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“Oho!” Style exclaims. “I was looking everywhere for this!
Style and Fadel are at the kitchen table, eating breakfast and sorting through files paperwork. Fadel's not sure what he’s expecting Style to be so excited about; it's mostly birth certificates and handover stuff for Heart Burger 2.0. Fadel tells himself it's domestic and sweet, but it’s more boring than anything.
As Fadel's mouth is around a spoonful of rice porridge, Style excitedly explains– “It’s a list of everything I’ve been dying to try with you in bed. Y’know, once you got out.”
“Style,” he sputters, choking on his spoon. “What if your dad walked in right now?”
Style presses a finger to Fadel's lips. Fadel's eyes narrow in indignation. “I told you he’s out for the whole day. Relax. Now, read.”
Fadel sighs and takes the torn-out notebook paper from him. Style's scrawling writing cascades in bullets down the page. He reads the first entry out loud.
- Waking each other up with blowjobs or hand stuff 𓂸
“I was really sad but also a little horny waking up alone the morning after you got taken away,” Style supplies, a little rueful.
Fadel stares dumbfoundedly at the crude penis drawing, and then back at Style.
“Anyway, let's start from the top,” Style wiggles his eyebrows, clearly pleased with himself. “Those are things I've been waiting the longest for.”
Fadel's stomach goes sour with immediate guilt knowing he categorically cannot give Style what he’s asking for.
The thing is, Fadel spent the last five years sleeping in a pile of convicts he didn’t trust as far as he could throw them. His own fucking brother included. Waking up to someone, anyone, mouthing at his cock would be nightmare fuel. He knows he wouldn't ask questions, he'd just immediately begin swinging.
It’s been almost a month since he got out and Fadel still wakes up every day in panic because his brain never works fast enough to realize he's safe and in bed next to Style. He doesn’t know if he’s ever going to be able to get back to ‘normal’.
He still hasn’t told Style about any of this. Now is as good of a time as ever, he figures.
So, he talks and Style listens.
He listens and he visibly becomes more and more ill-at-ease at Fadel's words until suddenly–
“Okay, okay,” Style panics, grabbing a pen from across the table. “I should have thought this out. Fuck, let’s just-” he’s scribbling the words out so hard the pen pierces through the paper. “Forget I said anything. This list is stupid, anyway. I was just–’
“Style,” Fadel places a hand over Style's, squeezing once. “Hey.”
The pen falls out of his grip. His eyes are wide and apprehensive, like he wants to bolt out of the room. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey. It’s fine,” Fadel says, and he means it. He rubs a soothing thumb against the skin of Style’s wrist. “Seriously.”
Style worries at his lower lip with his teeth. There's silence for a moment as Fadel thinks.
“I could…” Fadel starts, “Do it the other way around.”
Style’s eyebrows furrow.
“You know,” Fadel gives him a second to catch up. “You said ‘each other’, didn't you? I wouldn't mind waking you up like that.”
“Oh- oh–” Style breathes, eyes flickering with something like hunger, before scanning Fadel for any sign of unease. “You sure? You’d… do that for me?”
➿️
And so a few days later, Fadel is wide awake in bed, dawn spilling gold across the room. Sleeping in would be nice, but his 6:15AM inmate roll call still feels burned into his circadian rhythm.
With Style asleep beside him, with one arm flung above his head and sprawled in the sheets, the prospect of what Style had asked for weighs heavy on Fadel’s mind.
Consent isn't the issue; Style didn't hold back expressing how bad he wants this, how long he's wanted this. But no amount of them talking about it can seem to get Fadel out of his head about it. It's the vulnerability of it, Style unaware and wholly and entirely entrusting himself to Fadel.
Fadel watches the steady rise and fall of Style’s chest, the way his lips part slightly with each soft exhale. He hasn’t even done anything and he already feels like he's ruining something pure, like he hasn't taken enough from Style’s happiness and well-being as it is.
Fadel props himself up on one elbow and just looks at his boyfriend. He looks so at peace and unguarded it makes Fadel’s chest ache.
Style said he wanted this. He had practically begged for it.
Fadel takes in a steadying breath, stomach in knots.
If he needs to, he can always stop.
So, he starts with soft, gliding strokes down Style's ribcage and to the dip where his waist narrows. Featherlight fingertips tracing against skin, just to see if Style reacts.
He doesn’t.
Lips follow next. Fadel places a kiss to Style’s shoulder, to his collarbone. Then lower, lips ghosting along the swell of his pec.
His thumb brushes over the peak of one of Style's nipples. Fadel circles the pink bud with deliberate slowness, watching it tighten under his attention. Goosebumps bloom across Style’s skin, his nipples pebbling under Fadel’s slow, coaxing touch.
It's barely a touch, but Style's breath hitches anyway.
He’s sure this is it, Style is going to awaken and Fadel can say that he tried and get out of this for good.
Style doesn’t, though. He’s still dead to the world.
Fadel gives a small huff of amusement, but he’s transfixed all the same. He tweaks the other nipple between two fingers, rolling it until Style gives a soft, involuntary gasp.
The weight of it makes his hand tremble a little. He hates how much he wants to hear it again.
He's already half hard against Style's thigh, but he reminds himself that this is for Style. It’s permission, but not a free-for-all.
So, he ignores his own arousal, and slides his hand down. He coasts along the plane of Style’s stomach, over love-bite marked hipbones and down to where the comforter gathers messily around Style’s waist.
He pushes the fabric aside, revealing the strained outline of Style’s growing erection tenting his boxers.
Fadel’s palm settles over the fabric, fingers spreading possessively, relishing the way Style’s cock twitches in response. He maps the heat and weight of it through the thin cotton, dragging it up over the thick ridge of his cock. The friction is just enough to tease, but hopefully not enough to rouse Style from sleep just yet.
A soft, involuntary whimper escapes Style’s lips, and it goes right to Fadel's cock.
Fuck.
Fadel loves that Style is always so reactive to his touch, how his body speaks in gasps and whimpers, his shameless brattiness and lack of volume control, and the way his heart sits a little too close to the surface.
Style is a handful and a half. Fadel loves him stupid for it.
All of this is new for them, though. Style with no pretense, no teasing spark in his eye, just utterly pliant in Fadel's hands.
Shame burns low in his chest, but he keeps going.
With a shaky breath, his fingers slide into the waistband of Style’s boxers. He pushes them down just enough to free his cock, already thick and flush with the tip glistening with precome. He wraps his hand around the shaft, his grip deliberately loose at first, just feeling the pretty curve of it against his palm.
Style stirs, like raw sensation shuddering through him. Fadel hums low in his throat. His fingers tighten just slightly around his cock, and Style’s plush lips part around a ragged exhale
Fadel starts stroking slow and steady. He doesn’t rush.
There’s no need to rush, not anymore.
There's no more threat of voyeur inmates peaking around the corner like whenever he and Style managed to sneak away from Style’s mechanic lesson, no silent countdown looming over their heads of the remaining time they have together before the guards notice and they’re separated for weeks.
He's spent years feeling sorry for himself about how much time he's losing – that he's lost – with Style. He tries to remind himself since getting out that he and Style have all the time in the world together now.
No one is coming to take this away.
He studies Style's parted lips and the heated flush spreading across Style’s chest and the vulnerable column of Style’s throat.
Fadel figures he can get a better view than this.
He moves with steady carefulness, pushing himself up and taking extra care not to jostle the mattress too much. He swings a leg over and straddles himself over Style.
Once situated, he cups Style fully – cock in one hand, the weight of his balls in the other –before dipping his head down. He takes in the velvety tip, savoring the salt-bitter tang of precome on his tongue.
Fadel’s tongue presses into the slit a few times, and then he drags the flat of his tongue down the shaft.
He keeps the pace slow as the morning around them, no frantic bobbing, no desperation, just the lazy drag of his tongue along every inch of Style. Savoring the small shudders that wrack Style’s body, he takes him into the hilt in one smooth glide.
He hollows his cheeks around the base and hums; Style loves that.
A low moan slips from Style. Fadel's lips seal around the base, hand tracing torturously up seam where Style’s balls pull tight with need. Style arches into Fadel's touch in a drowsy, instinctive chase of friction, desperately searching the wet heat of Fadel's mouth for more.
With that, Fadel presses his free hand firm against Style's hip, pinning him to the mattress. It’s a little mean, but Style loves that, too.
The contrast of Style's unconscious surrender beneath him against Fadel's control is obscene. Fadel wants to worship him. Ruin him. A shiver runs down his spine, sharp with hunger.
It's stupid hot, all of this. He shouldn’t be this turned on. He shouldn’t enjoy the way Style is whimpering in his sleep, cock jerking up like Fadel’s mouth is the only thing anchoring him to earth.
He loves the weight of Style on his tongue. Loves that Style never flinches from him, that even like this, half-asleep and helpless, he still gives Fadel everything, offering himself up like he recognizes exactly who’s touching him.
Style is so fucking responsive. He's trembling like his body can’t decide whether to wake up or drown here in pleasure.
God. Maybe Fadel should’ve stayed in prison, because whatever this is, the way it turns him on, can’t be right.
But what good is it turning back at this point?
Fuck, he loves this.
Fadel deepens the suction, pace firm and unrelenting, and Style moans like pleasure’s being pried from him by force.
"Fadel–" The name spills from Style's lips in a broken whimper, his voice frayed raw from sleep and the relentless heat of Fadel's mouth.
Pulling off with a filthy wet pop, his hands moving to either of Style's hips to still his bucking.
He looks up at him and– shit.
Style's eyes are fluttering open, heavy-lidded and sleep-hazed, but unmistakably wrecked. He gives a soft gasp, like his body is feeling the pleasure before his brain can even catch up.
Fadel takes him back in again, tongue dragging deliberately as he feels the flutter of Style’s thighs under him.
But then, Style makes a confused noise. It’s enough to make Fadel pause and pull off and look up at him in worry.
“Hey," Fadel says, voice tight with sudden unease. "Style?" His own pulse hammers within him, and thumb brushes against Style's hip bones in a soothing gesture, though he’s not sure if it's for himself or for Style. He’d let go in an instant if Style so much as tensed. “Do you want me to stop?”
Style's eyes narrow, not in protest, but in drowsy, syrupy-slow defiance.
“No,” he whines. With absolutely none of his usual theatrical precision, he clumsily grasps at and pulls Fadel’s hand back to his cock. “Don’t stop.”
Fadel's hands are still in place. He swallows, gaze dragging down Style’s flushed body.
Style begs. "Please, Fadel.”
Something clicks inside Fadel.
“Good,” Fadel purrs, voice low. “I’ve got you.”
With no more hesitation, he drags his palm up the underside of Style's cock agonizing and slow, watching as it twitches against the delicious friction. Style flings an arm over his eyes with a weak groan, like he's useless fighting against the pleasure. “Please-”
“Look at you,” Fadel murmurs, voice rough with possession. “Half-awake and already begging for me,” The sight of Style sprawled across the sheets, chest heaving and lower lip caught between his teeth, sending heat searing through Fadel’s veins. He's achingly hard and desperate for relief himself, but this is about taking care of Style. He's a little breathless when he ask, “Were you dreaming about this?”
His thumb presses deliberately into the slit just hard enough to draw out that pretty, helpless gasp Fadel loves.
"Fuck– It’s too much,” Style moans, words dissolving into nonsensical babbling as his thighs tremble beneath Fadel. "Hah– Please.”
Style keens into the touch as Fadel strokes him through it. Fadel’s own breath gets heavier with each twitch and spasm of the cock in his hand.
"I'm so close," Style says, hands scrambling desperately against the sheets for purchase. “Please, Fadel – hah – I need-” Style’s voice breaks on the last word, strained like it hurts not to come.
“Do you want it like this?” Fadel asks, voice gone low and just as wrecked watching Style. “Just my hands?”
He shakes his head wildly. “No,” he pants, words coming out in punched-out gasps. “Can you - hah - You know–”
Style doesn’t need to finish the sentence. Fadel knows.
Fadel moves fast, readjusting to swallow him down in one smooth motion. Style goes tense, and shudders into Fadel’s mouth. He cums with a broken moan, back bowing off the mattress, release flooding against Fadel’s tongue and deep down his throat in thick, white-hot waves.
Fadel swallows greedily, tongue working around each pulse as Style stutters beneath him. It wrecks Fadel just as bad, the way Style’s body keeps trembling. He has just enough of an angle to see the desperate flutter of Style’s abdomen as he rides his pleasure to its end.
Fadel has him pinned down as he drags his tongue up the oversensitive shaft - one last time, just to be mean. Style gets overstimulated easily, but Fadel probably shouldn’t push him too much in this state.
Shuddering, a single and fucked-out, “God,” is all Style can seem to manage.
Fadel’s mouth is still wet with him, pulse racing. He pulls back and wipes his mouth, watching the drool stretch and break. But all he can think about in the moment is “again.”
“That was insane,” Style pants, flinging an arm over his eyes like he can’t even look at Fadel. “You’re evil, you know that?”
“Who’s evil?” Fadel asks, flicking Style's nipple with his pointer finger. “This was all your idea, remember?”
That earns a broken laugh. “Fuck. Get down here. Need you–” Style pulls Fadel by the arm down to him on the bed, crashing their mouths together.
Style kisses him like he’s starving; hands twisting in Fadel’s hair, tongue slipping into his mouth like he wants to devour Fadel.
Fadel’s mouth still tastes like Style. He distantly thinks about how neither of them have brushed their teeth yet. It’s all a little bit nasty but Fadel knows his freak boyfriend loves that most of all.
“You are not getting away with this, you know” Style gasps between desperate kisses. “You can’t just wake me up like that and-” another kiss, “Not expect me to get revenge.”
Fadel pulls off kissing to press their foreheads flush to each other. He can't help but laugh. “Revenge?”
Between them, Style is always the one with the upper hand, really, so seeing him uncomposed and undone under him drives Fadel a little feral. With one hand bracing himself up, the other maps the muscle of Style’s abs, then slides back to knead the curve of his ass.
“Oi!” Style swats at him. “This is no time for grabbing my butt!”
“No?” Fadel doesn’t stop. “You sure about that?”
Style's expression is dark and hungry now, all the sleep-soft edges burned off into something sharp. Style puts his hands on Fadel’s shoulders. “It's your turn.”
Fadel's eyes go a little glassy as he lets Style push him into the mattress.
Style presses searing kisses into his neck, pulling the knot of Fadel's drawstring shorts undone. “Off, now.”
Fadel complies and takes absolutely everything Style gives to him.