being funny months ago — it all catches up at once.

And then he kisses you.

It’s not smooth, not practiced. It’s desperate.

He kisses you like he’s been holding his breath for months. It’s all teeth, heat, and the faint taste of whiskey.

You gasp, hands gripping his shirt, and he groans against your mouth, pressing closer, closer still, until you’re backed against the wall. The noise of the party fades to nothing.

He smiles mid-kiss, a breathless little laugh escaping as he tilts your chin up. “Knew you’d taste good,” he mumbles, kissing you again, slower this time.

You pull back just long enough to whisper, “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” he says, forehead against yours, lips brushing your skin. “And you love it.”

You do. God help you, you really do.

He kisses you again, deeper now — his hands sliding to your waist, your fingers tangled in his hair. It’s messy and intoxicating and perfect in that reckless Cook way.

When he finally breaks the kiss, both of you are breathless, smiling like idiots.

There’s a long pause, the kind that usually comes before someone panics or pretends it didn’t mean anything.

But not Cook.

He just stares at you for a moment, thumb brushing your cheekbone, then says with a grin that’s softer than you’ve ever seen it:

“About bloody time, yeah?”

You laugh, half from nerves, half from relief and shake your head. “You really don’t have an off switch, do you?”

“Not when it comes to you,” he murmurs.

And then he kisses you again, slower this time, hands steady, like maybe he finally knows how to stop running for once.

Later, when the party’s long forgotten and you’re tangled up together on his sofa, your legs across his lap, his head resting against yours, you realise something that should’ve been obvious all along:

Cook’s always been too close.

You just finally let him stay there.

—

Morning comes slowly.

Light filters through the curtains in streaks of gold, painting the room in that hazy half-sleep glow. You feel warm, cocooned in the kind of comfort that makes you forget what time it is or where you even are until the voice beside you breaks the quiet.

“G’morning, sweetheart.”

Cook’s voice is gravelly, a little rough around the edges. You blink, and there he is: hair a mess, smile lazy, looking at you like you’ve just handed him the entire sun.

You groan. “You’re too cheerful.”

“Can’t help it,” he says, leaning in close, too close until his nose brushes yours. “Got everything I want right here.”

You shove his shoulder, but you’re smiling. “You’re disgusting.”

He grins, unbothered. “You weren’t sayin’ that last night.”

“Cook!”

He laughs, throwing his head back, that same loud, carefree sound you’ve heard a hundred times. Except this time, it’s softer. Happier.

You roll your eyes, sitting up. “You’re impossible.”

He shrugs. “Maybe. But you’re still here, aren’t you?”

And that’s the thing —you are.

You glance around his flat, the usual mess of clothes, empty bottles, the faint smell of whatever cheap candle he must’ve stolen from you weeks ago. It should feel the same as it always has, but it doesn’t.

Because now, his hand is resting on your thigh like it belongs there.

Because now, when he looks at you, there’s no teasing in his eyes. Just that stupid, open fondness you’ve been pretending not to see for months.

You sigh, brushing hair from your face. “So what now?”

“What d’you mean?”

“Last night,” you say, voice softening. “Was it just—”

“Oi.” He cuts you off gently, pressing a finger to your lips. “Don’t say somethin’ so daft.”

You blink up at him.

He smiles, not the usual wild grin, but something smaller, almost shy. “You think I’d kiss you like that for fun?”

“Honestly? Yeah, I wasn’t sure.”

He laughs, then cups your jaw with one hand, thumb brushing your skin. “You’re my favourite person, yeah? Been drivin’ me mad for ages princess. I didn’t just trip and fall into that kiss.”

You look at him for a long moment. His face, still sleepy. His barely there freckles. That ridiculous spark that never seems to fade.

You sigh. “You have a weird way of showing it.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, leaning in until his lips graze your ear, “you’ve got a weird way of pretendin’ you don’t love it.”

Your stomach flips. “Cocky bastard.”

“Gorgeous bastard,” he corrects with a grin, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

You spend the morning exactly how anyone would expect with Cook, halfway between tenderness and chaos.

He burns the toast. Twice.

He spills orange juice on himself and spends five minutes insisting it was your fault.

You call him an idiot, and he just grins, stealing another kiss.

At one point, you catch him staring. Not the usual mischievous glance, something quieter.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothin’,” he says softly. “Just… didn’t think I’d get this far without fuckin’ it up.”

You reach across the table, brushing his fingers with yours. “You still might.”

He snorts. “Fair.”

Then, after a pause: “Still worth it, though.”

You smile. “Yeah. It is.”

Later, you’re both lying on the couch, his head on your stomach, your hand absently tracing patterns on his arm.

He looks up at you, eyes half-closed. “So we’re doin’ this, yeah?”

You hum. “Guess we are.”

“Properly?”

“Properly.”

He grins, satisfied. “Knew I’d wear you down eventually.”

You flick his forehead. “Don’t make me regret this.”

“Too late for that, sweetheart.”

He stretches out, settling even closer, his voice lazy and full of warmth. “Told ya ages ago I don’t do space. You’re stuck with me now.”

And somehow, the idea doesn’t sound bad at all.

You smile, closing your eyes, feeling his fingers lacing through yours warm, steady and uncharacteristically gentle.

Cook hums something tuneless under his breath, half a song you don’t recognise. You’re not sure if he knows it either. But you do know this: for the first time since you met him, there’s no chaos in your chest. Just the feeling of him, all heat and laughter and heart, exactly where he’s always been.

Too close.

And right where he belongs.

Writing this has been so much fun. It honestly feels like I've drained every drop of my creative blood into this. The only problem I had was deciding whether Cook should be a werewolf or a vampire.

Scroll down to see which one won. Much love. ♡

Perhaps life cannot be puzzled or blathered into submission but should be lived through and survived in whatever fashion a man can manage. Maybe cleverness will get you nowhere. Maybe it is only the stupid, the brilliantly stupid, who will inherit the earth.

I feel that Drax and Sumner are essentially two sides of the same coin. One is a person who lives through instinct and the other lives through using his intellect. I certainly see Drax as the shadow of Sumner in many respects; he is what Sumner is trying to repress and hide and keep secret.