Chapter Text
Saturday, we meet again.
Feuilly coming off of a abso-fucking-lutley awful work week (for the love of Patria, 58 hours of work is not goddamn legal, surely. Bahorel would know if he ever attended class) was not in any shape to fight.
If he thought that would stop Bahorel, he could only blame it on pure exhaustion.
It was short and sweet; Bahorel landed hard punches to the upper body of the carpenter, leavening thuds and the promise of bruises that would be difficult to explain in the workshop the following workday. Having no energy but to simply defend himself, Feuilly staggered back into the kitchen counter, grunting as his spine met the hard Formica edge. He gasped at the continued pressure as the larger pair of hands grasped his shoulders and forced him backwards, the resulting moan that dangerously skated between pain and eroticism captured in a possessive kiss. Feuilly felt Bahorel enclose his hands around his own wrists, effectively pinning him in place. He would have been embarrassed to admit the pressure growing in his jeans, feeling the restraint and the pain in his back and the burn as Bahorel’s bearded face rubbed down past his mouth and down his neck as he allowed another moan to escape his mouth that was not as restrained as his physical movement.
As Bahorel moved a hand down his chest, calloused fingers brushing over fresh bruises with casual force, the dark hand settled on the waistband of Feuilly’s jeans. Before he could buck into the hand, Bahorel took a knee and shoved it into the hips of the red-headed man. He growled lowly into the crook between Feuilly’s shoulder and neck. “Not so fast, Gingershit. I won.”
His chest heaved a sigh as his shoulder slumped and he gave in. “Fine. Want me to get on the bed, then? You’re fucking horny, I can tell. Let’s do this.” Feuilly, as eager as he was to relieve his cock, was almost too tired. With any luck, Bahorel was in the mood for a quick fuck, then he could blissfully sleep. Feuilly moved to push past the large Lebanese man. Bahorel’s knee stayed in place.
“Get on the couch. Take your shitty jeans off. And don’t move.”
Confused, Feuilly haltingly obeyed the commands, not sure where this was going. This was new. He undid his belt, let his baggy jeans, permanently imbedded with sawdust and the aroma of timber and smoke, pool around his ankles, and stepped out of them on his way to the leather couch. He moved to strip the shirt over his head, but Bahorel stayed his movement. “No, leave it on. It’ll save time for later.”
Before he could be questioned, Bahorel retreated quickly to the bedroom and Feuilly heard him rustle through their shared wardrobe to the back where they kept the supplies and a muffled yell of “Get on the fucking couch, Ginge! On your stomach!” Feuilly quickly complied, a small kernel of something that wasn’t quite nervousness depositing itself in his stomach. He felt his pulse quicken, from both the anticipation as he awaited the return of his not-boyfriend and the amazing relief of some fucking friction from the couch. If Bahorel didn’t fucking hurry up …
His feet padded against the wooden floor, quickly approaching Feuilly as he laid in wait. A warm hand was placed against his back as another hand, already much colder with lube found its way at his entrance. Fingers encircled the tight ring of muscle as Feuilly gasped. This continued for what seemed like ages, the hand in the small of his back pushing him down whenever Feuilly made an attempt to push back into the teasing hand or rut against the couch.
“Fucking go.”
He did. Without warning, Bahorel pressed a blunt finger into Feuilly, where he began thrusting earnestly as soon as he heard the resulting gasp from the willing victim. Minutes later, Feuilly felt a second finger being added. They both twisted and curled expertly inside him, brushing against his prostate with each thrust to send veritable electric shocks down Feuilly’s spine. As the minutes passed, Bahorel being uncharacteristically quiet, Feuilly’s need for release became greater until he couldn’t stand not knowing the plan, his nails digging into the couch.
“Get fucking on with it, you bastard,” he managed to get out between moans as Bahorel continued his ministrations.
Keeping his hand moving at a desperate pace, Bahorel removed the hand from the back of Feuilly momentarily. “Okay, you’re ready for the next step?”
“Yes. Go, damn you!”
Feuilly felt the couch shift from a slight change of position. It wasn’t the change of position he was expecting, however. Instead of positioning himself to enter Feuilly fully, Bahorel withdrew his fingers and leaned over to grab something else off the floor, then resumed his original position. Something small and cold joined Bahorel’s fingers as they were pushed in again. Feuilly jumped as it was pressed quickly against the bundle of nerves, the position of which Bahorel knew unfailingly to the momentary dismay of the smaller man. Then his fingers left Feuilly. Shit.
“Okay, flip over and put your jeans on.” Feuilly could all but hear the smirk on his fucking face. God damn it, what was he planning?”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Bahorel, what the hell are you doing?” he flipped himself, sighing from the friction, again teasing against his hard cock. Bahorel’s eyes widened at the sight and pushed him back down on couch as he began to prop himself up on his elbows.
His bulk left the couch as he darted back to the bedroom. “Don’t you fucking move again. One second.” Feuilly did not miss the small red device in his hand as he retreated. Without warning, light but continuous vibrations assaulted his prostate. Already stimulated, wet with precome, Feuilly writhed in pleasure at this new sensation. He reached down, unthinking, to touch himself and find release he was beginning to desperately need. Jumping in shock when the vibrations grew in intensity, he gripped himself with a loose fist as Bahorel returned.
The boxer snapped his hand on Feuilly’s wrist with an iron grip and pulled him off. “Don’t you fucking dare, you ginger shit.” Almost sobbing in frustration as the vibrations continued, Feuilly glared daggers at him.
“Bahorel, don’t…”
Bahorel cut him off. “I knew this was going to be a problem with you. You have no fucking self control.” Even in his state of desperation, Feuilly could scoff at the irony of that. He knew Bahorel, after all, and in retaliation the continuous stimulation was altered yet again as Bahorel ran his thumb over the buttons on the red remote still in his hands. Feuilly’s face crinkled in a mixture of surprise, frustration, and overwhelming pleasure as the vibrator inside him maintained its intensity but became irregular, making it impossible to adjust to the sensation. He writhed, one hand still restrained by Bahorel, unsure if he wanted to escape the sensation or make it more intense.
“This isn’t going to work if I want you to last …” Hitting the button once again, Bahorel met Feuilly’s eyes, before they were forced shut, leaking tears. Feuilly’s toes curled, he threw his free hand above him and grasped the arm of the couch for some sort of leverage. The building orgasm settled at the base of his spine, and he couldn’t escape the high vibrations to find relief.
“Bahorel, please. Damn, just … God, please.” His voice was low and rough, husky with need. Shaking with the effort of holding back his orgasm, the vibrator still mercilessly attacking his prostate without pause, he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood and pleaded with Bahorel. “P-please …. Bahor- … God, Bahorel. Just … turn it off. Please. Let me come. Or turn it off. I can’t. Jesus, I can’t.”
He shook his head from side to side, clenching his eyes shut as they watered, and clenched his toes. Bahorel moved his hand upward to meet his free hand on the arm of the couch and pinned both of them down with a massive hand. “Feuilly, go ahead.”
With the command, Feuilly sobbed in relief and allowed the pleasure to finally overwhelm him. Untouched, he came in white streaks over his stomach and the couch, pushing strongly against Bahorel’s hold until he was fully spent. As his cock softened, the vibrator still pressed against him in high intensity. Whimpering, he let Bahorel know of his situation and the larger man quickly resumed the device to it’s lowest setting. Whining a bit more, settling into the change yet again, Feuilly shuddered out a breath of relaxation.
“Okay, that was great. Go ahead and take it out.” He moved to pull his arms into a position of comfort, but Bahorel refused to budge. “
“You sweet bastard, I’m not finished with you yet.”
“ … What? Bahorel, stop fucking around.” Though still flaccid, the stimulation that continued up his ass send the occasional shiver through his body.
Tightening his grip slightly on Feuilly’s wrist before letting up, Bahorel paused to allow Feuilly time to react. He muttered, just audible, “Safeword?” A pause of a few seconds was long enough, and silence filled the room. Bahorel’s hands lifted off the couch, and he brought his widely grinning mouth to Feuilly’s ear. “If you touch yourself or move your hands, it will be so much worse for you.” He accented the warning as he drug the man’s earlobe into his mouth and sucked briefly, following that by a sharp bite.
Feuilly watched with trepidation as Bahorel reached into his pocket to store the remote and stroked him back to a partial hardness. It was too much, too soon, and he did not move his hands but made his best attempt to shy away from the touch.
As he writhed away, Bahorel retrieved a new item, presumably what he had gone to get in his most recent trip to the supply box. Before Feuilly could react, Bahorel snapped a simple black cock ring on him and pulled back to survey his territory.
“Shit, Bahorel, really?” He propped himself up on his elbows and waited to see what Bahorel would do next.
His new commands came without much wait. “Okay, ginger shit, you are lovely, you know that?” His attempts at soothing speech were, as always, leaving his tormenting subject unamused. “Get up and put your pants back on. Skip the boxers.”
Feuilly moved to do exactly that, wincing as he rubbed up against the rough denim and the cold metal of the zipper. The increased pressure also elicited a heavy sigh. The only relief – albeit, a momentary one, as Feuilly had an idea of what would happen soon – was that, with a casual flick of his thumb over the remote in his pocket, the vibrations finally ceased. The unyielding, hard plastic still was noticeable inside him, not moving and something that was undoubtedly there, but he felt like he could breath again. As he looked up, Bahorel was already walking outside of their apartment and threw Feuilly a pair of shoes.
“Hurry up, bitch. We have errands to run.”