A Little Less Conversation. Skins. Freddie/Cook.
A Little Less Conversation.
NC-17. 1,340 words. Skins.
Freddie/Cook.
Another response to the skins!kink meme. Prompt was: cook/freddie - blowjob, angry, gagging. All of that, minus the gagging, because I suck.
So Freddie hits him, punches, clocks, whatever, knocks him down flat, and it isn’t an easy task because Cook’s shorter, smaller, but he’s that brand of lean muscle that keeps the sort of raw energy Freddie can never muster.
“Fuck you,” Freddie growls, and Cook just glances back up at him, spits onto the barroom tiles, and pushes back onto his feet. He looks as hard as he ever does, none of the loose, easy limbs or the stupid grin, laugh, and Freddie takes a step back almost subconsciously, watches the way Cook watches him. Effy’s staring, somewhere across the bar, eyes half-lidded and assessing, hands listless in her lap and she’s beautiful, the sort of painted-on perfect that Karen’s porcelain dolls are, the sort of dark that Freddie can’t describe, and this shouldn’t be about her, even if it is. Even if it isn’t.
“You’d like that, eh, Freds?” Cook says, loud enough for a couple of the guys sitting at the bar to laugh, enough for Effy’s lips to twitch, and Freddie sneers, tries for another sucker punch but Cook’s ready this time, ducks and shoves and it’s too soon that Freddie’s being pushed down the hall to the toilets, being thrown against the wall.
The thing about being friends since you could walk, talk, is just that. You’ve been friends since you could throw a punch, could fight, could fuck and take and manipulate. Cook and Freddie and JJ have been friends since their mum’s hung out in post-natal aerobics, since playgroup, back when girls had cooties and playdates were crayons and cookies instead of drugs and pussy. Back when Freddie’s mum was alive and Cook’s parents gave a shit.
They were friends before everything else, they were always Cook and Freddie and JJ and they’ve grown up, but not really because they’re taller now, and probably more fucked up, but it’s the same as when they were kids, all this bullshit. Freddie wants, Cook takes, Cook keeps and Freddie hates.
“You’re a fuckwit,” Freddie says, voice low, hoarse, “Arsehole, it’s always the same thing.”
Cook doesn’t say anything right away, just stares for a second, and it’s fast and painful when he grabs the sides of Freddie’s face and kisses him hard. It’s not anything but bitter, angry, and Freddie would hate the familiarity if he thought he could.
“Fuck,” Cook growls it into Freddie’s neck, fists his t-shirt and holds him hard against the wall. He reeks of beer, of spliff, and Freddie feels too sober, fingers itching for something powdered, something small and round that he can stick down the back of his throat. He’s tired of this same old shit, sick of Cook. “Fuck, I fucking love you.”
Freddie just grits his teeth and says, “Stop saying that, you twat.”
Cook snorts, like maybe he was expecting it, and he twists in front of Freddie, shoots him a look from beneath his short bangs and gnashes his own teeth together. “What do you want me to do then? You want me to prove it or something? You want me to suck your cock?”
Freddie hisses, low in the back of his throat and shoots a quick look down the hall, at the ceiling, at Cook. He tries to ignore the way his dick twitches, the rush of blood. Fuck.
“Stop fucking around,” he growls, but Cook’s as earnest as he ever is, honest, and Freddie has to clench his eyes shut when Cook doesn’t stop staring.
“You think I won’t?”Cook mumbles, and he leans in that much further, breath hot and coarse on the bottom of Freddie’s jaw, his hand rough as he palms him through his jeans. Freddie’s already half-hard, hates this, hates being seventeen and having Cook - fuck, just having him.
“You’re a twat, Cook.”
It’s not half as surprising as it should be when Cook grabs at Freddie’s belt, jerks it awkwardly until it comes undone and yanks down his too-big jeans, gets on his knees and he stares at Freddie’s dick before glancing back up at him. “I love you,” he says again, and he’s tense, terse, serious. “Even if you’re a dickhead, eh?”
Freddie grits his teeth, but Cook smiles a little, loose and easy, rubs his thumb over the head of Freddie’s dick and waits until he’s hissing, clenching his eyes shut, before Cook sucks him into his mouth.
It’s not the first time it’s happened, not the second or even the third. Cook’s never felt in words, can’t say what he feels, and that’s another thing that hasn’t changed. Cook has to touch to feel connected, has to love, give, take, just feel, and it’s always this, always Freddie’s hesitation, resentment and Cook’s blind trust, want, love.
Cook swallows around Freddie’s dick, scrapes his teeth against his skin and hums a little in the back of his throat. It’s enough to make Freddie bang his head back against the wall, bite back a groan and fist Cook’s short hair, hold him in place and fuck into his mouth and he hates the way Cook just lets him.
Cook’s fingers are leaving bruises against Freddie’s hips, darkening his already brown skin, and Freddie hopes he’s leaving bruises on Cook’s head, beneath his hair, or fuck, around his lips, wants to make Cook look like a slut, because maybe then it’d be easier to say no to this. Cook sucks harder, and Freddie groans, grits his teeth and he comes too soon, hot and desperate, fingers tightening in Cook’s hair as Cook swallows around him, swallows him.
It’s a minute before Cook pulls back, shit-eating grin wide on his face as he wipes the come off his chin on the back of his sleeve. He opens his mouth to say something, but Freddie doesn’t let him, can’t, just pulls him back up and kisses him. Cook’s still hard, and Freddie undoes his jeans clumsily, sticks a hand down the front and jerks Cook off with a sort of practiced familiarity, does it in the way that he knows will get Cook off, and Cook smiles against Freddie’s lips, laughs, low and hoarse, says, “I fucking love you,” and it’s all Freddie can do not to push him away then and there. He growls instead, jerks him harder, faster, rougher until Cook’s coming, hot and hard in Freddie’s long fingers. Cook drops his head to Freddie’s shoulder, pants a little and laughs again.
It’s quiet for a minute, Freddie’s fingers still around Cook’s cock, and Cook’s hot breath too perfect against Freddie’s bare neck.
“You’re a funny bloke,” Cook mumbles, and Freddie cringes, pulls his hand out of Cook’s jeans and wipes it on the back of Cook’s hoodie. He’s waiting for Cook to move, for him to pull his pants up properly and go, but he’s not, isn’t, won’t. Just watches Freddie out of half-lidded eyes, lips just parted and says, “I’m not kidding with you. You’re not nothing, alright?”
Freddie nods, short and terse, because he does know this, he does, because Cook’s the sort of person who doesn’t love often, but when he does it’s totally, and it’s everything, and Freddie, fuck, Freddie can’t give him half of that in return.
“I do actually fucking love you,” Cook says, one last time. “You, me and JJ, yeah? You’re my family.”
Cook says it with no hesitation, says it so honestly that something in Freddie’s chest aches, his head hurts, and he needs to say something back just as big, important, honest, but he just, fuck, he can’t. He clenches his eyes shut, wonders how much he could push Cook, wonders if he could make him hate Freddie half as much as Freddie hates Freddie. He doesn’t think Cook would ever, and Freddie’s not sure why that makes him want to hurl, to lash out or run away.
“Yeah,” Freddie mumbles finally, and Cook doesn’t even grin, just leans back, pulls his jeans up and heads back out towards the bar.
NC-17. 1,340 words. Skins.
Freddie/Cook.
Another response to the skins!kink meme. Prompt was: cook/freddie - blowjob, angry, gagging. All of that, minus the gagging, because I suck.
So Freddie hits him, punches, clocks, whatever, knocks him down flat, and it isn’t an easy task because Cook’s shorter, smaller, but he’s that brand of lean muscle that keeps the sort of raw energy Freddie can never muster.
“Fuck you,” Freddie growls, and Cook just glances back up at him, spits onto the barroom tiles, and pushes back onto his feet. He looks as hard as he ever does, none of the loose, easy limbs or the stupid grin, laugh, and Freddie takes a step back almost subconsciously, watches the way Cook watches him. Effy’s staring, somewhere across the bar, eyes half-lidded and assessing, hands listless in her lap and she’s beautiful, the sort of painted-on perfect that Karen’s porcelain dolls are, the sort of dark that Freddie can’t describe, and this shouldn’t be about her, even if it is. Even if it isn’t.
“You’d like that, eh, Freds?” Cook says, loud enough for a couple of the guys sitting at the bar to laugh, enough for Effy’s lips to twitch, and Freddie sneers, tries for another sucker punch but Cook’s ready this time, ducks and shoves and it’s too soon that Freddie’s being pushed down the hall to the toilets, being thrown against the wall.
The thing about being friends since you could walk, talk, is just that. You’ve been friends since you could throw a punch, could fight, could fuck and take and manipulate. Cook and Freddie and JJ have been friends since their mum’s hung out in post-natal aerobics, since playgroup, back when girls had cooties and playdates were crayons and cookies instead of drugs and pussy. Back when Freddie’s mum was alive and Cook’s parents gave a shit.
They were friends before everything else, they were always Cook and Freddie and JJ and they’ve grown up, but not really because they’re taller now, and probably more fucked up, but it’s the same as when they were kids, all this bullshit. Freddie wants, Cook takes, Cook keeps and Freddie hates.
“You’re a fuckwit,” Freddie says, voice low, hoarse, “Arsehole, it’s always the same thing.”
Cook doesn’t say anything right away, just stares for a second, and it’s fast and painful when he grabs the sides of Freddie’s face and kisses him hard. It’s not anything but bitter, angry, and Freddie would hate the familiarity if he thought he could.
“Fuck,” Cook growls it into Freddie’s neck, fists his t-shirt and holds him hard against the wall. He reeks of beer, of spliff, and Freddie feels too sober, fingers itching for something powdered, something small and round that he can stick down the back of his throat. He’s tired of this same old shit, sick of Cook. “Fuck, I fucking love you.”
Freddie just grits his teeth and says, “Stop saying that, you twat.”
Cook snorts, like maybe he was expecting it, and he twists in front of Freddie, shoots him a look from beneath his short bangs and gnashes his own teeth together. “What do you want me to do then? You want me to prove it or something? You want me to suck your cock?”
Freddie hisses, low in the back of his throat and shoots a quick look down the hall, at the ceiling, at Cook. He tries to ignore the way his dick twitches, the rush of blood. Fuck.
“Stop fucking around,” he growls, but Cook’s as earnest as he ever is, honest, and Freddie has to clench his eyes shut when Cook doesn’t stop staring.
“You think I won’t?”Cook mumbles, and he leans in that much further, breath hot and coarse on the bottom of Freddie’s jaw, his hand rough as he palms him through his jeans. Freddie’s already half-hard, hates this, hates being seventeen and having Cook - fuck, just having him.
“You’re a twat, Cook.”
It’s not half as surprising as it should be when Cook grabs at Freddie’s belt, jerks it awkwardly until it comes undone and yanks down his too-big jeans, gets on his knees and he stares at Freddie’s dick before glancing back up at him. “I love you,” he says again, and he’s tense, terse, serious. “Even if you’re a dickhead, eh?”
Freddie grits his teeth, but Cook smiles a little, loose and easy, rubs his thumb over the head of Freddie’s dick and waits until he’s hissing, clenching his eyes shut, before Cook sucks him into his mouth.
It’s not the first time it’s happened, not the second or even the third. Cook’s never felt in words, can’t say what he feels, and that’s another thing that hasn’t changed. Cook has to touch to feel connected, has to love, give, take, just feel, and it’s always this, always Freddie’s hesitation, resentment and Cook’s blind trust, want, love.
Cook swallows around Freddie’s dick, scrapes his teeth against his skin and hums a little in the back of his throat. It’s enough to make Freddie bang his head back against the wall, bite back a groan and fist Cook’s short hair, hold him in place and fuck into his mouth and he hates the way Cook just lets him.
Cook’s fingers are leaving bruises against Freddie’s hips, darkening his already brown skin, and Freddie hopes he’s leaving bruises on Cook’s head, beneath his hair, or fuck, around his lips, wants to make Cook look like a slut, because maybe then it’d be easier to say no to this. Cook sucks harder, and Freddie groans, grits his teeth and he comes too soon, hot and desperate, fingers tightening in Cook’s hair as Cook swallows around him, swallows him.
It’s a minute before Cook pulls back, shit-eating grin wide on his face as he wipes the come off his chin on the back of his sleeve. He opens his mouth to say something, but Freddie doesn’t let him, can’t, just pulls him back up and kisses him. Cook’s still hard, and Freddie undoes his jeans clumsily, sticks a hand down the front and jerks Cook off with a sort of practiced familiarity, does it in the way that he knows will get Cook off, and Cook smiles against Freddie’s lips, laughs, low and hoarse, says, “I fucking love you,” and it’s all Freddie can do not to push him away then and there. He growls instead, jerks him harder, faster, rougher until Cook’s coming, hot and hard in Freddie’s long fingers. Cook drops his head to Freddie’s shoulder, pants a little and laughs again.
It’s quiet for a minute, Freddie’s fingers still around Cook’s cock, and Cook’s hot breath too perfect against Freddie’s bare neck.
“You’re a funny bloke,” Cook mumbles, and Freddie cringes, pulls his hand out of Cook’s jeans and wipes it on the back of Cook’s hoodie. He’s waiting for Cook to move, for him to pull his pants up properly and go, but he’s not, isn’t, won’t. Just watches Freddie out of half-lidded eyes, lips just parted and says, “I’m not kidding with you. You’re not nothing, alright?”
Freddie nods, short and terse, because he does know this, he does, because Cook’s the sort of person who doesn’t love often, but when he does it’s totally, and it’s everything, and Freddie, fuck, Freddie can’t give him half of that in return.
“I do actually fucking love you,” Cook says, one last time. “You, me and JJ, yeah? You’re my family.”
Cook says it with no hesitation, says it so honestly that something in Freddie’s chest aches, his head hurts, and he needs to say something back just as big, important, honest, but he just, fuck, he can’t. He clenches his eyes shut, wonders how much he could push Cook, wonders if he could make him hate Freddie half as much as Freddie hates Freddie. He doesn’t think Cook would ever, and Freddie’s not sure why that makes him want to hurl, to lash out or run away.
“Yeah,” Freddie mumbles finally, and Cook doesn’t even grin, just leans back, pulls his jeans up and heads back out towards the bar.