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Feuilly knows that he’s possessive. A therapist – or Combeferre – might argue that his possessiveness is born out of being an orphan, a direct product of not having much to call as his own as a child. And while he enjoys biting at the corded muscle underneath Bahorel’s tawny skin, what he enjoys more is leaning back to stare at the bright, red marks of his claim – his ownership.
Having a physical manifestation of his proprietorship makes his cock harden and tingle deliciously.
And because he’s a possessive son of a bitch, he’s mapped out Bahorel’s body down to the last inch. He’s canvassed the massive girth of his lover with his hands, his lips, his tongue and his teeth. He’s memorised the guttural groan Bahorel lets out when he drags his short nails over a pert nipple, the high keening that sounds when he flicks his tongue over the slit of Bahorel’s cock’s head, the panting breaths through clenched teeth that are inhaled aggressively when he gathers Bahorel’s balls in a light squeeze. Which means he also knows when Bahorel is about to come, which is any moment now, if going by – and Feuilly knows Bahorel’s body better than he knows his own, so he is – the white-knuckled grip of Bahorel’s hand on the sheets, the excessive precome filling Feuilly’s mouth, and the drawn-out moan escaping Bahorel’s lips.
Feuilly pulls his mouth off Bahorel’s cock with an obscene, slick pop. A smug grin curls his lips at the sound of frustration Bahorel makes. “Problem?” he asks, his voice rough from having Bahorel’s cock down his throat.
Bahorel, hard and wet, glares at him through heavily lidded eyes. “Why’d you stop? I’m so fucking close,” he whines. His hand reaches down to grip his own cock, but Feuilly intercepts him.
“I know. And I didn’t give you permission to touch yourself. Now turn around – and no rutting into the mattress or you won’t be coming at all tonight.”
As is the norm whenever Feuilly uses that particular tone of voice, Bahorel obediently submits, turning on to his belly with no further questioning. His body tenses when he feels Feuilly’s weight slip off the bed.
Feuilly can’t help but smile at the compliance. He grabs a brush, a palette and paint tubes from where’s hidden them under the bed, before climbing on to Bahorel’s back. His cock nestles in the cleft of Bahorel’s ass, which prompts a short jerk from Bahorel. It is stilled almost as soon as it’s begun, only to be followed by a hiss when the cold paint is squirted onto his lower back. Feuilly dabs a brush in the paint, swirling it around and across the overheated skin.
“Do you know why I’m doing this?” he asks, almost idly, because he knows without a doubt that his seeming disinterest will drive Bahorel crazy. “Do you get why I’m punishing you?”
When no answer is forthcoming, he squirts more paint down Bahorel’s spine. “You’re allowed to answer.”
“I did something wrong,” Bahorel intones in a wrecked voice. Feuilly hums in agreement, moving the brush in light, teasing strokes that have Bahorel’s breath hitching. “I-I’m being punished because I did something wrong.”
Feuilly sighs. His breath blows over the wet paint, and Bahorel shivers. “Yes, you did. Do you know what it is that you did wrong? No? Well, because I’m so generous, I’ll tell you.” He pauses the rhythmic movement of the brush for a moment. “I don’t like it when people other than myself touch you, Bahorel.”
Bahorel groans loudly at that – he loves it when Feuilly gets possessive, a fact that Feuilly knows and exploits regularly.
“So when those girls at the bar draped themselves all over you, I saw red. How dare they touch what’s mine? And you just let it happen, Bahorel. You even let them write their numbers on your arm.” He can feel Bahorel trembling slightly underneath him. “Aren’t you mine, Bahorel?”
Bahorel nods.
“Say it.”
“I’m yours, I’m yours, you sadistic son of a bitch,” Bahorel bites out. Feuilly rewards him by grinding his cock against the swell of Bahorel’s ass. It’s a slow, rocking movement that lets every hard, slick inch of him slide against Bahorel, and the friction is too much that Feuilly has to let out a small cry.
“Do you want me in you?” he asks, the words choppy because of his ragged breath. “Do you want me to fuck you?”
Again, Bahorel nods. Feuilly pinches his side in vindication. “Fuck, yes, okay. Will you please fuck me? I need you to fill up my ass before I go crazy.”
Thoughts proven, Feuilly moves off of Bahorel completely, much to the other man’s obvious dismay.
With his paint-stained hand, Feuilly pours a generous amount of lube over the fingers of his clean one. He warms the lube over his skin before carefully spreading Bahorel’s ass cheeks with one practiced movement.
“Fuck!” Bahorel yells at the feeling of Feuilly’s tongue probing his entrance. The tight ring of muscle gives way underneath his attentions, letting his tongue slip past to lick the inside walls until the puckered muscle is dripping with spit. He tongue-fucks Bahorel’s ass for a bit, enjoying the pants and abortive thrusts of his lover’s hips against the sheets, until Bahorel is begging.
“Please,” he gasps, fingers almost ripping holes in the twisted sheet. “I’ll do anything, Feuilly, anything. Just fuck me, please.”
Satisfaction at reducing the usually-imposing man into a ruined hot mess spreads like wildfire through Feuilly. His cock, already straining, twitches against Bahorel’s inner thigh. “Not yet,” he murmurs, reaching up to stroke the back of Bahorel’s neck lovingly. “You’ve been very good at following my orders, so I promise you I’ll make it good for you.”
Panting, Bahorel can only manage to lie there, his body stretched taught and ready to snap like a bare nerve. There is tension in his muscles that Feuilly aches – quite literally – to ease. He rubs a comforting hand down Bahorel’s sensitive inner thigh. Bahorel jerks.
The resounding sound of a slap echoes around the room, and Feuilly watches the red imprint of his hand bloom across Bahorel’s right ass cheek. “Stay good,” he warns.
Slowly, Feuilly lets his slick fingers circle the wet entrance to Bahorel’s hole. He can feel the other man’s trembling increase at the pressure, but that’s the only reaction he elicits. The hot skin underneath his fingertips gives way, letting his first finger slip in up to the first knuckle. Experimentally, Feuilly wiggles his finger, and is rewarded by a hitched breath.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs soothingly, pressing a soft kiss to the skin of Bahorel’s side, immediately following it with a bite as he pushes his finger into the tight heat. Bahorel’s muscles tighten around his finger, holding him in place. He pushes in further when their hold loosens.
Soon enough, he has three fingers buried deep in Bahorel’s ass. He twists them upwards, unfailingly hitting Bahorel’s prostate, which earns him a broken sob. “Fuck, more,” Bahorel cries out, his hips rising involuntarily to seek more of Feuilly’s fingers. “I- I can’t-“
Because Feuilly is a horrible, horrible person, he presses his fingers upwards again, unerringly finding and applying constant pressure to Bahorel’s prostate. The tightness wrapped around his fingers is almost uncomfortably warm, now, and Bahorel is too far gone to be able to control himself. His hips jerk erratically away from and towards Feuilly’s fingers, seemingly unable to decide whether they want more friction on Bahorel’s cock or more intense pleasure from Feuilly’s fingers.
“Please,” Bahorel whispers hoarsely.
Feuilly pulls out his fingers without preamble, replacing them with his cock.
Loud groans fill the air as Feuilly buries himself to the hilt in Bahorel’s welcoming heat in one quick movement. The lack of condom means that the usual barrier that mutes everything is missing, and Feuilly can feel every single ridge and elevation inside of Bahorel; the overwhelming sensations cause Feuilly to white-out momentarily, and he knows that Bahorel can feel it too because he lets out a sharp cry.
“Fucking hell,” he groans, shifting so that he’s raised on his knees, shoulders to the bed, while Feuilly is kneeling behind him. “Feels so good.”
Distracted, Feuilly can only hum in agreement. The clench of Bahorel’s muscle around him is almost too much, prompting him to take a deep breath instead of shooting his load inside of Bahorel. “I’m going to move,” he warns, but that is the only warning he gives, because the next moment he’s pulling out almost completely before shoving back in with a resounding slap of skin-on-skin.
He sets up a rhythm, harsh and fast, thrusting in and out with a wild abandon. Bahorel’s muscles drag against his cock with delicious pressure, ripping groans out of his mouth with each inward push. His balls tighten with his building orgasm where they slap against Bahorel.
He barely hears Bahorel whimper, “touch me.”
He does.
His grip on Bahorel’s cock is light, at first, the barest brush of fingertips across the stiff member. It causes Bahorel to whimper again, his hips canting forwards into Feuilly’s hand then backwards onto his cock in a shuddering dance.
Wrapping his arm around Bahorel’s waist brings them flush together, which shifts the angle of his thrusts until he’s hitting Bahorel’s prostate with every thrust. The heat in the room is stifling, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat and Feuilly never wants to leave the room, never wants to get out of this bed, wants to stay inside Bahorel forever, where it is warm and welcoming and oh so fucking pleasurable.
Draping himself over Bahorel’s back and staining his chest with wet paint, Feuilly closes his mouth around the skin of Bahorel’s neck. He delights in Bahorel’s yelp, in the feeling of the warm skin bruising between his unforgiving teeth, which scrape and tease a love bite to the surface. His lips trail a wet path up the side of Bahorel’s neck until he reaches the shell of Bahorel’s ear. He licks it once before whispering, “come for me,” and Bahorel does.
Stars burst behind his closed eyelids and then he’s coming, too, his hips jerking erratically against Bahorel’s own shuddering ones. He’s vaguely aware of Bahorel spattering the sheets with come as a string of curses falls out of his lips. Pistoning into Bahorel seems like the only thing he can do to stay sane as the world spins off its axis around him, a toe-curling pleasure erupting over him like a long-dormant volcano suddenly come to life. An idle, detached part of his mind wonders if this is what the people of Pompeii felt on D-day.
“Fuck,” Bahorel says one last time, before slumping forward onto the bed and pulling Feuilly with him. They turn to the side to avoid the wet spot, Bahorel dragging Feuilly half on top of him. “You painted fucking flowers on my back, didn’t you, you douche?” he murmurs a while later, the hoarse quality of his voice taking away any sting in the words.
Feuilly smiles, lazy, his bones liquefied and Bahorel’s body a furnace against his. “Gardenias.”
Laughing, Bahorel flips them so he’s the one hovering over Feuilly. “You’ll pay.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Fuck yes.” And he latches onto Feuilly’s throat with an assertive growl.