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“I kinda think this is overkill,” Style sighs, long suffering, as he tugs on the restraints around his wrists, keeping him fairly well-secured to the armchair in their living room.
Fadel looks over his shoulder to check on his boyfriend. Style is pouting as he peers up at him, with his arms fastened behind his back in an awkward angle due to the width of the backrest, wearing nothing but his pyjama bottoms, hanging low on his hips. The air conditioner is probably set a little too cool, brushing air over Style’s pebbled nipples. Fadel should probably adjust it, but he doesn’t feel too bad for him. He even switched the TV on.
“It really isn’t,” Fadel says as he zips up his bag and slips the strap over his shoulder. “Remember the Tichakorn job. If it weren’t for you, I would have had him easy.”
“But it was so much fun watching you get irritated instead,” Style says, lips stretched into a wide grin, as if he’s just remembering it. If he weren’t a professional, Fadel would have screamed when he’d seen Style standing right before his target, waving brightly at Fadel, knowing somehow exactly where he’d situated himself for the best angle to shoot him.
Fadel replicates the grin humorlessly. His boyfriend is an absolute nightmare, though he really wouldn’t have it any other way. “I’m glad you had your fun. I have to work now.” He presses a peck to his cheek when he passes.
Style immediately whines. “I should at least get a real kiss if you’re leaving me like this.” He struggles against the restraints, but it’s useless. Fadel knows he’s playing for time, but he also knows that Style won’t be able to escape the rope around his wrists. There isn’t anything to worry. He can allow himself to dawdle just a bit.
Style smirks when Fadel appears in his periphery, like he already knew Fadel wouldn’t be able to resist him. He puckers his lips and Fadel barely resists rolling his eyes. He leans down and presses their lips together, which immediately results in Style pouting. Again.
“This isn’t a real kiss, you gotta come closer.” This time Fadel does roll his eyes. He sighs and lets his backpack slip from his shoulder. It lands on the floor with a dull thud. Carefully he climbs on Style’s lap, wrapping his arms around Style’s neck before he ducks back down.
When their lips meet this time, they’re open, expectant and warm. It still feels like a wave crashing into him, enveloping him in warmth, then dragging him out to sea without his permission, completely and irrevocably overwhelming.
“You know,” Style gasps, when their kiss breaks, “this kind of reminds me of our first date.”
Fadel’s tongue glides over Style’s teeth, sweeping against his upper lip. “Only you would call me tying you up and threatening you with bodily harm, a date.”
Style winks. “I’m precious like that,” he hums against Fadel’s throat, gently nipping at his skin. It’s enough to have Fadel gasp at the small pinpricks, the feeling lazily travelling down his body, making his fingers burying themselves more tightly into Style’s skin.
“You’re a pain in the arse is what you are.”
Style barks out a laugh. “As long as it’s your arse,” he says, and moves against Fadel as much as the restraints allow him. It’s stupid how little it takes to get Style at least half-hard. (He isn’t proud of that fact at all.)
“You’re not so cruel as to leave me like this, are you?” Style’s eyes are warm, lips red and spit slicked. He jerks his hips forward, not quite meeting Fadel’s but enough to brush against him, making him gasp softly.
Fadel’s eyes slide shut, just for a second, but he can already hear a quiet, impatient huff. It’s enough to stretch his lips into a secret smile. For a second, he ponders whether he should tease him just a little more, but another jerk of Style’s hips brushes his groin and he catches his lower lip between his teeth to not make a sound.
Style grins unabashedly, and Fadel decides that he doesn’t have the time. He lets a hand slide down Style’s body, going past where he usually would linger to press directly against his clothed cock, before pulling it back up and rub his thumb over his nipple. Style hisses, eyes widening suddenly, and this time it’s Fadel who grins. “What makes you think I’m not cruel?”
Style hums, already having caught himself, slowly pressing kisses to Fadel’s chin, followed by his jaw. “My big, bad assassin boyfriend,” he murmurs, and then sucks the skin at the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder.
Fadel hasn’t really realised until that point that he’s leaned closer, greedily collecting all of Style’s affections. This is playing dirty and Style knows it. His hands tighten around Style’s shoulders, body slowly rocking to meet Style’s motions. The restraints don’t allow for a lot,, but what he can he gives, Style gives.
It's enough to get him excited, to watch Style’s movements already becoming desperate, the tiny jerks from his hip trying to touch him. For a moment Fadel watches him work, entertained by the effort and Style’s frustrated huffs when he doesn’t get the friction he craves.
Style has always been like this, single-minded in his pursuit to get what he wants, sometimes even forgetting to regard the people around him. Fadel might be a worse person to find that hot.
Style rocks against him and Fadel has to bite his lip to swallow down the groan building in his chest, focusing on the slow heat building quietly inside of him.
“No, please, baby, let me hear you.”
If Fadel were a stronger man, at least where it concerned his boyfriend, he would tell him to shut up.
But Style never looks like he's making fun of him when he asks. His eyes are honest, clouded by lust, yes, but so very honest it almost hurts. Which is probably another thing he loves about him. The way he seems so gloriously unashamed, and even turned on, by the sounds they make.
The next time their clothed cocks make contact, Fadel doesn't swallow the low groan.
Style preens, a happy satisfied smile on his lips as he moves and rolls his body. With Style’s hands still restrained behind his back, Fadel takes his time to let his own roam over Style’s body. Down the soft skin of his neck, curving where they meet his shoulders and down his chest again. He flicks the nail of his thumb against his nipple. Style groans into his mouth before eagerly reclaiming his lips again.
Style’s skin is smooth, goose bumps breaking out under his fingertips. His nipples pebbled and dusted rose. Fadel has to hold back so as not to bite into them but instead letting his fingers wander downwards, gliding over love bites and bruises, watching eagerly how Style reacts to his touches. Fadel dips his thumb into Style’s belly-button before reaching the fine hair guiding him towards his waistband.
A flush has spread out over his cheeks, his gaze switching over to pleading because, despite how much power Style pretended he had, he knows that Fadel will leave him on the armchair, making him watch as Fadel touches himself.
And it’s one of his favourite things Fadel does. If there’s one way to drive Style crazy, it’s making him watch something he wants but can’t have.
Fadel hooks his left hand back around Style’s shoulder and presses the heel of his right hand against Style’s straining cock.
“Please, baby.”
It doesn't take a lot. It never takes a lot.
Fadel shimmies back on Style's lap, one hand wrapped around his shoulder to keep his balance, and hooks his fingers under his pyjama pants. He pulls them back just enough to free his cock, already hard and red.
Fadel lifts his hand to his mouth and licks a broad stripe over his palm.
“I've got—” Style starts, but blinks when he looks up at Fadel again. He swallows. “Never mind,” he says breathlessly.
Fadel suppresses the soft smile trying to steal itself onto his lips, and instead focuses on the warmth spreading inside of him.
Style's cheeks are flushed, lips open and red, almost the same colour as his cock, and Fadel wants to keep him here forever. It's nice being the one to call the shots.
Without any further delay he wraps his hand around Style's dick. The spit helps, but the movement is still somewhat dry and awkward. It doesn’t stop Style from jerking his hips into Fadel’s touch. It's the way he enjoys it most, if you just add a touch of pain to the pleasure.
“Baby, please, I need—”
Fadel keeps Style's dick in a tight grasp and leans over, spitting onto the head to immediately let it vanish into the up and down stroke of his hand.
“Fuck, you're so hot,” Style groans, and it causes a shiver of anticipation to run through him.
One of the fundamental differences between them is that Style doesn't hold back when he expresses his wants. He's loud and unashamed in his groans and moans. It creates a certain security for Fadel, always knowing if his touch is welcome or not.
It's something he enjoys experiencing now, which hand movements elicit which reactions. What makes him moan the loudest, what makes him try to escape the touch, what he can't get enough of.
Fadel can't help kissing him again, warm and wet, and taking it all in. Their kiss is uncoordinated and yet again, it sweeps him away like a wave breaking at the shore.
“Fuck, if you keep this going—baby, I'm gonna come.”
That's the goal. And yet, with his own cock hard in his trousers, begging for release, he doesn't want to let it end that way. He hasn’t tortured his boyfriend nearly enough. Style’s eyes are fluttering open, the flush slowly travelling to his neck. Fadel lets his teeth run over his lower lip, knowing exactly what it does to Style.
For any further business Fadel isn't equipped. And for a second he thinks to just leave him here like this, waiting until Fadel comes back, rewarding him for waiting.
“There's lube in my pyjama pants.”
Fadel's thoughts still. There's something itching at the back of his mind, but he can't quite get to it.
“Don't question it, I'm always prepared.” Style grins that infuriating smile of his and winks. There's nothing Fadel can say in response. He knows it's the truth.
So Fadel lowers his hand, lets it snake down his collarbone, making sure to scratch his nipple with the nail of his thumb. Style gasps, hips jerking involuntarily. When Fadel reaches the waistband, he runs his hand along the seam until his fingers trip upon something hard. Carefully he pulls the waistband back and ,just as Style said, there tucked against his hipbone, barely clinging to the elastic, is a small packet.
Fadel licks his lips and gets up.
“Wait!” Style says, eyes wide, as if Fadel would be able to walk away from him now.
“Shh,” Fadel mumbles ,and presses his finger against Style’s lips, which Style immediately tries to catch between them, gently snapping after it and finally catching it between his teeth. Fadel gestures to his own clothes, still clinging to his body, “I can’t fuck you like this.”
Style’s eyes slide downwards and then they light up, and Fadel knows he understands. “Hurry,” he says roughly, letting his finger go.
"Demanding," Fadel chides, sliding his hand into Style’s hair and pulling his head back, exposing his throat, so he can drop kisses to his sensitive skin and nip at it. Faint marks are still visible, soft and rosy against his skin, which means it’s high time to renew them. Although Fadel doesn’t like showing their relationship outside of their home, he does like seeing the traces his touch has left on Style, staking his claim, so everyone knows that that one is Fadel's.
“Get them off,” Style groans. Fadel can feel the vibrations against his lips and grins. He bites down gently against the column of his throat as punishment, making Style gasp. Still ,he opens his jeans as he toes off his shoes, pulls them down with his shorts and steps out of them ,before settling back on Style’s lap, each knee touching either side of his hips.
Finally, Fadel takes the packet of lube back in his hands ,and keeps his eyes on Style ,as he rips it open with his teeth.
Style swallows, Adams apple bobbing as he watches Fadel spreading the lube between his fingers, then moving his hand behind him, opening himself up with the first finger.
Style keeps his eyes on him, hungry, never daring to look away, as if he were afraid he would miss something. His face looks almost awed, eyes wide and wet ,and desperate. Fadel can't help the grin at the tautness of the rope keeping Style's hands bound.
It encourages him in the display, making him move his fingers faster, relaxing his body around the intrusion. His own finger is clumsy in its desperation, reaching inside of him in a hurry.
He holds onto Style's shoulder, using first one, then two fingers. And ,although he has his eyes closed ,he knows he has Style's complete attention. Feels it by the straining of his muscles and the litany of quiet begging, drowning out his own quiet whines and gasps.
It's enough for Fadel to make it a quick job, as urgency rushes through his body. Style lets out a quiet sigh when Fadel wraps his fingers around Style's dick, oozing precome by now. He coats it with the rest of the lube, watches as drops slide down the shaft.
Style adjusts his hips, inching forward, hissing as the waistband digs into his balls. Fadel is gracious enough to pull the pants down lower ,and then moves back up his body, grasping Style's cock in a loose fist.
“Condom—” Style gasps through clenched teeth, as Fadel positions himself over him, letting the head of his cock press against his hole. Style gasps, brows pulled down into a tiny frown. Fadel wants to bite it off.
“No time,” Fadel says, lowering himself enough for the head to breach him, carving its space into his body the more Fadel inches down. Despite opening himself up ,there’s still a stretch, an underlying burn that only adds fuel to the fire in his gut. It's so very perfect.
“Fuck.” He feels his thighs already trembling, and he’s not even lifted himself up again, yet.
“You don’t—” Style gasps, teeth digging into his lower lip until Fadel presses his thumb against it, digging his nail in until he opens his mouth again. “You—ah— don’t get to whine when the cushions stain because—”
If Style is still able to think this much, then Fadel is obviously doing something wrong. He leans forward, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Who says you get to come?”
That shuts Style up for about five seconds. “Baby,” he whines, but it's cut off when Fadel starts moving. Raising himself up on his lap, fingers digging into his shoulders ,and lowering himself again. It’s a slow drag, measured, enough to drive Style crazy, who's so used to always getting everything the moment he demands it.
Style’s mouth drops open ,and Fadel can’t help but slide his fingers through his hair, jerking his head back. Style’s lips turn into an open mouthed grin, tongue poking out under his front teeth, welcoming Fadel when he crashes their mouths together. It’s nothing but teeth and violence ,and greed and desperation ,and utter perfection.
It’s a slow song of rising and sinking, the hot drag of Style’s cock inside of him, creating a melody of slaps and grunts ,and gasps.
The control Fadel has is heeding, watching as Style strains under his movements, spilling whines when he clenches around him, gasps when he lets only the head of him sit inside of him for just a little too long until he takes pity on him, taking him back inside his warmth.
Style’s feverish gaze is fixed on him, eyes half lidded, hips jerking up, trying to meet Fadel’s thrusts but not quite succeeding. The rope still holds true, restraining his movements to a minimum.
Heat coils in Fadel’s gut, thighs burning, demanding he quicken his rhythm, to find the correct angle to erupt.
Neither of them says anything, not that they have the ability to speak. Fadel's harsh exhales brush over Style’s ear, enough to have him shiver under him, arms trying to break out of the knot Fadel has tied around them.
He’s not sure who does it. Whether it’s Style’s aborted thrust of his hips or Fadel driving himself down on Style’s lap, but colours burst in front of his eyes as the head of Style’s cock brushes the bundle of nerves inside of him, only causing Fadel to push harder, to slide down his cock rougher.
Fadel's so close, cock rubbing against Style's stomach every time he rocks up against him, desperation gripping him, making him move despite the miserable whine from Style.
Fadel comes with a strangled groan, silencing the sound in the meat of Style's shoulder, fingernails digging harshly into Style’s back, eliciting a bitten off shout, hips desperately thrusting as much as possible inside Fadel, body tight, whining high in the back of his throat until he comes.
Style slumps in on himself, all the former tension leaving his body. Fadel curls in on him, taking the time to catch his breath. His shirt feels sweaty, sticking against his skin. He tries to get it off, but his limbs are fighting against him.
Style grumbles, muffled when the fabric hits him in the face, but his eyes are open again, looking at Fadel in a way he’s afraid to inspect too much. There are a thousand different things he could say next, but what it ends up being is not what he expects at all.
“I win.”
Fadel opens his eyes, flabbergasted, watching Style grin up at him, utterly exhausted ,but there’s still a delighted spark in his eyes and ,from one moment to the next, Fadel realises, scowling hard at him.
This had been his plan all along, distracting him long enough with his cock that he’s going to miss the window of opportunity. Even if Fadel still had enough time, his muscles feel sore, begging for a break.
“No, don't make that face, baby. I love you. You know that.”
Fadel does. Which is probably the worst thing amongst all of this. “Next time I'll have to gag you as well. Your mouth is annoying.”
Style laughs, throwing his head back. “You love my mouth,” Style protests between fits of laughter.
“Wrapped around my dick, I do. But since that isn't doable on the job.” He shrugs, At least he thinks he shrugs. The motion feels off.
“Don’t you—” whatever it is Style wanted to say is swallowed by a hiss ,as Fadel tightens viciously around Style’s dick. Oversensitivity is a wonderful thing.
“There’s always a next time,” Style gasps.
There is. And next time he’s not going to lose.