Work Text:
He's been out of the house for eighteen hours, and the list of all he wants in the world comprises a beer, a cigarette, and a bed.
Then he walks into the kitchen, where Bahorel is drying a sink full of dishes, and the list undergoes a drastic revision.
Bahorel is wearing jeans, and a black tank that doesn't hide the shifting muscles of his torso so much as enhance them, but most important is the black leather collar buckled around his throat. He catches sight of Feuilly standing in the kitchen doorway, and his mouth tips up in a grin.
It takes Feuilly a moment to find his voice.
"Clothes--lose them," he says.
Bahorel tosses the dishtowel onto the edge of the sink. He seizes the hem of his shirt and pulls it up over his head, draping it over the back of a kitchen chair. He hooks one thumb in the belt-loop of his jeans and looks up at Feuilly like he's waiting for orders.
Orders he's already been given.
"Don't make me repeat myself."
A tiny shiver works its way through Bahorel's shoulders. He unfastens his jeans and lets them fall.
There's nothing underneath but ink and skin. Bahorel has been planning this.
Feuilly remembers to breathe. "Kneel down for me?" It's late and he's tired and it comes out a question instead of a command. But Bahorel just sinks slowly to his knees, and suddenly Feuilly's wide awake. He takes a moment to appreciate the sight, letting Bahorel wait for him to be ready.
"Come here," Feuilly says at last.
Bahorel shifts and starts to rise to his feet.
Feuilly's voice whips out at him. "Did I say you could stand up?"
Bahorel's eyes go dark and hot, and his lips curl into something like a smile. He lowers himself onto all fours and slinks forward on hands and knees, his eyes never leaving Feuilly's.
He knows what he looks like when he does that. He has to know. Feuilly's breath catches and his pulse kicks, hammering in his throat.
Bahorel stops at Feuilly's feet, looking up like he's waiting for more orders. His spine is arched, his ass in the air, and his cock is swaying heavily between his thighs.
Feuilly waits a heartbeat too long, so Bahorel drops his head to drag his tongue along the cracked leather of Feuilly's battered workboots. Feuilly hisses out a breath and curls his hands into tight fists at his sides. Bahorel does it again, the sight half-hidden by the loose fall of his hair.
"Good," Feuilly breathes. Initiative like that deserves to be punished, really, and maybe that's what Bahorel is hoping for. He's not supposed to do shit like that without being told, but it's so fucking hot that Feuilly's willing to let it slide.
This time.
He bends down and hooks a finger under Bahorel's chin, tipping his head up. Bahorel's lips part, and Feuilly considers rewarding him with a kiss, but he's not that flexible. He'd have to get down on his knees, or pull Bahorel up off his knees, and that's not an option tonight.
He lets go, and Bahorel stays on his knees in front of him, sitting back to watch. Feuilly slides the button of his jeans out of the worn loop, then shoves the faded denim down his thighs, along with the boxers underneath.
Bahorel licks his lips.
It's not over-the-top--hell, it might not even be intentional--but the sight still makes Feuilly's cock twitch. He's hard as hell already, has been ever since he came home and saw Bahorel wearing that fucking collar while he was doing the dishes. How long has he been wearing it? Did he put it on this morning? Has he been thinking about this all day, half-hard in his jeans?
He strokes himself just once, to watch the way that Bahorel's eyes follow the movement of his hand. Then he slides his fingers into Bahorel's shaggy mohawk and grips, pulling him closer. Bahorel's lips part, his tongue darting out to taste as Feuilly guides Bahorel's mouth to his cock.
Bahorel takes him all at once, in a smooth, practiced motion that tips Feuilly's head back and threatens to unhinge his knees. The groan that escapes him doesn't sound quite human as it bounces off the kitchen walls.
Bahorel wraps one hand around Feuilly's hip and keeps it there, rubbing his thumb gently over the bone. His tongue traces wicked patterns on the underside of Feuilly's cock, curling and twisting. He knows exactly how to bring Feuilly off, knows every trick to use; he takes a lot of pride in his work.
Bahorel moans around Feuilly's cock, and Feuilly tenses, ready to pull back until he realizes that Bahorel's got his free hand in his lap, working his cock in long, desperate strokes.
Feuilly tightens the hand that's holding Bahorel's hair. "Not yet," he says, teeth gritted against the need to come, to snap his hips forward, bury himself in Bahorel's fucking perfect mouth and let go--
Bahorel whines, and the vibration sends sparks skittering up the length of Feuilly's spine. But his other hand comes up to settle on Feuilly's hip, obeying orders. "Good," Feuilly croons. "So good..."
Bahorel looks up at him, and that's all Feuilly can take.
His hips surge forward, his cock bumping the back of Bahorel's throat. Bahorel swallows around him as he comes and then keeps swallowing, teasing oversensitive nerves until Feuilly lets go of Bahorel's hair and pushes him back.
He closes his eyes to catch his breath, reeling on his feet, and when he opens them again Bahorel is still kneeling in front of him, hands loose and empty at his sides, waiting. He hasn't said a word since Feuilly walked in, and it's better than any gag could be--Bahorel choosing to keep quiet, trusting Feuilly to give him what he needs instead of asking for it.
Feuilly nods.
Bahorel curls his hand around his cock and strokes fast and rough, too close for patience or finesse. Feuilly could tell him to slow down, and Bahorel would do it without question, but he lets Bahorel choose his own pace.
His head tips back, revealing the collar, and if Feuilly hadn't come already, this would be enough to get him off--the look on Bahorel's face and the shifting lines of muscle in his arms and his chest. His breath comes in short little gasps, and his eyes are closed, dark lashes resting on his cheeks.
"Look at me," Feuilly says, his voice too soft. He'll blame it on coming, say that Bahorel wrung him out--
Not that Bahorel will ask.
Bahorel opens his eyes and looks up, focusing on Feuilly's face as his breath catches and his arms tremble.
"Come on," Feuilly growls. "Come for me."
Bahorel's mouth opens on a silent shout as he comes, his eyes on Feuilly until he can't keep them open any longer. Then he bows his head, leaning forward and breathing in deep, desperate gasps. Feuilly slides his fingers through Bahorel's hair, gently now.
They don't talk about this--not since the first time. They just don't. But when Bahorel looks up, Feuilly traces a callused thumb over Bahorel's reddened mouth and quirks an eyebrow at him.
Bahorel smiles, smug and lazy, and nips at the pad of Feuilly's thumb. Feuilly steps back and holds out a hand; Bahorel takes it and lets Feuilly haul him to his feet.
Bahorel drapes his arms over Feuilly's shoulders, looking down at him now. "So," he says, his voice a low rumble. "How was your day?"
Feuilly kisses him, considering. "Not bad," he says at last. "Not bad at all."