putting you in your place, freddie/cook, nc-17
This is for the Skins Anon Kink Meme. First fanfic I've ever written, so NERVOUS. D:
Title: Putting You In Your Place
Pairing: Freddie/Cook
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~950
Freddie isn't quite sure how it happens. One minute Cook is in his face, laughing and talking shit, saying how Freddie is such a queer, such a nancy-boy, which is completely un-fucking-fair considering Cook is the one who always throws around kisses and I love yous like they're going to make everything better, and the next--
Well, the thing is. The thing is, Freddie's tired of it. He's tired of Cook being a dick all the fucking time, and he's tired of being treated like he's something Cook can just dispose of when he gets bored. Their so-called friendship has never been a two-way deal, not really, not when Cook likes girls so much more when they're with Freddie, and just, enough.
So, he calmly puts out his spliff and sits up straight, grabbing Cook around the middle and throwing him over his knee.
He's not thinking straight, fucking weed, and when Cook immediately starts struggling, fucking wanker, you better fucking let go of me or I swear I'll-- he raises his hand and brings it down on Cook's ass with a resounding crack.
Cook goes limp, ass in the air, bent double over Freddie's leg, but it doesn't last long. He flails around, arms waving madly, trying to find purchase, but there isn't anything to hold on to. Freddie has one arm around his back in an iron grip, and the other delivers another stinging slap to the back of his thigh.
Cook whines in the back of his throat and pushes his hips into Freddie's leg. He's pretty fucking horrified to feel his dick getting harder in his jeans. He flushes bright pink because fuck, this isn't how it's supposed to go, if anyone's supposed to be getting their ass smacked like a little bitch, it's Freddie, that pussy.
But it feels so fucking good. Freddie seems to have lost his hesitancy and is now raining blows down on him. Wherever his hand hits seems to be hardwired to his cock, because each smack is radiating jolts of pleasure to his aching dick. His hips have begun rocking back and fore, trying to ease some of the pressure, and it's humiliating, and Freddie's not quite stoned enough not to notice his best friend rutting against his thigh, for fuck's sake.
Cook means to shout Freddi's name but it comes out as a sort of needy whine, slipping high-pitched and begging out of his mouth. Freddie lets out a groan and starts going faster, landing hard slaps all over Cook's ass and the tops of his thighs. Cook shudders and writhes; his cock feels like it's about to explode and the zipper of his jeans keeps catching on the head of it. He can't get enough friction. Shit, he needs more, he fucking needs more, why can't Freddie see that?
"Please," he moans, voice breaking, "shit, fuck, just please, you bastard." He swears to God, if he doesn't come right this second, his dick'll drop off or something, he's never been more serious.
But then, to his dismay, Freddie actually slows down. Cook whimpers pathetically; this can't be happening. "You fucking prick, I'll fucking kill you, I swear to fucking God, man--"
His yelling ceases when Freddie breathes in his ear and chuckles, and Jesus, Cook didn't know he had it in him. "Hey James," he says, and Cook's hips jerk forward violently at the use of his name, his real name. "Hey James," Freddie repeats. "If you say something for me, I'll let you come, I'll let you come all over me, but I want you to say, I'm a bad boy, can you say that for me?"
Cook's nails claw into the material of Freddie's jeans, and he is so tempted to just tell Freddie to fuck right off, but there's still a hand absentmindedly swatting at his ass, just enough to keep him on the edge and he can't quite bring himself to say anything but a weak, "No..."
Freddie just breathes slowly into his ear again and yanks Cook's jeans down to his knees. "I will fucking stop," he says, so quiet it's almost a whisper. "I will stop right now and I'll fucking cuff you to the chair or something with your hands behind your back so you can't come, so fucking say it." Freddie brings his hand down again as a reminder, and Cook whimpers, actually fucking whimpers and mumbles something too low to hear. He can feel the cold air on his ass and it brings a tinge of relief to the abused skin, cooling it down.
"What was that?" Freddie rubs his leg against Cook's crotch which produces another whimper. "Tell me what you fucking said."
"I'm a bad boy," Cook mumbles, his hands clenching and unclenching suspended in the air. He gets rewarded with a particularly harsh smack and he sucks in a gasping sob of a breath as his hips thrust helplessly forward once more.
"Again, James," Freddie demands, his own breathing speeding up listening to his best friend getting off on his thigh, Jesus Christ. Cook knows his tells, knows when he's turned on, and if Freddie's voice isn't a big enough giveaway, the bulge in his jeans certainly is.
"I'm a bad boy!" Cook says through clenched teeth. Once again he gets a bruising blow for his efforts and he chokes out a hissing "Yes."
"Say it again," Freddie shouts, and Cook can't help it, just screams, "I'm a bad boy, I'm a bad boy, oh shit, oh shit, I'm a fucking bad boy--"
With that Freddie smashes his hand down, the hardest one yet, on Cook's bare ass and murmurs next to his ear, "Well done, Jamie, you're a good boy, you're such a good boy," and due to the praise, the use of his nickname or simply the overwhelming pleasure of the smack, Cook comes like a fucking rocket, cock grinding into Freddie's thigh as come splatters up his stomach, and God, he's dying, he's actually dying. He comes harder than he ever has in his life, his vision whiting out at the edges and sparks flying across the rest, and he can dimly hear Freddie freeing his own dick and jerking off furiously. He feels his best friend's come splash along his ass and God, nothing in the history of the world ever felt fucking better than this.
Title: Putting You In Your Place
Pairing: Freddie/Cook
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~950
Freddie isn't quite sure how it happens. One minute Cook is in his face, laughing and talking shit, saying how Freddie is such a queer, such a nancy-boy, which is completely un-fucking-fair considering Cook is the one who always throws around kisses and I love yous like they're going to make everything better, and the next--
Well, the thing is. The thing is, Freddie's tired of it. He's tired of Cook being a dick all the fucking time, and he's tired of being treated like he's something Cook can just dispose of when he gets bored. Their so-called friendship has never been a two-way deal, not really, not when Cook likes girls so much more when they're with Freddie, and just, enough.
So, he calmly puts out his spliff and sits up straight, grabbing Cook around the middle and throwing him over his knee.
He's not thinking straight, fucking weed, and when Cook immediately starts struggling, fucking wanker, you better fucking let go of me or I swear I'll-- he raises his hand and brings it down on Cook's ass with a resounding crack.
Cook goes limp, ass in the air, bent double over Freddie's leg, but it doesn't last long. He flails around, arms waving madly, trying to find purchase, but there isn't anything to hold on to. Freddie has one arm around his back in an iron grip, and the other delivers another stinging slap to the back of his thigh.
Cook whines in the back of his throat and pushes his hips into Freddie's leg. He's pretty fucking horrified to feel his dick getting harder in his jeans. He flushes bright pink because fuck, this isn't how it's supposed to go, if anyone's supposed to be getting their ass smacked like a little bitch, it's Freddie, that pussy.
But it feels so fucking good. Freddie seems to have lost his hesitancy and is now raining blows down on him. Wherever his hand hits seems to be hardwired to his cock, because each smack is radiating jolts of pleasure to his aching dick. His hips have begun rocking back and fore, trying to ease some of the pressure, and it's humiliating, and Freddie's not quite stoned enough not to notice his best friend rutting against his thigh, for fuck's sake.
Cook means to shout Freddi's name but it comes out as a sort of needy whine, slipping high-pitched and begging out of his mouth. Freddie lets out a groan and starts going faster, landing hard slaps all over Cook's ass and the tops of his thighs. Cook shudders and writhes; his cock feels like it's about to explode and the zipper of his jeans keeps catching on the head of it. He can't get enough friction. Shit, he needs more, he fucking needs more, why can't Freddie see that?
"Please," he moans, voice breaking, "shit, fuck, just please, you bastard." He swears to God, if he doesn't come right this second, his dick'll drop off or something, he's never been more serious.
But then, to his dismay, Freddie actually slows down. Cook whimpers pathetically; this can't be happening. "You fucking prick, I'll fucking kill you, I swear to fucking God, man--"
His yelling ceases when Freddie breathes in his ear and chuckles, and Jesus, Cook didn't know he had it in him. "Hey James," he says, and Cook's hips jerk forward violently at the use of his name, his real name. "Hey James," Freddie repeats. "If you say something for me, I'll let you come, I'll let you come all over me, but I want you to say, I'm a bad boy, can you say that for me?"
Cook's nails claw into the material of Freddie's jeans, and he is so tempted to just tell Freddie to fuck right off, but there's still a hand absentmindedly swatting at his ass, just enough to keep him on the edge and he can't quite bring himself to say anything but a weak, "No..."
Freddie just breathes slowly into his ear again and yanks Cook's jeans down to his knees. "I will fucking stop," he says, so quiet it's almost a whisper. "I will stop right now and I'll fucking cuff you to the chair or something with your hands behind your back so you can't come, so fucking say it." Freddie brings his hand down again as a reminder, and Cook whimpers, actually fucking whimpers and mumbles something too low to hear. He can feel the cold air on his ass and it brings a tinge of relief to the abused skin, cooling it down.
"What was that?" Freddie rubs his leg against Cook's crotch which produces another whimper. "Tell me what you fucking said."
"I'm a bad boy," Cook mumbles, his hands clenching and unclenching suspended in the air. He gets rewarded with a particularly harsh smack and he sucks in a gasping sob of a breath as his hips thrust helplessly forward once more.
"Again, James," Freddie demands, his own breathing speeding up listening to his best friend getting off on his thigh, Jesus Christ. Cook knows his tells, knows when he's turned on, and if Freddie's voice isn't a big enough giveaway, the bulge in his jeans certainly is.
"I'm a bad boy!" Cook says through clenched teeth. Once again he gets a bruising blow for his efforts and he chokes out a hissing "Yes."
"Say it again," Freddie shouts, and Cook can't help it, just screams, "I'm a bad boy, I'm a bad boy, oh shit, oh shit, I'm a fucking bad boy--"
With that Freddie smashes his hand down, the hardest one yet, on Cook's bare ass and murmurs next to his ear, "Well done, Jamie, you're a good boy, you're such a good boy," and due to the praise, the use of his nickname or simply the overwhelming pleasure of the smack, Cook comes like a fucking rocket, cock grinding into Freddie's thigh as come splatters up his stomach, and God, he's dying, he's actually dying. He comes harder than he ever has in his life, his vision whiting out at the edges and sparks flying across the rest, and he can dimly hear Freddie freeing his own dick and jerking off furiously. He feels his best friend's come splash along his ass and God, nothing in the history of the world ever felt fucking better than this.