Flagrant Foul

by chou_chou

Summary:

‘He wasn’t the hero, Chigiri. Just a bit part. An extra.’

‘Fuck you, Barou.’

He’s mercifully quiet, then. Chigiri can feel his eyes on his back.

‘You’ve not no manners, little missy,’ Barou says, and it sounds like a warning. Chigiri tries to ignore the sound of him wading over. Presses his face back into the crook of his elbow. When Barou speaks again, he’s too loud—too close. ‘Why don’t you try asking me nicely?’

⚽

Chigiri tries to take some time to himself, to process the outcome of the second selection.

Barou has other ideas. Things get complicated.

Chapter 1

‘You got time to be moping around, Princess?’

‘I’m allowed to have a bath, jackass,’ Chigiri says, glaring at Barou from underneath his lashes as he walks past him, ‘and I’m hardly moping.’

Barou scoffs. Lowers himself in at the opposite end of the room and tucks errant strands of wet hair behind one ear. Chigiri huffs and turns himself over, folding his arms over the edge of the bath. Watches the light play in the wet imprints left by Barou’s feet, water shining in the grouting between the tiles. He focuses on the heat of the bath, presses his face into his folded arms and closes his eyes. Hopes Barou will take the hint.

‘He was good, sure. Knew how to kick a ball around. So did all the other rejects on the heap.’

‘You don’t get to say that,’ Chigiri grouses, teeth biting into his cheek where he’s got his face smushed against his arm.

The water sloshes. Barou settling against the wall of the bath. And Chigiri doesn’t need to look to know he’s got his head tipped back, arms spread wide. Posturing. ’I’ll say whatever the hell I want.’

Chigiri raises his head a fraction, blows out a haughty breath. Won’t give him the satisfaction of turning around. ‘He’s twice the player you’ll ever be, Barou.’

A splash. Barou’s fist cutting through the water’s surface. And then a laugh. ‘Is that what you’re telling yourself?’

Chigiri wedges his eyes shut. Doesn’t have the energy for this. Not now.

‘He wasn’t the hero, Chigiri. Just a bit part. An extra.’

‘Fuck you, Barou.’

He’s mercifully quiet, then. Chigiri can feel his eyes on his back. He feels exposed; unable to fall back under the lull of the water.

‘You’ve got no manners, little missy,’ Barou says, and it sounds like a warning. Chigiri tries to ignore the sound of him wading over. Presses his face back into the crook of his elbow. When Barou speaks again, he’s too loud—too close. ‘Why don’t you try asking me nicely?’

Chigiri opens his eyes. Stares out at the shining wet tile. He can imagine Barou’s big lion’s paws flexing underneath the water, itching to touch him. Looming over him; big and broad and tightly coiled to pounce. Maybe this is what he wants. No, needs. Chigiri straightens up and combs the long ends of his hair off one shoulder, turns his face so that Barou can only catch the retroussé tip of his nose and deliberate bat of his eyelashes in profile. ‘What are you saying, Barou?’

He even manages to laugh; breathy and light. Naïve.

Barou shifts in the water, and Chigiri feels his breath catch high and excited in his chest—wants to feel his hands on his skin. Claiming. Marking. Wants to be devoured whole. Feels that excitement cool and become tremulous with every second longer that Barou sits and waits.

’Cat got your tongue, Chigiri?’

He waits for Barou to put his hands on him, to make his move, but there is stillness in the bathhouse. Barou doesn’t say anything else. Chigiri feels vulnerable; at the mercy of this predator and when he chooses to finally strike. So he bites out a wan sigh, turning around to face Barou, another snippy comment on his lips. Barou darts through the water—boxing him in against the corner of the bath—and Chigiri is forced to turn back around. Shut his mouth. Acknowledge that the broad flat of Barou’s chest pressed up against his back makes heat pool low and tantalising in his stomach.

He stares out at the wet tile, the rows of mirrors and showers in the bright light beyond them, and wonders if he might have made a mistake.

‘I can treat you dumb, if you want.’

Chigiri, thankful to be pressed against the corner of the bath, is only faintly embarrassed that those words go straight to his cock. Far greater is the desire to give it all up and say yes, please. Swear fealty to his ungracious ruler. Take thinking out of the equation altogether, by just surrendering to his touch. Nice and easy.

One of Barou’s big hands combs through the damp tangle of Chigiri’s hair, and he is somewhere else. On his knees, mouth full, hair scraped up into a ponytail and Barou pulling. Pulling. Pulling.

Barou gently collects his hair up and passes it over one shoulder. Smooths it down. Makes no effort to hide his desire, but is gentle as he enjoys the feel of Chigiri’s skin under his hands. Indulges, firm but slow. Runs his fingers over Chigiri’s back and takes his time committing it all to memory. Traces his shoulder blades, the concave length of his spine, then under the bath water to press his thumb into the dimples at its base. Chigiri can’t help but wonder if Barou the Beast is capable of retracting his claws, or if it’s just for show. A game.

Handling Chigiri like this has to mean something to them.

Until he has to beg for it; ask him plain and simple to render him senseless and walk away afterwards. Clean break. Easy enough. Chigiri somehow doesn’t peg Barou as the sentimental type. He’s toying with his prey, then. Underestimates him.

Chigiri turns, batting Barou’s roaming hands away. Stares at him under the sweep of his eyelashes, tilting his head back to he can keep his eyes half lidded. Props his arms up on the lip of the bath and arches his back so he is all collarbone and lean chest, legs bumping up against Barou’s under the water. ‘If I want? How gracious of you, to consider my needs.’

He watches Barou’s molten red eyes as he speaks, trailing down towards the plump swell of his lips—calculatedly bitten, licked over so they shine—and past his chin, roving over the bare skin Chigiri offers up to him.

‘But I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Your Majesty,’ he lies, foot trailing up the back of Barou’s calf, ‘you’ll have to spell it out for me.’

‘Did Kunigami get this much lip from you?’ Barou asks, low and gruff, hands reaching out to grab his waist.

Chigiri presses his heel down—hooking his leg over properly—but Barou slaps a firm hand over his ass and hitches his hips upwards with ease. Chigiri nearly slips from the edge of the bath; back arching further still, forearms straining, the ball of one foot his only grounding. He glares. ‘No. He did what he was told.’

Barou barks out a laugh, clipped and rough. He leans in and his hair escapes from behind his ear, falls over one eye. ‘I’ll bet. Had him wrapped around your finger, didn’t you?’

Chigiri flushes at the compliment—wasn’t expecting to hear praise, however wry—and has to find his mooring. Quickly. Pushes away from the tiled corner of the bath to slip an arm around Barou’s neck. Brushes those errant hairs away with his other hand, tracing the shell of Barou’s ear and massaging the lobe between thumb and forefinger. ‘Of course. And now I’ve got you under my heel.’

Barou laughs again, leans in so close that Chigiri thinks he means to kiss him—shuts his eyes and hopes he won’t. But all that comes is the press of Barou’s forehead against his. Chigiri dares to open his eyes. Meets his ultra-violent gaze up close; too close. Barou’s hand brushes down Chigiri’s waist and palms at the other side of his ass—hefts him up so he has no choice but to wrap both legs around Barou’s waist, fingers digging into his broad shoulders. He pulls Chigiri’s hips towards his, grinds them together and holds him there, grinning wickedly at the gasp he elicits. ‘You don’t seriously think you’re in control here?’

Chigiri crosses his legs over Barou’s back. Rolls up against him and groans into his face, hot and needy. Is satisfied with the way Barou bares his teeth, biting back his own moan. Seethes. ‘Well, you tell me,’ Chigiri says, breezily, sighing as he rolls his hips again, ‘does the peasant desperate to sate his appetite have the upper hand, or the ruler who can refuse him?’

‘Alright,’ Barou says, through gritted teeth.

And before Chigiri can ask him what he means, he’s being lifted out of the water. Barou places him down with a gentle touch on the edge of the bath, though—arm hooked carefully under his knee—and Chigiri rolls his eyes. Opens his mouth to rib him for it but all too quickly has Barou’s fingers thrusting into his mouth. Pressing his tongue down.

‘You’re gonna shut up, Princess,’ he says, pushing his fingers back until Chigiri makes a choked little noise around them. Glares as his eyes prick with tears, slips his leg over Barou’s shoulder and strikes him dully with the back of his heel. Petulant. But he hums reluctant confirmation around his fingers. Barou smiles, groping at the meat of his thigh with his free hand. ‘Good. Wasn’t so hard, was it?’

He holds Chigiri’s gaze as he pulls his fingers out, as if daring him to defy him. Chigiri is sorely tempted. But he accepts the downwards press of Barou’s hand on his chest, the fingers slick with his own spit, until he’s laid out on the tile.

Good.

Barou is between his legs, both hooked over his shoulders, hands prying his thighs apart.

Good.

Then he’s pressing kisses to the inside of his thighs, one then the other in a greedy zigzag—slow and methodical—and so much higher than Chigiri wants him. He arches his back, reaches out to rake his hands through Barou’s hair. Feels the hot exhale of his laugh in the crook of his groin and twitches. Presses his heels into the flat of Barou's back, tries so earnestly to wrestle his head down even though he knows it’s futile. Hopes Barou appreciates the effort. Doesn’t know if he wants to play along so Barou will tell him how good he is again, or if it’d be better to find out what he’ll do if he resists him.

Chigiri turns his face into the cold tile and scrapes his fingers over Barou’s scalp. Sucks in a faltering breath as he swallows him—slow and easy—flat of his tongue firm and hot against the underside of Chigiri’s cock. He raises himself up on one elbow, tugging at Barou’s hair. Barou grunts his complaint—rumbling all the way through Chigiri’s body—and meets his gaze. Makes no move to lift his head.

Chigiri keeps his mouth shut, as agreed, and seeing as he can’t move Barou’s head he cants his hips up instead. Barou grumbles again. Digs his fingers into his thighs and gives them a shove, presses him down harder. Hollows out his cheeks and sucks him slow and lazy, firm and hot and more than Chigiri can bear. Makes an approving noise deep in the back of his throat as Chigiri gasps and throws his head back, his back arching.

His pace is maddeningly slow. Meditative, even. Every noise that spills from Chigiri’s mouth only seems to spur him on; cheeks hollow, mouth impossibly wet and hot. He keens, resisting against the iron grip Barou has on his thighs, fingers scrabbling in his hair. Squirms and tries his damnedest to buck up into the enveloping heat of his mouth. Barou relents—or hopes to frustrate him, maybe, but Chigiri is beyond keeping score—lifting off with a deep rasp. He gropes roughly at his thighs and hips, pulls him back into the water, and Chigiri winds his arms around Barou’s neck without a thought. Buries his face into warm skin, feels Barou’s steady pulse against his cheek.

‘He wasn’t special, Chigiri.’ And then, unspoken, that’s all you need to tell yourself.

Chigiri wants to argue, raises his head wearily to protest. Expects Barou to be smiling. Is nonplussed when he isn’t. Barou’s eyes are heady, lidded but flinty; those of a big cat, lounging after the hunt. Picking carrion from its teeth.

‘Loser like that? You can pick one up anywhere,’ Barou says, low and conspiratorial, his eyes on Chigiri’s mouth.

An offer.

Chigiri understands what he’s really saying, ducks his head back into the hollow of his shoulder before Barou can get any closer. Before he ruins everything.

‘Are we going to make a mess of the communal bath or not?’ he asks, nose pressed to Barou’s throat.  Touches his open mouth to it, pants eagerly against his pulse to ward off any rational thoughts. Knows it’s shameless— desperate—of him, and is beyond caring.

Barou only clicks his tongue. Hooks an arm beneath Chigiri’s leg and lifts it high and wide. Closes his other hand around Chigiri’s cock: rough, white-knuckle. Each pump of his hand disturbs the surface of the water; setting a relentless rhythm that falls in time with Chigiri’s inarticulate moans. He threads his fingers through Barou’s hair, gasps hot and sweet into the side of his jaw, the quickening pulse at his throat, and every noise seems to have Barou moving faster.

‘Nobody else can give you this,’ he growls, his mouth so dangerously close to Chigiri’s ear. Low enough to leave purple welts in the space between ear and jaw, if he wanted to. Chigiri hopes he does. ‘You got bored of telling your lapdog to roll over, didn’t you?’

Chigiri is not ashamed when he nods, half-delirious and awash in the commanding grip Barou has on him.

Sit. Down, boy.

Or place your head into the lion’s jaws. Trust he won’t bite down. Say please.

Why settle for stay when you could be begging stop?

Unbidden tears prickle hot and unwanted in the corners of his eyes, then, and he feels hollowed out and pathetic in Barou’s arms.

I’m sorry I left you behind. Or, no… I’m sorry you couldn’t keep up.

Chigiri comes with a high, keening moan, tucked safely into the crook of Barou’s neck. Stays there long after his shallow breath has evened out, hands curled around one bicep and the the broad flat of his back. Until he isn’t quite sure that he can let go. Barou pumps his fist—tortuous and slow—until it becomes unbearable. Until he doesn’t need his whole hand. Just his thumb and two fingers, so easily encircling him. Overstimulating him.

He lets go to spread his hand flat on the small of Chigiri’s back, pushes him closer until they are flush; chest to chest. Cock slides up into the crease between Chigiri’s thigh and his groin. Barou pulls the knee he has captive up to rest against his hip. Fucks the space he has created for himself. Leaves Chigiri breathless at the size of him. The thought alone. The possibilities.

Barou turns his head, breath puffing against the shell of Chigiri’s ear with every groan. Every thrust. His blunt fingernails paw at Chigiri’s back, and he wonders idly if he could leave a mark. If the pressure itself might bruise.

Thinks about struggling through practice, wearing his hair as low and loose as he can to keep his neck hidden. Not being able to roll up his compressions when he starts to sweat. Being fully clothed and self-conscious for the first time in his life. Marked. A piece of territory.

Barou comes with a guttural sigh, crushing Chigiri against him. Holds him there long enough that he becomes acutely aware of the ache in his hip. Limp cock pressed raw against Barou’s abs. Pruning fingertips. Hair tangled and heavy.

Barou pulls back to look him in the eye, boring into the very heart of him, and leans in to place a rough kiss on the corner of his mouth. Chigiri stares back, lips parted, and is not entirely sure whether he wants Barou to kiss him again.

Whether it’d be any use.

He feels small and strange, leg still hitched up around Barou’s hip, and he looks away. Thank you. Fuck you.

He can’t quite believe that Barou has the gall to try and collar him. To stake a claim. An arrogant bridge too far. But Barou isn’t gloating. He’s all soft-edged and uncertain, now. Like he isn’t sure, in the cold wake of his orgasm, if he’s even supposed to have his hands on Chigiri at all. If he’s allowed to.

Chigiri holds his gaze and makes a decision. ‘This won’t happen again.’

The lion sheathes his claws. Lets Chigiri get his head free without even the paltry satisfaction of a graze of his teeth on the way out. He drops him into the bath. Stalks away to grab his towel.

And as Chigiri watches him go, sinking down until there’s water in his ears, he can’t help but to wonder why it makes him feel anything at all.

Notes:

my friends got me into ブルーロック and i spat this whole thing out in the space of like,,, 3 days? which floors me. the brainrot was so strong and intense it had me acting up at my nice adult job, resorting to writing this filth on post-its between meetings because i just couldn't keep my hands still. i fear i will never recover.

flagrant foul is technically a basketball term but,,, shhhhh.

tagged as cntw because
1) consent is messy here and (relatedly)
2) canonically, barou is 18. chigiri is not. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Chapter 2

Not out of desire or shame
But some subconscious impulse to feel pain
I wiped my tears on my face and neck
And the backs of my ears and said “Now it’s sweat
Now it’s sweat; it’s sweat now.”

It’s Only Sex, Car Seat Headrest

---

‘Oi, Princess.’

Chigiri glances up rather as if he’d found Barou on the underside of his cleats. Then he continues to roll up his sweats. Peels off a length of sports tape.

‘How hard is it to put your laundry in the hamper? Afraid you’ll break a nail?’

Chigiri says nothing. Deftly rips off a piece of tape and begins to wrap it over his knee. Is glad that things are normal again. Is lying to himself.

‘You really piss me off. You know that?’

Barou’s shadow falls over him, and Chigiri’s hands go still. Rub absently on the strip of tape he has already placed. Waiting. Wanting.

Barou hums and it rumbles low and disapproving in his chest. He drops into a squat so they are of a height, and even as he focuses on smoothing the tape over his skin, Chigiri knows Barou is smiling. Not all teeth and gums, either. And that’s what he really hates. Doesn’t want to see the way Barou’s eyes crinkle at the corners; soft, open.

Like they’re friends.

‘You’ve got a tongue in that head, little miss. Use it.’

Chigiri can imagine Barou saying similar words out on the pitch; roaring them, face twisted up. Communicate. Pass. Be useful, Chigiri. But here, they’re familiar, almost playful, and he knows that Barou sees right through him. Wants him to squirm under the scrutiny of his gaze.

Barou drops to one knee and takes the tape from Chigiri without another word. Rips him lengths of it and offers them out one by one on the tips of his fingers. Chigiri is only glad he is not expected to talk. He doesn’t want to tell Barou what he wants, and it’s not even because he wants to deny him the satisfaction. Chigiri just doesn’t want to think. To have to parcel out anything at all for Barou in the way that he expects—neat and tidy, comprehensible. But maybe they’re not supposed to talk about the bath. Maybe they’re meant to pretend it never happened.

Maybe Chigiri should get it together, already.

They finish taping up his ACL and Barou hands Chigiri the tape so gingerly he almost laughs. Declawed is the word that comes to mind. Toothless. There is silence between them, and Chigiri isn’t sure how comfortable it’s supposed be. Where this leaves them, exactly.

But then he doesn’t need to think, because Barou is leaning over and pressing him down—onto his back—and Chigiri allows it. Is perturbed that he feels relieved. Holds his gaze as his hair falls about his face, as Barou blocks out the lights overhead. His lion’s paw reaches out to comb the hair from his eyes—terrible and gentle—and Chigiri turns his head away.

Barou huffs, and Chigiri longs for the firm pull of a hand on his chin. Wants to be forced to roll it back. To be held in place. He wants to simply be devoured. To make Barou work for it, of course. But then to relinquish control. To let it happen.

Wouldn’t ever stoop to actually asking for it.

‘He spoiled you, didn’t he?’ Barou asks, planting a hand beside his head and dipping down to steal a chaste kiss before Chigiri can retort.

And since that night in the bath he’s known that he wants Barou to kiss him again. Properly. But he wants it all tongue and teeth and knows Barou will give it to him if he can only get under his skin. Eventually. Won’t dare to ask for it outright.

‘You’re not pulling that shit with me, Chigiri. I’m not Prince Charming.’

Of course he isn’t. He’s King Barou Shouei. Tyrant. Despot. He leans down to kiss him again.

’I told you,’ Chigiri warns him, pushing up his hand between them. Tries not to think about how close he is. How large and warm and certain.

Barou smirks. Opens his mouth to close his teeth around the tip of Chigiri’s index finger. Pushes his tongue up against it. Hot. Wet.

Chigiri gives Barou’s jaw a firm squeeze and swallows a groan as Barou bites harder in turn. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Barou. I’ve got options.’

Barou scoffs, the sound muffled and somehow askew.

Chigiri huffs. ’The answer is no.’

But Barou isn’t listening. He’s sucking on Chigiri’s finger—slowly down each knuckle as he holds his gaze—a hand sliding down the front of his sweater. No matter how hard he pulls at Barou’s sleeve, Chigiri can’t stop him. Is only aware of the slick press of Barou’s tongue; the glottal squelch of it. Can’t help but feel that this is all inevitable. And he hates how it brings colour to his cheeks. Knows that’s the only reason he’s getting hard.

Barou pulls at the hem of Chigiri’s sweater, ignores the hand scrabbling at his wrist, flattens his palm over his abdomen and presses him down. Chigiri digs the fingers of his other hand hard into Barou’s cheek but he is undeterred. Swirls his tongue around the finger in his mouth; gives him another press of his teeth.

‘I told you no,’ Chigiri says. Is surprised that his voice sounds level.

Barou responds with only the slightest raise of his brow. Sardonic. Mean. Drags his hand down Chigiri’s stomach and dips into the waistband of his sweats.

‘Can’t get that through your thick skull, can you?’ Chigiri asks, trying to twist away from him. Has nowhere to kick his legs. Is desperate to have Barou’s hand curled around him again. Too proud to say so.

Barou pulls his mouth off—sucking hard and releasing his finger with a wet pop—and presses his chin into Chigiri’s palm, looks down at him far more fondly than he has any right to.

Chigiri glares. ‘How many times do I have to say it, you idiot? This isn’t happening.’

Don’t make me beg for it. I won’t.

‘Say it all night, if you want,’ Barou replies and his voice is all gravel and flint, his smile nasty, ‘it’ll only tire you out.’

‘That’s not—‘ he tries, but Barou’s hand is inching under his waistband again.

Lips pressed ardently to his palm. Barou cups him in his hand, firm and broad and rough, and the fight goes out of him.

‘Shouei.’

His voice cracks, and Chigiri hates this. Wants it.

Hates Barou. Wants him.

Barou’s jaw clenches and Chigiri feels it against his fingertips. Feels his face burn hot and pink as Barou stares down at him. Squeezes at him as though he wants to hurt him. Leave bruises. Chigiri turns his head away, skin flush and burning, hair falling over his eyes. Barou bites hard: right into the soft skin below his thumb. Chigiri retaliates—nips at the wrist beside his head—clamps his hand tight over Barou’s face as though it’s any use. Barou palms at his balls and Chigiri wraps his other hand tighter around Barou’s wrist, sinks his teeth as deep as he dares.

Barou shifts his weight back and inspects the mark Chigiri has left behind. Hums low and dangerous in his throat. Approval? Amusement? Chigiri can’t tell.

And then his hand sweeps across to shove Chigiri’s face the other way; quick, rough. Twists over at the wrist and hooks his fingers into Chigiri’s mouth, presses a space open between his gritted teeth and pulls. ‘I told you to try using your tongue, Princess. Not your teeth.’

‘You started it,’ Chigiri says, all garbled and sideways with Barou’s fingers in the way.

Barou scoffs. Rubs his fingers along Chigiri’s teeth. Jabs beneath his tongue where it’s sensitive and fleshy. ‘I’m gonna take you whether you behave or not, understand?’

And oh, he does. Was hoping for it. Doesn’t quite believe Barou has the guts to make good on his promise.

‘Uh huh,’ he agrees, and it comes out woollen and stupid around Barou’s fingers.

He sits back, takes his hands off of him, and Chigiri remembers how to breathe. Lets go of Barou’s wrist and rubs his mouth with the back of his hand. Feels awkward and frustrated as Barou hooks one arm under his thigh—the knee unburdened, elevated. Feels his spit drying on his face. The tenderness infuriates him. Feels like hesitation. He knew Barou was all talk.

‘I’m not made of glass, Your Majesty,’ he spits out, the words a mockery, ‘if you insist on fucking me, do it properly.’

He tries to roll out of his grip but Barou’s hand closes around the back of his thigh, fingertips digging cruelly into his gluteus, finding a sore spot with his thumb. All of his weight bears into Chigiri, then—pins him down, forces a shuddering breath out of his lungs. He can feel Barou’s cock pressed up against his thigh. Hard. Unyielding. Feels Barou’s knee snug against his own cock, pressing side to side, and wishes he was lucid enough to be ashamed of what he says next.

‘Kunigami didn’t need telling twice.’

‘Yeah?’ Barou asks, nose bumping up against Chigiri’s, ‘shame he’s not here to fuck you how you want, then.’

Chigiri doesn’t know if he can speak, with Barou pressed up so heavy and firm against him—crushing his diaphragm, large hand circling his left ankle with ease. He could kiss him, up close like this. Feel his tongue in his mouth. But he doesn’t want Barou to get the wrong idea.

Can’t forget that this is only sex.

So instead he whispers, ‘You think I’d let you’d be within five feet of me, if he was?’

Barou pulls at the ankle he holds, wide and open towards the floor. Makes Chigiri feel small and delicate. Butterfly pinned to the cork-board.

‘Think you could stop me, if I wanted you? Be grateful I’m giving you the choice. ’

Chigiri swallows. Can’t bear Barou’s eyes on his. The patience, as he holds him in place—one leg struck wide, the other looped over his shoulder, hands cruel and immovable. As he waits for his assent. Reminds him who’s got the power.

So he laughs, breathy and empty, his chest tight. ’I’m starting to think you’re all bark and no bite, Your Highness.’

‘You want this. Just say it.’

Chigiri rolls his eyes. Raises his arms over his head and stretches out, arching up into him. ‘Make me. Peasant.’

‘Forgive me for wanting you to have some fucking manners, Hyouma. Thought I told you to ask me nicely?’ Barou snarls, voice hardly above a whisper.

Chigiri lurches up to bite his bottom lip, tugs at it hard before he relents and drops his head back. ‘Don’t call me that.’

‘I told you no teeth.’ And then he must understand—comprehend the furrow of Chigiri’s brow or his parted lips—because he scoffs. Smiles. Tightens his grip around Chigiri’s ankle. ‘You let him use your first name.’

Not a question.

Chigiri glares. Why does it matter? Wriggles his foot uselessly just to feel the vice-clamp of Barou’s hand tighten over his ankle. Hungers for more.

‘What are you waiting for?’ he asks; taunting. Knows what it really sounds like. Overcompensates. ‘Need telling a third time? Need me to draw you a diagram? Idiot.’

Barou kisses him—once—chaste and affectionate. Amused, even. ‘We can do this the hard way, sure. Just remember that you asked for it.’

Barou’s shifts over and rolls his hips downwards, swallowing Chigiri’s moan with his mouth. He’s not a good kisser. Too much tongue, nose pressing against Chigiri’s at an odd angle, their teeth clacking. It’s exactly what he wants. Needs. Chigiri snakes a hand up Barou’s arm, enjoys the way he can’t get his fingers around his bicep. Barou kisses him—though he hardly feels like he can call it that when there is so little lip—until Chigiri is near to breathlessness. He squeezes Barou’s arm, panting. ‘Not here, the oth—’

‘Don’t care, Princess.’

He flips him over so handily that Chigiri is glad he can press his face into his futon. Doesn’t need to hear Barou gloat any more than he already has, turn his face from flush pink to burning red. Chigiri raises himself up on his elbows, flipping his hair over his shoulder, and is unprepared when Barou shoves him down—mean and wide—in the flat of his back. He gasps, a thrill shuddering through him as Barou keeps his paw on the back of his neck, his other hand tucking into the waistband of Chigiri’s sweatpants. He yanks them down to his knees, traces a gentle path from Chigiri’s hip to the back of his thigh, so softly that he wants to squirm. Then he smacks the meat of his ass so hard Chigiri nearly bites his tongue.

Barou’s hand wraps around the side of his leg, fingers sliding over pubic hair to take Chigiri in his hand again, and he gives him one rough and languid stroke from base to tip. Chigiri wedges his eyes shut, pressing his face into the futon.

‘Why don’t you tell me how badly you want this?’ Barou asks, hand stroking up his abdomen.

His other hand eases off of Chigiri’s neck and he thinks he might just be stupid enough to ask for him to put it back.

He is keenly aware of the strain across his shoulder blades and the high cant of his hips, every second longer that Barou lingers. Comes another second closer to saying something stupid while Barou traces idle patterns into his skin, dips and ghosts fingertips over his navel but no lower. He places his hand back over his neck—Chigiri knows Barou can feel the hitch in his breath as he does—leans in close so that when he scoffs again it puffs out hot and unbearable against his skin. Stands his tiny vellus hairs on end. Barou’s hand slides rough and fast up into his hair, yanking Chigiri’s head back.

‘Didn’t think you’d be so shy about this, little miss. You and that brat mouth of yours.’

Chigiri tries to move his head—testing his grip—and groans again as Barou gives his hair a cruel twist. He blinks up, the side of Barou’s face hovering in his periphery, his throat offered up to the beast. Barou presses another maddeningly chaste kiss to the exposed column of his throat. Chigiri wants him to bite. To suck. Wants a litany of bruises he can’t explain.

Barou dips his head into the crook of his neck, kissing him again, and then licks a salacious stripe upwards to the back of his ear. Bites the lobe: nips gently at it, only playful. The other hand keeps tracing lazy lines up and down his stomach. Testing; teasing.

‘Nothing to say to me, hmm?’ he asks, and each syllable blows warm over the wet skin of Chigiri’s neck. ‘I knew the leopard was just a house cat.’

‘What does the King care for my opinion?’ Chigiri retorts. Bristles in anticipation of what his words might bring. ‘Don’t let your crown slip. I might snatch it from you.’

His hand twists a notch further in his hair, but Chigiri smiles. Flushes, unabashed and exultant, as Barou presses against him with a delicious roll of his hips, groan resonating against the side of Chigiri’s neck, forcing his head back further still.

‘Couldn’t get me out of your head and came running back for more. Need to hear how important you are. You’re pathetic, Barou.’

Please. Thank you. Give me everything I want. Take. Take. Take.

He responds with a growl, low and stuck in the back of his throat, and sucks hard at the hollow behind Chigiri’s jaw. The press of his teeth makes him dizzy. He hopes it leaves a mark. Barou’s hand slips away from his stomach, hips lift away, and Chigiri complains with an indignant little moan. He feels Barou’s fingers flex and tighten in his hair.

‘Going to tuck me into bed afterwards, my sweet prince?’ Chigiri asks, enjoying himself far too much. He won’t shut up until Barou makes him.

Wonders if he can get him to put more than just his fingers into his mouth this time.

The smile playing about his lips is shoved unceremoniously back down towards the futon, Barou’s hand cradling his head. His legs are forced together, hips shifted up and back, and Barou’s cock presses in hot and hard between the soft insides of his thighs. He thrusts into him in a few slow, experimental strokes—hands pinioning Chigiri beneath him, firm and unyielding—and each graze of his cock against the underside of his balls makes Chigiri bite down on his lower lip, shuddering.

‘If I had it my way, you wouldn’t be getting out of bed for a long while,’ Barou hisses, and Chigiri is thankful for the mouthful of cloth he gasps into. The sticky, slick drag of pre-come lets Barou rock into him all the more easily, and if he didn’t have such a firm hand on his hip Chigiri thinks his legs might have failed him.

He twists his head to the side, panting. ‘If?’

His fingers are cruel and vice-tight against his scalp and the side of his hip. Barou snarls, thrusts between his thighs with abandon. Chigiri can’t help himself; laughs, giddy, until Barou forces him to moan. And then he’s gone. Leaves Chigiri trembling in his wake. He sucks in a breath, wonders what inane remark Barou has for him this time.

But there’s only the rip of tape. One long stretch of it.

Chigiri shudders.

‘H-Hey,’ he starts, pushing himself up onto his elbows, but Barou knocks him back down. Digs his knuckles into the space between his shoulder blades.

‘You want me to tape your mouth up too?’ he asks, and then he laughs, ‘now that’s an idea.’

He pushes Chigiri’s legs together, passes the tape around his quads. Winds it over again and again. Smacks him again with the broad spread of his hand once he’s done, runs his thumb along the cleft of Chigiri’s ass and laughs when he squirms. He kicks his heels up, listing over, and quickly finds Barou’s hands on his ankles. He’s drifting, breathless, but he tries anyway. ‘I was starting to think you didn’t have any claws, Barou.’

‘I’ll do it,’ he says, runs his fingers over the sole of one foot just to make Chigiri writhe again. ‘Don’t test me.’

Barou keeps him teetering a moment longer—precarious and unsure—and then his hands are on his hips, cock pushes between his thighs again. He snaps Chigiri’s hips up to meet his thrusts, languid and thorough, folds over him and takes him in his hand again. And this is the easy part. This is what he wants. Friction; burning and raw. Rough hand on his cock. Insides of his thighs chafing. Barou lets go to snake his arm around his chest, pulls him up and back. Fingers in his mouth again. Slides them out to cup over his mouth.

‘Spit.’

Chigiri is lost, dazed for a few seconds too long, and Barou shoves his fingers back into his mouth. Over his tongue. Back of his throat. Presses a third inside, over his teeth, fucks into his mouth until Chigiri is keening and gagging. Drooling over himself.

‘Smart mouth’s got it’s uses after all,’ Barou mutters, sliding his fingers out.

When he presses his cock back between Chigiri’s thighs it’s smooth and somehow cool against the chafed skin. Each thrust slick and sticky sounding. Chigiri gasps, held tight in the circle of Barou’s arm, drops his head back into the dip of his collarbone. Moans around his fingers as they press back into his mouth, puts a hand on himself. Jerks himself off fast and sloppy, and the only things in the world are Barou’s fingers sliding over his teeth and his cock sliding between his bound legs.

‘You need this more than I do,’ Barou rasps, mouth over the pulse of his throat again. And then he’s spoiling everything. Just can’t help himself. ‘Bet he couldn’t keep his hands off you either, hmm? Like you were made for it.’

Chigiri turns his head away, stares over the side of Barou’s shoulder. Cries out around the fingers in his mouth and can’t stop stroking at himself. Thinks of softer lips; sweeter kisses. Staring out at a bank of lockers with his fingers in short spiky hair, head between his legs and everything on his mind. Being told how beautiful he is. Every touch feeling like an act of worship.

Wants to forget.

Needs to.

Can’t wait to be peeling the tape from around his thighs and brushing his hands over red-raw imprints; used, discarded. Barou’s come between his legs, mark of his teeth purpling on his neck. Mind vacant. It’s only sex. It’s only sex.

It’s only sex.

Barou’s forearm brackets him in place, tight and certain and knocking the breath out of him. The spit is long past drying between Chigiri’s thighs; has given way to ache and burn, friction that will rub him raw and be tomorrow’s problem.

‘Did he tell you how beautiful you are?’ Barou asks, fingers sliding over Chigiri’s tongue. There should be a laugh, afterwards, but it never comes. His voice is reverent—honest and rumbling and awful—and Chigiri’s legs buckle. Have nowhere to go; thighs jellied and shot-through with the strain. Moans sticky and pathetic around the press of Barou’s fingers. ’Never saw you like this, though. Did he?’

Don’t do this to me. Shut up.

‘This is all mine.’

Chigiri chokes around Barou’s fingers as he comes, glottal and drooling and his cheeks burning with shame. Tugs himself tight and rough in a pale imitation of what Barou gave to him in the bath. Hates that he’s chasing the feeling. That Barou is right. Gives himself up to the reckless rhythm of Barou’s hips, closes his eyes. Barou’s lips ghost hot and close over the shell of his ear. Every groan dialled up to a shout that shreds his open nerves. Arm crushing him so tightly to his chest it feels like he could give him contusions.

He finds his release with a shout; bites it into the side of Chigiri’s neck. And they come down together, panting, ache settling into their legs.

Chigiri’s sweater feels itchy and hot against his skin. Jaw aches as Barou slides his fingers out. Arm slips from around his chest and he falls onto the futon, rolls himself over and doesn’t even have the strength to brush the hair from his eyes. Feels wonderful and vulgar with his sweatpants around his knees, the tape uncomfortable, the sensation of pins and needles blooming under his skin. Wants Barou to leave already, so he can enjoy it properly.

Instead, Barou leans over and kisses him—short and sweet and open-mouthed—and holds his gaze. Exults. And it's only sex.

‘I’ll never tell you what you want to hear,’ Chigiri says, as though that’s supposed to deter him. As though it matters.

Barou only chuckles in reply, dipping down to capture his lips again. Chigiri bats him away and Barou’s hand closes around his wrist.

‘I know,’ he concedes, brushing his thumb over the fading imprint his teeth left behind in the pad of Chigiri’s thumb, ‘works for me.’

Chigiri feels his cheeks grow hot, avoids his eyes. ‘Just like that, huh?’

Barou’s voice is low; uncertain. ’If you want.’

Chigiri scoffs. Bites his lip. Like this is really that easy. Wants to believe that it can be. ‘You’d better keep up, then,’ he says, and doesn’t have the heart to look at him.

Please. 

Notes:

this second half really got away from me eheheh (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) it was only 1.5k and then i blinked and.... yeah.

maybe i'll write these losers being happier sometime, but i doubt it. i like them a lot more when everything is messy and horrible and i can make them suffer, hehe. i'll let you imagine how their arrangement plays out past this point, dear reader.

i had fun writing this! i love writing filth. (or was, in fact, rather consumed by it, but... shhhhh. i can rest now.)