Work Text:
The midday heat pressed thick against the windows of Heart Burger, sweat beading on the steel vents above the kitchen as Fadel worked in near-silence. The scent of grilled beef clung to his skin—salt, smoke, grease. He hadn’t said a word since opening, except to bark out brief orders to the staff who wisely kept out of his path. The usual lunch hour chatter—customers laughing, clinking trays, the low hum of music from the radio—barely touched the hard edges of his focus.
He flipped a patty. The sizzle screamed back at him.
His jaw clenched. Again.
He’d read the same message at least ten times that morning.
Read 9:23 AM
“Are you done sulking?”
Nothing. No response. Not even the little “seen” dot after that.
The burner hissed under his gloved hand. The weight of the spatula dug hard into his grip like it owed him answers. His left thumb hovered near the edge of the stove, close enough to burn. He didn’t pull away.
Style was supposed to show up today. He always did. Sat at the back table like he owned the place. Rolled in around 11:50 AM in his obnoxious sleeveless shirts and grease-streaked cheeks, threw off his shades, propped his boots on the seat across from him, and flirted with the staff until Fadel came out from behind the counter to tell him to stop.
Always the same. Until today.
No messages. No calls answered. No half-assed excuses.
Just silence.
Fadel’s brows pinched tighter as he slapped melted cheese onto the patty and slid it onto a fresh bun. No Style to complain about how “the pickles were strategically placed to make him cry,” no voice behind him saying, “Babe, you need a better playlist in here. I’m begging you.”
Nothing.
He wiped his hands on the towel hanging from his belt. The cloth was damp, just like the air. Just like his temples.
Why the fuck was he this annoyed?
He’d told himself it was fine. That Style was being dramatic—again. That they’d had little arguments like this before. He’d sulk, disappear for a day, maybe two. But on the third day, he’d come dragging himself back in with a smug face and half an apology.
But this? The sudden freeze-out? This was new.
And all over what?
Apparently, it had started because Style had come in for lunch, standing beside Fadel in the kitchen while licking ketchup off his finger and saying something like
“Let’s go somewhere for real this time. Just you and me. I found this place—north, way up in the mountains. No cell service. Just a highway, forest, and my sweet girl’s engine purring under us.”
Fadel hadn’t even looked up from slicing onions.
“Can’t leave for that long.”
“It’s just four days.”
“That’s too long. I run a business, Style.”
“So?”
“So, I can’t close Heart Burger for that long. People depend on it.”
Style had gone quiet then. Just for a beat. Fadel remembered glancing up, wondering why it had suddenly gotten quiet—and catching that look on his face.
That bitter one. The one that crawled up his mouth like a smirk but never touched his eyes.
“Right. Can’t leave the kingdom unattended. The customers might starve without you.”
Fadel had said something sharp after that. He couldn’t even remember what. He’d been tired. Overworked. There were two workers out that week. Someone had messed up the meat delivery.
But Style had left not long after, leaving his half-eaten burger on the plate, waving over his shoulder like nothing happened.
That was three days ago.
And he hadn’t come back since.
Fadel snapped his gloves off and tossed them into the bin with a little too much force. He wiped his hands clean, washed them again at the sink, twice. Then dried them with slow, deliberate precision—every finger, every crease between them. His keys were already in his hand before he even made the decision.
STYLE AUTO – 2:42 PM
The drive was short. Too short. Fadel wanted it to be longer. Wanted more time to figure out what he was even going to say. Instead, he was already pulling into the cracked lot behind Style’s garage in under seven minutes.
The place was filled with mechanics as usual.
But no Style in sight.
Fadel stepped out, boots crunching over gravel. The hot air smelled like engine oil and rusted tools. He approached into the garage, then to the backside of the garage where Style’s room is. He turned the knob. It didn’t budge. Locked.
He knocked once. Nothing.
Again. Harder.
Silence.
His jaw tightened.
Then, he goes back to the front of the garage, entering it. Faint footsteps echo from deeper within as soon as he steps inside. Jay appears, his expression shifting to mild surprise upon seeing Fadel— nothing too dramatic, just a flicker of recognition.
Fadel gave a short nod. “He here?”
Jay blinked at him like he’d just been yanked out of a nap. “Style?”
Fadel didn’t answer.
Jay scratched his temple. “He… went on a road trip.”
Fadel’s eyes narrowed. “Alone?”
“Yeah.” A beat. “Took the red one. Said he’d be back by next week.”
Fadel didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared.
And the man looked away.
Bullshit.
Style didn’t just vanish. Not without blowing something up first. Not without sending some snarky “I’m leaving you for my car” message with fifty emojis.
And if he did leave? He wouldn’t tell only his father. He’d want Fadel to chase.
That fucker was testing him.
Fadel’s throat felt dry as he walked back to the car. He opened the door, sat down in the driver’s seat, stared out through the windshield. Then he picked up his phone again.
Read 9:23 AM
“Are you done sulking?”
Still nothing.
The longer it stayed unread, the harder his hands gripped the wheel. The engine rumbled low, but Fadel didn’t move.
Not yet.
He just sat there.
And steamed.
The door to Style Auto slammed shut behind him with a finality that echoed louder in Fadel’s chest than it did on the street.
He stood outside for a moment, jaw locked, shoulders squared beneath the weight of a heat he couldn’t shake. The sunlight felt too bright. Too sharp. It glared against the curve of his lashes as if it had something personal to prove. Across the road, a kid dropped a soda can, and the clatter made him flinch. He exhaled—sharp through the nose—and slid a hand over his mouth, dragging it slowly down the line of his jaw like he could smooth the tension that clung there.
Road trip.
The word lingered like a bitter aftertaste.
He hadn’t even said no. Not at first. Just raised one brow, unimpressed, when Style started rambling about the coast and hot sun and backseats and “You’d look so hot behind the wheel of a Mustang.” Fadel had gone back to wiping the counter, grunted something like “That sounds expensive.”
And Style—predictably—hadn’t liked that. Not the words. Not the tone.
But Fadel had work. He had staff schedules. Inventory shipments. Heart Burger wasn’t going to flip itself while he gallivanted through mountains or coastlines or whatever Style had seen in that random-ass Instagram reel.
He started walking.
The street buzzed around him—people on motorcycles weaving through traffic, the scent of fishballs and exhaust fusing together in the heavy summer air. It stuck to his skin like sweat, made his shirt cling, made him feel more irritable with every step he took toward the narrow cross-section of the main road. The tattoo parlor sat a few blocks over, tucked between a laundromat and a busted noodle shop that hadn’t opened in months.
Kant wouldn’t lie to him.
No—Kant was still scared of him from time to time. But he was also loyal when it came to Style.
Fadel rolled his shoulders as he passed a group of college kids laughing too loudly. His eyes narrowed. He wasn’t angry anymore. He was somewhere past that. A slow simmer. The kind that didn’t need to boil over to scald. He could feel it resting just beneath his skin, heavy and dull like the weight of a gun in a waistband.
He turned the corner. His boots scraped against uneven pavement.
There it was.
The glass windows painted over in matte black. The neon sign buzzed, flickering like it hadn’t slept either.
He didn’t knock.
Just shoved the door open with his shoulder and stepped in like he owned the air inside.
It smelled like ink and antiseptic. The buzz of a tattoo gun hit him first, then the lazy hum of whatever playlist Kant was playing today—some mid-tempo indie rock that didn’t match the tension crawling up Fadel’s spine. The shop was dim, a small red lamp glowing behind the counter and a cracked AC unit groaning in the back like it hated being alive.
Kant looked up from behind the reception desk, shirt rolled up to the elbows, hands smudged with graphite as he sketched lazily into a black notebook.
“Oh.” His eyes widened slightly. “Hey, man. What’s up?”
Fadel didn’t answer right away. He walked in slow—measured steps. Quiet. The door hissed shut behind him, sealing the heat inside. His shadow fell over the counter as he stopped in front of Kant and looked him dead in the eye.
The younger man tensed.
“…Something happen?”
“You tell me,” Fadel said, voice low. Calm. Too calm. He placed both of his palms on the desk and leaned in slightly. “Where the fuck is he?”
Kant blinked. His fingers twitched over the sketchpad, the lines of his drawing wobbling.
“Who—?”
Fadel didn’t even raise a brow.
Kant cleared his throat. “Look, if this is about Style—”
“It is.”
“Then I don’t know where he is.”
Fadel tilted his head. Slowly. Like a man trying not to lose it in the middle of a room full of breakable things.
“You sure about that?”
Kant laughed. Nervously. “I mean. Yeah. He hasn’t been around—”
“He’s not at the garage. He hasn’t answered his phone. He hasn’t been home. He hasn’t eaten. And now his father’s lying to my face.” Fadel straightened just a little, arms folding across his chest with deliberate slowness. “You wanna try that again?”
Kant swallowed. He shifted his weight, started to speak, stopped, then rubbed the back of his neck with his palm.
“I mean, he… maybe he just needed space?”
Fadel stepped around the counter.
Kant’s eyes went wide. “Whoa—hey—hey, don’t—”
Fadel didn’t touch him. Just got close enough that Kant could feel the temperature shift. The former hitman wasn’t yelling. He didn’t need to. His silence pressed against the walls of the shop harder than a raised voice ever could.
“Don’t play dumb, Kant.”
“I don’t know, man, I swear—”
“I’m not gonna ask again.”
Kant looked at him. Then past him. Then down at the floor.
“…He said not to tell you.”
Fadel’s jaw clenched.
Kant continued, hesitantly. “He… went to some car thing. Like a market. Not too far. Said he just wanted to look around, not do anything serious. That was all. I thought he’d come back the next day.”
Fadel didn’t blink.
“And he hasn’t.”
“No, I—he’s still there. I think. He sent a text. I don’t—he said he’s fine, okay?”
Fadel’s hands curled at his sides. The buzz of the tattoo gun in the room seemed to fade into the background, replaced by the hard thud of his pulse in his ears.
“He said where?”
Kant hesitated. “Uh. The big import lot by the bridge. Y’know, where they have the auctions and shit. I think it’s some kind of collector’s showcase this time. He wanted to see some GTR—something about a limited custom—”
Fadel didn’t wait to hear the rest. He turned, already halfway to the door.
And then he was gone.
The inside of the car was too hot. Too tight. Too damn bright. Fadel didn’t remember buckling his seatbelt or slamming the door shut after tearing out of Kant’s shop, but he did. He also didn’t remember switching lanes too fast on a red light, or the angry honk that followed. But it happened. He was moving on muscle memory now—low to the wheel, one arm draped over it, the other gripping the gear harder than necessary. His knuckles were pale against the leather. His jaw tight enough to ache.
“Fucking road trip,” he muttered, eyes dark and fixed on the road.
The way his lip curled wasn’t from amusement. It was disbelief. Style really pulled this shit. Style really didn’t pick up his damn phone for four days. Didn’t show up to Heart Burger like he always did—sometimes even showed up twice a day just to annoy Fadel at lunch and dinner. Didn’t sleep next to him, didn’t crawl under the covers at midnight, didn’t sneak into the shower when Fadel got home late. Gone. Gone, over a stupid, petty, Style-started fight.
Fadel scoffed, deep and cold, as he accelerated past a motorbike.
All that because I said no to a trip.
A trip. A few days off. Just to drive across the country for… what? A sunset? Some food truck? A random motel in the middle of nowhere?
“You wanna go fuckin’ sightseeing, huh?” Fadel growled under his breath, voice venomous. “How ‘bout I show you the inside of my trunk next.”
The GPS ticked louder as he neared the venue. His eyes didn’t move from the road.
He knew Style lied to his dad. Knew the road trip was fake. Style hadn’t gone anywhere far. Just disappeared into some dumb ass event filled with tires and tailpipes, just to avoid him. That realization—that insult—sat wrong in Fadel’s chest. Made everything ache in the worst way. He couldn’t stop picturing Style sleeping somewhere that wasn’t their bed, laughing like he hadn’t left him hanging for days, brushing him off like he wasn’t the one who bent over backwards to tolerate Style’s everything.
The same hand that gripped the gear shift curled tighter. His jaw flexed. A sharp exhale fogged the windshield just a little. “I swear to God, if he so much as smirks—”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.
Because the venue appeared ahead—loud, scattered, all noise and hot air and revving engines. It was built out of an open lot—bright vinyl banners snapping in the wind, a line of cars parked in mismatched colors, and a row of small tents filled with gearheads and racers. At the far end: a platform with a speaker system screeching updates about upcoming car showcases.
It reeked of rubber and sweat. The smell of gasoline clung to the air like a second skin.
Fadel parked with the handbrake yanked up too hard and shoved the door open. His boots hit the gravel. His shadow spilled long behind him as the sun started to dip.
And just like that, he was on the move.
Eyes scanning, chest hard, shoulders wide, steps clipped with that barely leashed violence in every pace. People moved around him like he wasn’t there. Some glanced—most didn’t. He moved with the kind of energy that said don’t get in my way.
But the more he looked, the more that simmering frustration grew. No sign of Style.
Just men polishing rims, girls laughing over spoilers, some idiot revving his exhaust too loud. The sun reflected off every polished surface, hot on Fadel’s skin, and still—no sign of that cropped shirt, or those baggy pants, or that infuriating fucking smirk.
His molars ground together.
Then.
He stopped.
Spotted something across the lane, bent near a baby blue ‘91 Nissan Silvia with custom mods. The curve of a waist, the flash of soft skin just barely exposed between shirt and waistband. Cropped shirt. Baggy pants. And Style—Style—bent low with one hand touching the door like it was priceless treasure. Admiring the curve like it was art. Gaze focused. Eyes bright. That cropped hem rode even higher as he leaned closer, showing just the slightest dip of hip and the waistband of his pants peeking out. His hair was slightly messy from the heat, lips slightly parted in interest.
Fadel stopped breathing.
And that was saying something, because he’d been damn near growling this whole time.
A deep, cold wave of emotion hit him. Not just anger. It was fury, betrayal, frustration, desireall tangled together. Watching Style’s back curve, fingers brush the hood, the way he examined the car like it was something sacred—Fadel felt something sharp twist inside him.
Like this was what Style had chosen over him.
This car. This day. This scene.
Then the auction started.
A loudspeaker cracked overhead. An engine roared from the platform. People swarmed like ants—cheering, pushing closer. The crowd gathered tight as one of the show cars rolled onto the platform. Bright paint, neon lights, someone yelling into a mic in the distance.
Fadel’s narrowed eyes didn’t leave Style once.
He saw him straighten, finally, and turn to face the auction. The shifting LED lights from the stage danced over his face—coloring his skin with red, blue, gold, then white again. His eyes were shining. Lips twitching in interest. Arms crossed over his chest, soaking in the show like it was the best thing he’d seen in weeks.
And Fadel—Fadel—was still standing in the middle of the lot, chest heavy, fury in his throat, wondering how this smug little shit could look so happy when Fadel was one wrong step away from losing it completely.
He pushed forward.
Shoulder-first, slicing through the crowd.
He didn’t care if the people made room or not. He didn’t care about the noise, the lights, the screaming of engines. His eyes were locked. Every pulse in his body dragged him toward Style like a wire pulled taut, and when it snapped—
He didn’t know what he was going to do.
But he was going to do it.
Style tilted his head.
He was watching the auction with a casual smirk pulling at his lips, like nothing in the world could bother him. Like four days hadn’t passed since he vanished. Like Fadel hadn’t been walking through hell in silence, fists clenched around his phone every night, staring at the door that never opened.
But then—
His wrist was grabbed. Tight.
A sharp gasp burst from him as he was suddenly turned, spun fast by someone’s grip—and his body tensed on instinct. His balance caught just in time by a pair of fingers curling firm around his pulse point.
That was the first thing he saw. That hand.
Face shadowed, jaw locked, storm in his eyes.
“Fadel—?” Style blinked, taken off guard for the first time in days.
He didn’t get another second to speak.
Fadel glanced once around the crowd—sharp, cutting—and without a word, yanked him forward. No time to protest. No time to smirk. The grip didn’t loosen once as Style stumbled after him through the crowd. His boots barely scraped the ground as Fadel pulled him, hard and fast, cutting through the noise, past the side tents, and toward a worn, dented metal door tucked beside the vending machines.
RESTROOM.
Fadel shoved it open.
The flickering light above them buzzed like it could sense what was about to happen.
The heavy door slammed behind them—cutting off the roar of engines, the color, the heat of the sun. Inside was dim. Cold. The tiles were off-white and cracked in places. Graffiti and peeling posters lined the walls above the sinks.
But Style barely took in any of it.
Because Fadel still hadn’t let go.
He was staring at him now—dead-on. Right hand still clamped around Style’s wrist, the heat of his palm burning under the skin, and his breathing was rough. Measured. Like every second was holding something back.
“The fuck is wrong with you?” Fadel’s voice was low. Dangerous.
Style blinked, wide-eyed, then huffed a breathless laugh. “Hi to you, too.”
Fadel didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.
He dropped Style’s wrist only to shove him—hard—backward.
Style’s spine hit the sink counter with a dull thud, and Fadel followed in close, crowding into his space. Close enough for his breath to wash hot against Style’s cheek. Close enough to trap him between the metal edge and his chest.
“You just vanish?” Fadel’s voice was a growl. “No texts. No calls. You don’t even come home—”
Style tilted his chin, smirking. “Home?”
“You disappear for four days because I wouldn’t go on some bullshit road trip—”
“It wasn’t bullshit,” Style said, grinning wider. “You needed the break.”
“I told you I was working.”
“And I told you I don’t care,” Style shrugged, leaning a little closer like it was all some little game. “Kinda your fault for being hot when you’re pissed.”
Fadel’s eyes darkened. His hand hit the sink next to Style’s waist with a sharp slam
“Try again.”
“Try what?” Style murmured, smile curling like smoke. “Answer your questions? Or get you to kiss me?”
Fadel glared.
Style’s head tilted. “You missed me that much, huh?”
That smug grin was a sin. The way he leaned forward—slowly, lazily—was even worse. His fingers brushed over Fadel’s stomach, teasing light over the fabric of his shirt, then up toward his chest, his voice a quiet tease. “Didn’t think you’d actually come all the way out here for me, you know.”
Fadel grabbed his wrist again.
But this time—it wasn’t to yank him away.
He slammed it up. Pinned Style’s hand above his head, fingers locking around his wrist like a cuff.
Style’s eyes widened.
And then—
Fadel kissed him.
No warning. No patience.
It hit hard. Teeth first. Breath stolen.
Their mouths crashed with the kind of heat that came from biting down every word, every night spent cold, every moment both of them wanted to say something and didn’t. Style gasped into it—his free hand clutching at Fadel’s chest, nails dragging up over fabric, his lips parted just long enough for Fadel to shove his tongue past them, rough and deep and full of every angry thought he hadn’t said.
Style melted instantly.
Because of course he did.
Because of course he wanted this. Wanted to be kissed like punishment. Wanted to be held down and pinned like he’d done something wrong—because he had, and that only made it hotter. He moaned into Fadel’s mouth, hips pressing forward. He kissed like he wanted to get choked for it.
Fadel bit his lower lip.
Hard enough to make Style shudder and moan again, louder.
The sound echoed through the tiled room.
Fadel didn’t stop.
He dropped Style’s wrist—only to grab his hips with both hands and shove him back harder into the sink. His thigh came between Style’s legs, pressing up cruel and slow as he devoured his mouth, teeth dragging at the corners. Style was clinging to him now—hands in his hair, his shirt, fingers fisting at whatever they could grab.
“You think this is funny?” Fadel growled against his lips.
Style grinned. “A little.”
Fadel kissed him again—sloppier this time, more furious. He dragged his lips down Style’s jaw, then bit the skin below his ear.
Style hissed and tilted his head, mouth falling open with a sharp gasp.
The throb of it—pain and heat and possession—made his knees go weak.
“I missed that,” he whispered, high off the attention. “Missed you.”
Fadel exhaled hard against his neck, biting again, dragging his tongue over the mark this time.
And then—
Footsteps.
Clicking against tile. Loud. Getting closer.
Fadel’s hand clamped over Style’s mouth just as the door creaked open.
Their bodies were still pressed tight—Fadel halfway between murder and making out, Style panting behind his palm, eyes wide with thrill and amusement. Both frozen as the heavy footsteps echoed inside, then paused by the urinals.
Fadel’s glare shot sideways.
Then back to Style.
He moved fast.
His hand dropped. He grabbed Style’s arm again, yanked him off the sink, and pulled him toward the stalls.
One. Two. The third one—empty.
He shoved it open.
Dragged Style inside.
Slammed the metal door shut behind them.
It echoed.
Then silence.
Their breath was still thick in the air. The stall was narrow—barely enough room to shift, even less to breathe. Style was pressed against the wall now, Fadel right in front of him, his hand braced above his head. The light from the top of the stall flickered, casting shadows over his face.
“…You were saying?” Fadel muttered darkly.
Style grinned again.
Didn’t even pretend to behave.
Fadel moved in—fast. His hand slammed against the wall beside Style’s head, the other still locking his wrist down. Their bodies pressed together like magnets snapping. Fadel’s voice was low, barely contained. “You disappear for four days. Don’t answer my calls. Don’t show up. I’m thinking maybe you’re dead in a ditch. And you’re here? Fucking smiling? At cars?”
Style’s lashes fluttered. “I told you I wanted a trip—”
“And I told you I can’t just leave everything behind,” Fadel snapped, the words hot and venomous. “You don’t get to pout like a fucking child and vanish.”
Style licked his bottom lip. “I was gonna come back.”
“Yeah?” Fadel’s eyes darkened. “You don’t get to play me like that.”
A beat.
Then—
“I could make it up to you,” Style whispered, voice suddenly syrupy, sinful. That crooked smirk spread again. His hand slipped down between them, fingers ghosting over the front of Fadel’s jeans. “If you let me.”
Fadel didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
Just glared down at him.
And that—that—was all Style needed. The tension wasn’t a wall. It was a damn invitation.
He dropped to his knees without another word.
The tile was cold. Grimy. Public. But Style didn’t even flinch. He pressed his cheek against Fadel’s thigh, nose brushing the stiff denim over his zipper, and nuzzled. Slow. Worshipful. Like this was exactly where he belonged.
Fadel’s jaw twitched. His hand still braced the wall. The other fell away, hovering at his side, curled tight in a fist.
Style looked up.
Through thick lashes. Big, shameless eyes. That knowing glint in them—fuck, it burned. “You’re already hard,” he said, voice low and giddy.
“I’m fucking mad,” Fadel bit out.
“Mmhm.” Style kissed the outline of his cock through the jeans. “Still hard.”
He unzipped him—slow. Deliberate. The drag of the zipper felt deafening in the tiny, echoing stall. Fadel’s cock sprang free half-hard, flushed, and Style didn’t wait. He leaned in and kissed it. Open-mouthed, sloppy, tongue dragging up the base to the tip in one long, teasing stroke.
Fadel’s fingers flexed.
Style pulled back just enough to smile at him. Then kitten-licked the head. Again. Again.
“You’re unbelievable,” Fadel growled.
“Mm,” Style hummed around the tip, mouthing at it, letting his lips brush against sensitive skin with the softest pressure. “You like it.”
That was when Fadel lost the last of his patience.
He grabbed Style’s hair. Hard. Fingers threading in at the scalp and yanking his head back just enough to tilt it how he wanted. Style moaned, mouth still open, tongue still dragging.
“You wanna be fucked like a whore on a public toilet floor?” Fadel said, voice sharp, dangerous. “Is that it?”
Style’s grin stretched wider, eyes bright. “Maybe.”
And Fadel thrust. Not deep—not yet—but enough to make Style choke around the sudden intrusion. Style’s eyes fluttered shut, throat convulsing, then fluttered open again, glassy and wet and feral. His hands slid up to Fadel’s thighs, gripping him tight like an anchor.
Fadel rocked his hips again.
Another moan, muffled. Another roll of the tongue around him.
“Eyes up,” Fadel muttered.
And Style looked. Watched him as he sucked, mouth plush and slick, spit already sliding down his chin. Fadel’s free hand reached down, thumb brushing along his cheek, then catching at the corner of his lips—smearing the drool there before pushing that thumb in, into Style’s mouth, beside his cock. Style moaned at the intrusion, filthy, obscene, eyes fluttering with pleasure.
“That why you came here?” Fadel muttered. “To suck your way out of trouble?”
A laugh, choked and dirty, spilled from Style’s throat, and it vibrated around Fadel’s cock like a taunt. He shoved deeper.
More drool.
More gagging.
A little cough as Fadel held him still by the hair and thrust forward—not cruel, not yet—but deep enough to make Style’s throat close up and his nose bump against his pelvis. Style’s hands scrabbled at his thighs, then gripped tight, fingers digging in.
Fadel grunted low, eyes dark and wild. “Take it.”
From the outside, the restroom door banged open. Loud laughter. Footsteps. Two guys talking too loud about the auction’s next round, boots scuffing the floor as they made their way to the urinals just outside the stall.
Style didn’t stop.
Not for a second.
He just moaned again, mouth still full, tongue working harder.
Fadel hissed through his teeth, hand tightening in Style’s hair. “Stop,” he mouthed, silent. “Be good.”
Style made a sound—a needy one, high in his throat—and shook his head.
Fadel clamped his other hand over Style’s mouth, fingers pressing in to quiet the wet, filthy slurping sounds echoing in the silence between urinal streams and laughter. Style shuddered, whole body trembling as he sucked greedily, eyes streaming now from the sheer pressure of it, but still gazing up like it was the only thing he wanted.
Fadel swore under his breath. Then thrust again. Deeper. Firmer. Until Style’s lips were flushed and stretched and wrecked, and his throat bulged with every push.
The urinals flushed. The men’s laughter faded.
The door slammed shut again.
And Fadel didn’t wait. His hand slid to the back of Style’s head, holding him in place. And fucked into his mouth slow and brutal.
Fadel’s breath caught in his throat as he pulled Style up by the hair, groaning low when Style stumbled slightly—his lips red, wet, and kiss-bitten, eyes glassy with lust and tears. His flushed cheeks made the smirk on his face even more unbearable.
“Fuck—” Fadel hissed under his breath, eyes flickering down to where saliva still clung to Style’s mouth. “Look at you.”
Style licked his lips slow, the smear of spit catching the light, and tilted his chin with that same smug look that made Fadel’s knuckles twitch. “Missed that, huh?”
Fadel didn’t answer.
He spun him.
Just like that—hands grabbing Style’s hips, flipping him to face the toilet. Style gasped at the sudden turn, bracing his hands against the cool ceramic tank.
“Wait—” he barely got the word out before Fadel was behind him, kicking his legs apart.
“Shut up,” Fadel growled low, already yanking down Style’s pants with impatient hands, letting them bunch at his thighs, shirt still on and rucked up at the back. He was hard, twitching, leaking, cock pressed against the swell of Style’s bare ass.
The sound of the condom foil tearing was sharp. Fadel slicked himself fast, rough—then gripped Style’s hips with both hands and shoved in.
Style gasped—loud and sharp, fingers clenching around the toilet tank.
“F—fuck—”
Fadel didn’t give him a moment. The first thrust was slow, a cruel stretch, but the second? The third? Brutal.
The wet slap of skin echoed obscenely in the stall, his hips hitting Style’s ass with steady, ruthless rhythm. His grip was bruising—one hand tight around Style’s hip, the other sliding around, pressing to his lower stomach, then higher—gliding up the smooth line of his chest before curling around his throat.
“You think ignoring me for three days means you get to come first?” Fadel bit out, his voice guttural, lips grazing Style’s neck as he leaned in from behind.
Style tried to smirk—but it cracked when Fadel thrust harder.
He choked on a moan, mouth dropping open, back arching as Fadel’s hand squeezed lightly around his neck. The pressure, the position, the anger in every thrust—it left him breathless.
“I—Fadel—” Style whined, high and wrecked, eyes fluttering closed. “M’gonna—gonna—”
“No, you’re not.” Fadel’s hand moved down again—wrapped around Style’s cock, pumping him slow and tight, just enough to tease but not let him tip over. Style shuddered violently, his knees nearly giving out.
He whimpered.
And the moment his volume spiked, Fadel slapped a hand over his mouth.
“Too loud,” he hissed into his ear, still thrusting in sharp, steady strokes. “What if someone hears how fucking desperate you sound?”
Style’s moan broke under Fadel’s palm. Muffled. Pathetic.
Fadel kept going, hips snapping forward again and again, one hand silencing him, the other holding his cock like a threat—pleasure so close it burned, but never letting him have it.
He leaned in, dragging his teeth along Style’s nape, biting into the spot between shoulder and neck hard enough to leave a bruise.
“Take it,” Fadel growled. “You wanna act like a brat, you get fucked like one.”
Style was trembling now—palms flat against the tank, back arched, body rocking with every ruthless thrust. His eyes rolled up, lashes fluttering, sweat beading at his brow. Drool dripped from the corner of his lip, his moans swallowed under Fadel’s hand.
“God—” he tried to speak, tried to say something, but it came out broken and muffled. His body jolted every time Fadel slammed in deep.
Then—
Footsteps. Laughter. The squeak of the main restroom door opening.
They both froze. Fadel still buried deep, Style gasping against his hand.
Someone else walked in. Multiple voices.
Urinals flushed.
But Style didn’t stop squirming.
Didn’t stop grinding his hips back.
Fadel glared down at him. Whispered, furious, “Don’t you fucking dare.
Style looked back with watery eyes, red-faced and flushed, and moaned low in his throat.
Still moving.
Still fucking himself back on Fadel’s cock.
Fadel’s jaw clenched.
Then he pressed closer, wrapping his arm fully around Style’s throat from behind and whispered, “You’re gonna regret this.”
He pulled out with a wet sound and gripped Style’s wrist. Fadel dropped onto the toilet seat with a grunt, jeans pushed low, cock flushed dark and wet at the tip, still leaking, already hard again. His hands were rough as they pulled Style down onto his lap—not tender, not angry either, just needing.
Style hovered above him, shirt clinging to his body, thighs trembling faintly. His knees were on either side of Fadel’s, the stall too narrow, the air hot and tight, bodies too close. But even with the space closing in around them, Style was grinning—lips red, eyes gleaming, and completely wrecked.
“Didn’t say you could sit yet,” Fadel muttered. His voice was low—tight with restraint. “You gonna ask this time?”
Style tilted his head, lashes heavy. “What if I don’t?”
Fadel looked up.
And smiled.
It was sharp. Dangerous.
Style shivered
“Try me.”
But he didn’t.
Because the second Fadel’s hands gripped his waist again, Style let out the softest breath—barely a sound—and sank down, slowly, onto him. Inch by inch. His thighs trembled. His jaw clenched tight.
“Ohh—” It was almost a whine. His hands shot to Fadel’s shoulders, gripping hard. “F—uck, Fadel—”
The stretch was different like this. Deeper. Thicker. More intimate. Fadel’s hands stayed tight on his hips, grounding him as he guided him lower, until he was seated flush in his lap. Cock fully inside, cock throbbing. Both of them panting against each other’s mouths.
“God,” Style whimpered, hips twitching. “You’re so fucking deep—”
“Yeah?” Fadel murmured. “You gonna behave now?”
Style didn’t answer.
He was still trembling.
Still adjusting.
And still looking at Fadel like he wanted to be destroyed all over again.
They stayed like that for a second—pressed together in the heat of the stall, their chests rising and falling with uneven breaths. Fadel’s hands had shifted, now gliding slowly over the sides of Style’s waist, then up under his shirt, palms spreading flat over his back. He could feel every shiver, every hitch of breath, every flutter of muscle beneath his touch.
“Eyes on me.”
Style obeyed.> Barely.
He blinked down at Fadel through a haze of lust, his pupils blown wide, lips parted.
Fadel slid a hand up to his face and thumbed at the drool clinging to the corner of his mouth again—wiping it slow, before slipping that thumb into Style’s mouth.
“So messy,” he muttered.
Style’s lips wrapped around it instantly.
Sucked.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Fadel groaned, low and deep, feeling the warmth of his mouth again even through just a finger. “Disgusting little thing,” he breathed. “You love it, don’t you.”
Style moaned around his thumb. Then pulled off with a pop. “Love you like this.”
Fadel’s breath caught.
He didn’t say anything.
Instead—he thrust up, sharp.
Style gasped.
His whole body jerked.
“Fuck—Fadel, please—”
“Then move,” Fadel growled. His grip on Style’s hips tightened. “Ride me.”
And Style did.
He started slow.
Grinding his hips in a tight circle, easing himself up, then sinking down again with a choked, whimpering breath. It made Fadel groan, head tipping back as his hands guided Style’s movement—up, down, rolling against him with maddening rhythm.
The pace built slow. Molten. Every slide made louder by the slick wetness between them, the soft gasps, the squeak of the toilet seat beneath them. Style bounced in shallow thrusts at first—biting his lip, moaning into Fadel’s mouth when their foreheads pressed together.
Then harder.
Then deeper.
Style’s thighs trembled again, sweat dripping down his back. He was flushed all over, eyes barely open now, mouth slack with every panting breath.
Fadel leaned up, mouth dragging along his neck, teeth grazing the skin just below his ear.
“You look so fucking pretty like this,” he whispered. “Lips red. Eyes ruined. Moaning on my cock like you need it.”
Style whined. Actually whined—his hands digging into Fadel’s shoulders, nails scraping faint red lines.
“I do,” he gasped. “I do need it—need you so bad—”
Style slammed down on him again and again, faster now, louder, his mouth falling open with every bounce. Their stomachs slapped together, sweat slick and burning. Fadel met him thrust for thrust—hips grinding up as Style came down, cock hitting deeper every time.
And then— Fadel’s kissing him hard and mouth open. Tongue deep. Messy, breathless and groaning into each other’s mouths as they moved.
“Gonna make you come like this,” Fadel murmured into the kiss, hand sliding down between them, fingers wrapping tight around Style’s cock. “While you’re watching me. While I’m inside you.”
Style’s moans were broken.
His body jolted with every stroke—his rhythm falling apart, hips twitching erratically as his orgasm climbed fast and hot, all-consuming.
“Fadel—gonna—f—fuck—”
His whole body seized. Head thrown back, mouth open in a silent cry, cock pulsing in Fadel’s fist as he spilled between them. His thighs shook. His back arched. His expression—pure, helpless ecstasy—was something Fadel would remember forever.
But he didn’t give Style time to recover.
Didn’t give him a second to breathe.
Because the moment he came down from that trembling, shattered high—collapsed into Fadel’s chest with a whimper and the ghost of a grin—Fadel’s arms locked tight around his waist, and he stood.
Effortless.
A sharp breath flew from Style’s mouth as his legs wrapped instinctively around Fadel’s hips, startled, already overstimulated.
“Fadel—wait—” he gasped, blinking fast, head swimming, still wet and sensitive between his thighs.
But Fadel didn’t wait.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t let him go.
Instead, he pinned Style against the wall. Back slammed flat. The entire thin frame rattled with the impact, hinges creaking violently under the weight of them both.
Style gasped.
The wind knocked out of him in a crushed exhale. But it turned to a moan, just as fast—his cock twitching where it lay sticky and soft against his stomach, nerves fried and still glowing from the last orgasm.
“You—Fadel—fuck—” He was laughing now. Unhinged. “I just came—what the fuck—”
Fadel’s hand clamped over his mouth.
Firm.
Controlling.
“Didn’t tell you to speak.”
Style whimpered beneath it, thighs clenching tighter around his waist.
And then Fadel was moving—hips snapping up again, raw, slick, his cock still rock-hard inside the spent heat of him. There was no prep this time. No build-up. Just that wet, obscene sound of him fucking back in—Style’s body jerking with every thrust, breath caught in his throat as his back slammed the door again and again.
The whole fucking stall was shaking.
And Style was gone.
He was shaking. Arms curled tight around Fadel’s shoulders. Mouth open beneath the weight of Fadel’s palm. His moans came out muffled, broken, helpless—high-pitched and breathless, like his body didn’t even know what to do anymore.
“Mhmf—! F-Fuck—mhh—”
Fadel’s eyes were locked on him. On the twitch of Style’s lips beneath his hand. On the flushed, trembling mess he’d turned him into.
“You think you can disappear for three fucking days,” he growled, mouth hot against Style’s neck, teeth dragging hard, biting down. “Think you can ignore me. Tease me. And I won’t fuck you like this?”
Style whimpered. Back arching as Fadel’s hips rolled deeper—grinding now, not thrusting. Slow, bruising pressure that made his toes curl and his eyes roll back. There was drool slipping past the edge of Fadel’s hand now, trailing down Style’s chin. He couldn’t even speak anymore. Could barely breathe.
He loved it.
He loved it so fucking much he was crying again—eyes glassy, lashes wet, the overstimulation eating him alive.
And Fadel didn’t stop.
He angled his hips lower, snapped up hard again, and groaned—the sound barely restrained, guttural, primal. His other hand snuck down between them, wrapped around Style’s cock again, and started stroking—fast, brutal, merciless.
Style screamed.
Muffled.
He bit into Fadel’s palm and came again.
Didn’t even last thirty seconds.
His whole body shook. His cock throbbed in Fadel’s fist. He cried into his hand, lips trembling, arms weak as he sagged in his grip. His eyes rolled back.
Fadel kept fucking him through it.
Grinding deep, slamming him into the door with every thrust.
Not done.
Not even close.
“Thought you liked being ruined,” he hissed, pressing him harder, cock buried to the hilt. “So don’t you dare start crying now.”
Style moaned in reply.
It was wrecked. Pitiful.
But his hips kept moving. Kept meeting Fadel’s thrusts like he couldn’t get enough. Like he wanted it to hurt.
Wanted to be fucked stupid, ruined in a filthy public bathroom with his cries swallowed behind the hand of his boyfriend, body convulsing from the inside out.
His knees gave.
But Fadel held him up. Style’s legs were trembling, flushed skin gleaming with sweat, his fingers clinging desperately to Fadel’s shoulders like he was the only thing anchoring him to this world. But he wasn’t given a second to adjust, to recover, not even to breathe—because Fadel wasn’t done.
He turned him.
A sharp gasp tore from Style’s mouth as his chest hit the wall, the stall door rattling from the force of it. Before he could even blink, Fadel was hoisting one of his legs up by the thigh, pushing it against his own hip and pressing in—hard, deep, merciless.
Style’s head fell back, his mouth falling open in a breathless, whiny moan.
Fadel’s hand came up, curled around the back of Style’s thigh to keep him spread wide, every thrust knocking the air out of him, sending jolts of heat down his spine.
“You should see yourself,” Fadel growled low, his voice molten steel, chest rising and falling with labored breaths. “All spread out for me in a fucking public bathroom. You proud of this?”
Style tried to respond—some smartass quip—but it came out broken. Just a whimper. A needy whine that didn’t even sound like words. He couldn’t focus, not with the way Fadel was slamming into him, not with how each movement angled deep and cruel, his body responding like a match to gasoline.
Fadel’s hand moved again.
It slid up, slow and deliberate, until his palm was at Style’s throat.
Style’s eyes widened as the pressure came—firm, commanding, cutting off just enough air to make his vision dim at the edges. His lips parted in a silent gasp, pupils blown wide, lashes wet with tears and arousal. The sound he made next wasn’t even human—a wrecked, hoarse moan that cracked right down the middle.
“Please—” he whispered, voice barely audible, ragged.
Fadel didn’t move his hand away, tightening his grip a little more. Style’s lashes fluttered and his mouth trembled open, helpless and ruined.
Style’s hole clenched around him every time he got the smallest gasp of air. Every time Fadel loosened his grip just slightly, only to press again—controlling every breath, every tremble, every slick, gasping contraction of his body.
His eyes rolled back for a second.
He wasn’t even there—floating, high, soft sounds slipping from his bitten-red lips. Fadel kissed and bit down on his neck—sucking hard, leaving bruises, sucking him back down to earth. Style sobbed, head lolling to the side while weakly trying to stand stable as his whole body trembled from overstimulation.
“You like being choked?” Fadel growled into the kiss, hand still tight around his throat, thumb brushing against the frantic flutter of his pulse. “You like nearly passing out on my cock?”
Style couldn’t even speak—eyes glassy, moaning softly.
Fadel hissed. “Fuck, Style—”
And he kept going. Held him up— one leg hooked over his arm, the other trembling where it barely touched the ground—Style’s hands clawing at the wall, just trying to hold on. Every time Fadel thrust in, it was deeper, rougher, until Style was crying again, legs shaking violently.
Fadel leaned in, forehead pressed to Style’s nape, feeling him unravel.
Style tried, tried to keep focus—but he was shaking, twitching, his lips parted in a breathless moan, tears spilling down from the corners of his eyes.
His body was fluttering, clenching so hard around Fadel that it made him groan aloud, hips stuttering. “F-fuck—you’re squeezing—like you’re begging me to come.”
Style sobbed. Fadel turned his head, fingers gripping Style’s jaw, kissing him—deep and slow, possessive—while his thrusts grew erratic, sloppier, hips grinding deeper, his hand still at Style’s throat. “You want it?” he growled against his lips.
Style whimpered—choked noises, and a shiver down to his toes. His cock throbbed untouched between them, leaking onto the wall.
Fadel kissed him again, and buried himself deep one last time—groaning into Style’s mouth as his body jerked hard, spilling into the condom with a ragged, low growl.
Style cried out at the sensation, whole body shuddering as he felt it—every inch, every pulse, everything.
He was gone—completely. Wrecked and wide-eyed and twitching in Fadel’s hold.
And Fadel held him there. One hand tight around his throat, the other keeping his leg hooked high, body pressed close and cock still buried deep—his breathing heavy, his lips brushing Style’s neck.
“Never fucking ignore me again,” he muttered against Style’s damp skin.
Style’s head lolled back against the wall, eyes half-closed, lips red and trembling, his chest rising in uneven pants. His legs were still trembling, one hooked lazily around Fadel’s hip, the other barely standing. His arms were limp, and his skin—already flushed and blotched with sweat—was painted with hickeys in the shape of Fadel’s mouth.
He blinked slowly. Once. Twice.
“…You okay?” Fadel murmured low against his cheek, voice gravel-thick, still panting. His hand loosened from Style’s throat, brushing gently over the bruised skin.
Style gave a long, shaky exhale.
“…You almost killed me,” he croaked, voice rough and distant, like he was halfway in another dimension. “You actually tried to murder me in a public restroom.” He says as Fadel turns him around gently to face him.
“You liked it.”
“Didn’t say I didn’t,” he whispered, head rolling back toward Fadel with a blissed-out grin. “Just wanna make sure I get dibs on your will.”
Fadel huffed—shaking his head—but he didn’t move away. One of his hands moved to hold Style’s waist, the other ghosting over the soft underside of his jaw.
“You look like a fucking mess.”
Style smiled wider. “Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“Still taking it,” he whispered, drunk off it all. “Fuck, I feel dizzy.”
“You should,” Fadel muttered, pressing a kiss to the bruised skin beneath his jaw. “You were begging for air two minutes ago.”
“Mmm.” Style nuzzled his temple lazily. “That was so hot though.”
Fadel pulled back enough to look at him, deadpan. “You’re out of your mind.”
“And you,” Style whispered, eyes half-lidded as he dragged his finger down Fadel’s chest, “are so obsessed with me.”
Fadel let the silence drag, chest still heaving slightly.
Then, quietly, “You didn’t answer my calls.”
Style smirked. “You missed me that much?”
The silence changed. Slowed.
Fadel looked at him—still frowning, still annoyed—but his jaw twitched. His hand slid up to Style’s cheek, brushing away a sweaty strand of hair stuck to his temple.
“You really want me to answer that?”
Style didn’t.
He leaned forward and kissed him with full of love—slow, exhausted, breathless—and Fadel let him. Let his arms fall around Style’s waist, let him rest against his chest, forehead to forehead while their breaths mingled in the warm, sticky air
“…I’m still not going on that trip,” Fadel murmured after a beat.
Style grinned against his lips. “Babe, you literally chased me into a bathroom and rearranged my guts. You’re already halfway there.”
Fadel groaned into his mouth.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
Another kiss. Another breathe
Another quiet, filthy, perfect moment — right there in the stall