[ What? He's seen what the kids these days are wearing, he's not in a position to tell John it isn't appropriate for a party.
And yeah, so maybe he's staring at all the moving parts of John as he sways. So maybe he's struggling to remember why this should be a problem, when it's leaps and bounds the best problem he's had lately. So maybe he noticed John looking at him a whole lot earlier, and maybe he's doing a whole lot of wishful thinking about it now.
He rubs one hand round his neck from the front to the back and feels it getting rosy. Grins and hears himself say: ]
Me? Sure, I used to break hearts every time I did the two-step. You know that one?
[ Charlie is lucky that he's gotten well past the point in his experience where euphemisms like that would trip him up. Time spent with Arthur and Willa and Dorian and Natalie all have contributed to him soaking in phrases, not to mention all of his reading and watching and listening. Thus, can Charlie really be surprised when John practically beams at him at the compliment?
Not to mention- ]
I don't, no.
[ Jedao had danced with him at Lestat's party what felt like ages ago, but he hadn't had any feet to show the steps to. He doesn't even know if that's a two step. Eager, he steps a little closer. ]
Could you show me?
[ A small nod. ]
I'm sure you did. Break hearts, that is.
[ His smile is a little crooked as he continues. ]
The way you can focus on someone, make them feel like they're the only person in the room to you- maybe it's because of how I existed for so long, but it... makes me feel warm. Here. [ A tap to his chest. ] Then you smile. [ His own widens. ] I can see it.
[ Likewise, it feels good to make John look that happy. Charlie's own grin conquers some more territory across his face. It keeps happening as John keeps talking.
Maybe John says this sort of thing to people all the time, because he's loving and not in the least bit shy about it. Or maybe -- and Charlie likes this one better -- there's an especial significance to it. But it's also petrifying to suspect that there might be an especial significance to it, for reasons Charlie can't articulate beyond having someone meaning losing someone. Better that it's not that. He likes the idea better that this is just John being Johnnish.
Even so, his answer, as he looks John right in the eyes, is: ]
It's easy to do, when it's you.
[ Which keeps his promise, because it's completely honest.
After a few moments he manages to break eye contact and clear his throat, and adjusts his clothes a little, both to feel more well-dressed and to be more discreet. He thankfully isn't in his twenties any more and doesn't have to comically scramble to hide a tripod, but the adjustments still include pulling and rotating his belt a bit. For peace of mind. Then he approaches John, hardly believing his luck. Through all of this he's talking: ]
You done much dancing? There's the one-step, and that's easier to learn, but the two-step's got more energy to it. Hope my old legs can still do 'em. [ A joke rather than a real concern. ] Let's get that table outta the way so we got some room, huh?
[ Charlie will get to watch John's eyes go a little wide, and then a dark blush across his cheeks as he ducks again. He feels so much warmth, so much affection for Charlie. His fingers curl in a desperate wish to touch him, hold him, show him how much he's loved as Charlie keeps going and he nods, absently before looking at the table. He'll bend over and put those hands to work, lifting it up carefully and looking over at Charlie to see where he'd like him to put it.]
Off to the side, you think?
[ He's still holding it as he addresses the rest of what Charlie said. ]
And the last time I danced, it was at a club with Maggie during the port. It... didn't really have steps. Before that, it was when I didn't have a body. I'm not sure what kind of dance that was, but I liked it.
[ Wow, woooow he's going to have to think of a dance with lifts and teach John to lead it, for reasons. And yes, John's ass looks great in that when he bends over, thanks for demonstrating.
Charlie keeps his hands to himself for now. After all, they're about to dance. ]
Yeah, lean it up against the window.
[ He is thinking about that blush. He is thinking about wanting to be closer to that blush. He is thinking about making that blush happen even more.
Once the table's deposited, he lifts his hands up and out in front of him like a conductor ready to perform, then beckons with his fingers. ]
Alright, grab my hands, we'll start on the one-step. Make sure I remember. [ And make sure John has the rhythm for it. ]
[ John walks over and very very carefully puts the table down against the wall with not even a 'thunk' despite the weight. He turns to see Charlie with his hands up, and he almost smiles from just that before he's beckoned over and a short laugh bubbles out of him, unbidden. ]
I'm coming, I'm coming.
[ He'll put his hands on Charlie's hands, and let his fingers curl lightly, entwining the fingers. There might be another small blush on his cheeks, or it's just still there from earlier. Who can say?
But he will discover, as they start moving, that John absolutely has the rhythm for it. He was once a thing of tattered cloth and shadows and movement, a thing of song and performance. If anything, he seems to relax more once he's dancing, as if being still is the more unnatural state.]
[ It'll be a wonderful discovery -- but first, a little foreplay is necessary. Charlie glances down at John's body that's now within two arm-lengths of his own, somehow manages not to pass out, and gives him a smile. ]
You'll lead. Backwards, right foot first, on the beat. Just keep goin' in a circle, and I'll count and follow.
[ And, somewhat breathlessly, he guides John's right hand to his own shoulder, moving a half-step closer to him; then he lets go and slides his own hand up John's arm, skimming its shape under the fabric, coming to rest behind John's shoulderblade. There's only a thin layer of fabric between his fingers and the muscle below, and the full lengths of their arms rest against one another, one cupping the other the way their bodies would be if they weren't still held at that small distance. Charlie's grip is careful to the point of tension, for the sake of not going too far. He doesn't look away from John's eyes for a second while he's positioning them. ]
This okay?
[ His voice could definitely be called husky at this point. ]
[ Charlie is... very close. It's not that John has issues with personal space; quite the opposite. He loathes being apart and away and disconnected. If he could coil himself around everyone he loves, he would, but he's grown at least as far as it takes to understand that letting them be the people he loves means not holding quite so tight. That is, a little bit, why this is a wonderful sort of agony. Being so close, touching on a few points, and wanting more like a flame licking at the sky. Charlie might be able to catch the little flickers of molten gold that go through the arcane markings on John's skin where the two of them touch, but they're no more hot or cool than he is.
John follows the directive, steps smooth and on the beat, a certain floating grace to his movements despite the size of him.
To the question, he gives an immediate nod that's almost gruff in how quickly he gives it. When he processes the tone, the way Charlie's voice has dropped, how close he sounds, he makes a decision and makes sure he has Charlie's eye when he answers. ]
[ The bright and eldritch flickers that seem to want to touch Charlie's skin strike a fear chord in his brain, but at this point, they strike it sideways, in a way that's exciting. Adrenaline is still the same adrenaline, whether it's summoned by panic or by exhilaration. And the way John's holding his gaze makes the flickering feel analogous to the hairs that are standing up on Charlie's skin, and that does things inside him that don't bear describing in polite company.
He catches his breath, slightly interrupting his count, though he's back in time on the next beat.
At first he follows carefully, at what one might call an 'I don't want to step on your feet' type distance. It's been a hot minute since he went dancing, so this turns out to be more for his sake than it is for John's. But he remembers the steps like he'd remember riding a bicycle, and John's a goddamn natural, so by the time they've done a full turn round the room his approach changes and the real dance begins. He's closer, eyes riveted on John's, moving forwards at the same speed but now doing it with intent. Their feet move as if controlled by one mind, only avoiding collision because both men are hitting their marks over and over. It's not following any more. It's a singleminded pursuit. ]
[ It's electric. All of this, every part. There's no music but the sway between them is music enough, and the feel of Charlie's hands in his-
He knows what he wants. He knows what he's wanted, how he wants, can only look at Charlie's face and think of when and how and how many times he wants to kiss him, look at his still-bare forearms and the hands entwined with his own and think of what they might feel like if they settled on his hips or slid across his chest or cupped his cheek. It makes him realize all suddenly very important things he doesn't know about Charlie. Like...
Would Charlie want to kiss him against the wall, press his body to his, hold him down, put him where he wants him? Put those hands everywhere and anywhere, curl in his hair or comb through it, take everything John would willingly give him?
Or does he want John to put his mouth and his hands to every inch of him, make pleasure where once a part of him caused pain, hold him down and make the world small and simple and good as he gives him anything he could ever want from a body?
Because he has no doubt at this point that Charlie wants. A suit covers many things, but it doesn't make this strange caged heat between them or allow the two of them to move like two pieces of a single whole. Charlie's voice is rough and low and if he thought in even the smallest part of him that he had the right to ask, to translate want to action, to decipher instead of waiting for a choice-
Jesus Christ, the dance they would do.
But even a single word, even saying Charlie's name, would be too much. It would ask of him, and he refuses to ask anything of substance from him. He'd even doubted he should ask about the suit until Charlie had seemed so eager to help.
But it's just as possible that Charlie is not ready to take that step. Whatever hungers he might have, whatever his thudding heart or his warm hands or even his well-adjusted belt might desire, it's Charlie's mind that he trespassed against and Charlie's mind that must be free to make its choice. All the control, every single bit of it: it has to be Charlie's.
Even if it's an exquisite kind of agony to dance with him, so close and yet so far, and feel as if all the roiling emotions inside of him might very well explode if he doesn't figure out something to do. ]
...No, that's a lie. He could take it indefinitely, compliment John on his dancing, let him go back to his cabin with his suit question answered, and then think and pace and wonder and take a cold shower and wonder. Nothing ventured, nothing lost.
He isn't as worried for their safety as he thought he'd be, because the Barge culture doesn't seem to be that way -- Arthur and Sheehan for one are shameless -- but it's been a really long time since a person he's slept with and a person he's friends with have been the same person, and god knows he's out of practice at it. And that's before you even bring in their history, or... not exactly their history, but... before you bring in the complications. He could take it.
He doesn't want to take it. And he doesn't think that John wants him to either. And he's not thinking with his whole brain at the moment -- at least not with the parts that like to remind him how much more this will make it hurt when one of them dies, or leaves, or thinks better of the arrangement.
He doesn't want to just take it. ]
...and stop, [ he finishes the count. But he doesn't stop until the step after John does, bringing them even closer, and John's chest is warm, and the hand on John's back becomes a hand at the nape of his neck, encouraging his head down. Still controlled: not urgently pulling like Charlie wants to.
Charlie's standing as tall as he can, and then on his toes to get a little taller, reaching up with his face. His mouth is held slightly open, wanting. He can't stop looking at John's.
He doesn't close the final inch. Nearly in a whisper, he asks his question again. ]
[ Charlie will find that John is infinitely easy to move, to nudge, to tug. He wants to go where Charlie urges, wants to be where Charlie wants him. The places where their skin touches feel like the connectors on a battery: all they do is send electricity down his spine and along his nerves.
Charlie's right there. Charlie's asking and he's right there. He hopes to whoever might be listening that when he speaks, when it's a low, heated growl of a thing, Charlie's hindbrain can tell the difference between the overwhelming want that's fueling every system in this traitorous body and something else.]
More... please.
[ He tries to find another word. But none of them are right. ]
[ Both egged on and relieved, Charlie makes a sound that falls short of becoming a word, and tugs John's head down that final breath so that their lips can meet. It's a long way from a chaste kiss. It's everything that was pent up during the dance where they touched but not enough, and more besides -- after all, this isn't the first time that Charlie has noticed John's a handsome man, only the first time the point has been pushed quite so aggressively. His other hand finally, finally goes to John's bare chest, and grabs it as if Charlie is planning to climb him like a rock face.
Whatever his hindbrain makes of John's growl, it quivers in delight about it. Something in him that reacted to the gold as it rolled through the sigils sits up, and attempts to comprehend the scope of the thing that's happening -- the god-creature of unnumbered age who wielded power like an icepick through the skull and whose other self is in every nightmare and whose power is still to Charlie's what a tsunami's is to a child's, is asking him desperately for more thing -- while the rest of him is busy shouting for John on a different level. This comprehension doesn't discourage him. In fact, it makes his head bubble with something that's honestly a bit feral. ]
[ John kisses like he does everything else: with all of himself, with nothing hidden, everything exposed. Lust is just another form of love here, and Charlie's beautiful hands and his lips and the body pressed up against his are just physical representations of his gentle, careful, sometimes-trembling touch, his shit-eating grins, the steady presence that he makes sure is there for him and for Arthur and anyone else who needs him.
The first noise he makes at finally being kissed is a desperate, wanton thing and once Charlie is kissing him, being kissed by him hungrily, that's when the growl that sits at the center of his chest returns.
His hands feel useless until he can get one into Charlie's hair, and a wrench in his middle tells him remember, record, savor him because he can't believe he'll get to have this again.
He finds their hips too far apart, remembers the dance from the club and settles his hips into a groove against Charlie and rocks, grinds, needs more sensation, more everything from him. ]
[ It spills out desperately against John's mouth when their hips meet, rolled into a single syllable. John's sounds and his hands and his body were already driving Charlie to distraction. He doesn't know what sort of experience John might have, if any, with the way he takes the world as if it has endless new things to show him -- but if he knows, then he knows, and if he doesn't then jesus, Charlie wants to show him.
If he actually lasts long enough to show him anything. Listen, there's a lot going on, and he'll never live it down if one half of this is over before either of them even has their clothes off. And there really doesn't seem to be any pressing reason to keep them on.
John's a smart lad who's perfectly capable of bending over under his own steam; Charlie slides his hand from the back of John's head to his ass, pulling him even closer and grinding too, panting into his mouth more than kissing him. But then he starts walking them backward -- from John's perspective -- as if dancing again, because there's a very nice wall there that John needs to be pushed against. Pushed against with some care, so as not to actually hurt him, but also-- pushed against aggressively.
It's aggressively that Charlie attacks the strings of the corset, too, though he's immediately frustrated, fiddling with it almost cross-eyed. How's he meant to concentrate on knots at a time like this--
With some stammered combination of comedy and desperation: ]
Aw hell... John, you- you gotta untie this or else I'm gettin' scissors.
[ John knows how it was tied because he tied it, so it's really just a matter of a tug here, a tug there. Then there's a very long tug to pull all the cord out before he tosses it to the ground for the moment so he can get his hands on Charlie's waist (fuck yes) and start tugging out his shirt to get beneath it.
The corset hangs open, now, revealing the bottom of his torso: lightly defined muscle and soft golden hair that thickens a little near the waistline. There's also unquestionably a heavy shape below that, straining against the fabric.]
[ Oh, would you look at that. Charlie's mouth goes dry, and then very not dry, and he swallows. ]
Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.
[ What he wants to do more than anything else in the world is mush his face against John's chest one nipple at a time and then work his way down, but he can exercise patience for a few seconds while John... what? Right, right, buttons. It would go faster if Charlie helped, but his hands are busy roaming around John's stomach and sides before moving to the button of his pants, and his eyes are busy staring a little lower.
No amount of tactical trouser adjusting would hide Charlie's own excitement at this point, either. John's absolutely doing him in. ]
[ Those fingers are very fast, but even in the mishmash feverdream of whatever's happening right now, Charlie will feel him undo every set of buttons, the flick of his fingertips sometimes light and sometimes sloppy against his stomach. Once the buttons are done, next is pushing the shirt open, away, and as soon as it's in a position for Charlie to take over in the removal process, it's onto the undershirt, which is getting shoved up so he can glide his hands over him, memorize this too.
As for Charlie's own project, John isn't shy: his hips tilt it so the button is easier to reach. Please. ]
[ It's the work of a moment to pull his undershirt the rest of the way off and fling it on the ground, so that he can feel more of John's hands on his skin -- then he's yanking down those ornate trousers, mouthing loud, hungry kisses onto John's belly before he looks down again.
Hopefully the trousers don't get a torn seam or anything. The smell from here is already sort of whiting out Charlie's higher functions. ]
cw extremely NSFW moving forward (not that it wasn't come to think of it)
[ Every one of those kisses makes the muscles underneath twitch and flex and the softest little breath from John. It's overwhelming in the best kind of way and that's why he's almost unprepared for Charlie to pull down his trousers.
Almost. If it weren't for the way that suits sit, he might have had a real problem on his hands.
But thanks to the oddities of male fashion, Charlie does in fact have a cock staring him in the face, curling up and bouncing lightly against John's belly, brushing through the soft hair there. There's a heavy sac just below, right where it ought to be, and Charlie will no doubt be able to tell that that's where most of that smell happens to be coming from. Unsurprisingly, it is... appropriate to the size of the rest of him, uncut (as one might also expect), and leaking just a little at the tip.
John's hands, for lack of anything better to do, are going to end up against the wall to keep himself upright the normal way. ]
[ John's vocal enjoyment makes him shiver. Or maybe it's the forearm of a cock suddenly staring at him. Or maybe it's the news that John isn't wearing anything under his trousers, and maybe never is? All of the above and more are going to be prominent in Charlie's thoughts for a very long time.
He shoots John a smirk up his torso, a smirk of 'you ain't seen nothing yet' with a side of horny idiot. Then he dives and puts his mouth on the underside of it, letting his whole tongue sit on it, pulling at the skin with his lips, obsessed. A second later he moves up and gets the head in his mouth, a thumb running up the wet spot he left behind. He whines as if their positions were reversed as he rolls his tongue around the head, following the leak to its source until he's tonguing right at the slit. At some point along the way he's ended up on his knees, and they're going to hate him for it later, but they can suck it too.
He deserves a fucking service medal for pulling himself off and replacing his tongue with a circling thumb, but he wants to draw this out. He wants it to last. And he wants to look up at John's face from all this, and he wants to ask: ]
You ever had this done to you before?
[ Rough, and excited, and somehow steady even though his head feels like a lit catherine wheel. ]
[ John, fingers curled against the wall, head thrown back, cock shining and wet from Charlie's mouth looks like nothing so much as a debauched angel, the arcane symbols lit with gold and the flowing lines of the jacket looking almost like wings slumped in languid hedonism.
He has never had this done to him, no, because he's never had a dick during sex. Because he's never been inclined to let his partner focus so wholy on him. And because he's never been so focused on keeping his human form human at the same. It's almost like a type of bondage, holding himself this way, keeping every tentacle on his skin, and the way it makes him focus on all the human sensations and human nerve endings and human processes has brought to light a whole new appreciation for the human body he hadn't had before.
Which is to say, be looks almost drunk on how good that feels and looking down at Charlie, how gorgeous he looks hungry to suck his cock, lips a little reddened from their kissing and the aforementioned, a full body shiver goes through him at the intensity of his own feelings.
That whine, Christ. ]
No.
[ And that voice is rough, barely words in the low rumble. ]
[ John's answer makes Charlie's already heavy breath come out heavier, and he squeezes John's cock in reply, drawing his thumb up the underside of the head in a way he knows is good. And John's voice, the inhuman rumbling depths of it, is--
Frightening. But once again, the fear sparks strangely off of... all of this: off the way John's moving under his fingers and the way he asked for more, off the times Charlie's taught him something he never knew and the things he's about to teach him. John's flushed and beautiful, and behind that beautiful face is something fluid and dreadful that can look any way it wants, and he looks genuinely like he's unravelling and he's beautiful.
There are a lot of ideas fighting at speed through Charlie's head. Thousands of recollections of kneeling. A perverse idea of John and worship. How completely different this seems, as if Charlie's not beneath or smaller than him at all, even though both are physically true. How completely different he can make it. A hundred reasons to want to make John feel good, both repeatable and not. Incandescent desire.
Very few of those things are conscious. The thing that matters to be conscious of is the skin of John's belly -- warm and salty -- as he rakes his teeth across it, holding back from biting him like an animal. ]
Jesus, you're... you're...
[ His voice is strained this time, shaking slightly with want, words very clearly not wording. ]
Jesus. John.
[ He takes John's cock in his mouth like his life depends on it -- or, well, as much of his cock as will fit, his hand keeping the rest occupied. ]
[ The sound he makes isn't just obscene, it's Obsenity itself. Just as he is a creature of tattered cloth and dreams and nightmares, so too is he a thing of decadence and excess and no matter how human he is, the echo of that truth cannot be undone from him. It is good. It is all so very good, and the fact that it is Charlie, that Charlie wants this, wants him, would go on his knees and know that John would never ever keep him there-
His can't help that his hips rock for a moment before he can control himself, and one hand goes out to Charlie's hair, runs through it, settles not on top of it but just off to the side: a gesture of affection, not subjugation, of love and want and need and never force. The other hand shifts to his thigh, because he worries about Charlie's walls; he can only control so many things at once while he's feeling so intensely, and he'd rather clench against his own flesh than chance harming anything of or on or near Charlie. ]
Fuuuuck, Charlie. Christ, your fucking mouth.
[ He can still feel the teeth across his belly, Charlie's beautiful hands wrapped around the base of him. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. ]
[ He lavishes attention on John, hands and tongue and brushes of teeth, un-fucking-done by the noises coming out of John and the way he hums like an instrument that Charlie's playing. Once or twice he frees a hand to give himself a tug through his trousers, just to relieve the wound-up tension there.
When he feels things moving, John's sack pulling tighter, he thrills and pulls back just long enough to growl against John: ]
You're gonna cum for me.
[ It's not a question. John gets to go back in his mouth the moment he says yes, and not before. ]
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[ What? He's seen what the kids these days are wearing, he's not in a position to tell John it isn't appropriate for a party.
And yeah, so maybe he's staring at all the moving parts of John as he sways. So maybe he's struggling to remember why this should be a problem, when it's leaps and bounds the best problem he's had lately. So maybe he noticed John looking at him a whole lot earlier, and maybe he's doing a whole lot of wishful thinking about it now.
He rubs one hand round his neck from the front to the back and feels it getting rosy. Grins and hears himself say: ]
Me? Sure, I used to break hearts every time I did the two-step. You know that one?
no subject
Not to mention- ]
I don't, no.
[ Jedao had danced with him at Lestat's party what felt like ages ago, but he hadn't had any feet to show the steps to. He doesn't even know if that's a two step. Eager, he steps a little closer. ]
Could you show me?
[ A small nod. ]
I'm sure you did. Break hearts, that is.
[ His smile is a little crooked as he continues. ]
The way you can focus on someone, make them feel like they're the only person in the room to you- maybe it's because of how I existed for so long, but it... makes me feel warm. Here. [ A tap to his chest. ] Then you smile. [ His own widens. ] I can see it.
no subject
Maybe John says this sort of thing to people all the time, because he's loving and not in the least bit shy about it. Or maybe -- and Charlie likes this one better -- there's an especial significance to it. But it's also petrifying to suspect that there might be an especial significance to it, for reasons Charlie can't articulate beyond having someone meaning losing someone. Better that it's not that. He likes the idea better that this is just John being Johnnish.
Even so, his answer, as he looks John right in the eyes, is: ]
It's easy to do, when it's you.
[ Which keeps his promise, because it's completely honest.
After a few moments he manages to break eye contact and clear his throat, and adjusts his clothes a little, both to feel more well-dressed and to be more discreet. He thankfully isn't in his twenties any more and doesn't have to comically scramble to hide a tripod, but the adjustments still include pulling and rotating his belt a bit. For peace of mind. Then he approaches John, hardly believing his luck. Through all of this he's talking: ]
You done much dancing? There's the one-step, and that's easier to learn, but the two-step's got more energy to it. Hope my old legs can still do 'em. [ A joke rather than a real concern. ] Let's get that table outta the way so we got some room, huh?
no subject
Off to the side, you think?
[ He's still holding it as he addresses the rest of what Charlie said. ]
And the last time I danced, it was at a club with Maggie during the port. It... didn't really have steps. Before that, it was when I didn't have a body. I'm not sure what kind of dance that was, but I liked it.
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Charlie keeps his hands to himself for now. After all, they're about to dance. ]
Yeah, lean it up against the window.
[ He is thinking about that blush. He is thinking about wanting to be closer to that blush. He is thinking about making that blush happen even more.
Once the table's deposited, he lifts his hands up and out in front of him like a conductor ready to perform, then beckons with his fingers. ]
Alright, grab my hands, we'll start on the one-step. Make sure I remember. [ And make sure John has the rhythm for it. ]
no subject
I'm coming, I'm coming.
[ He'll put his hands on Charlie's hands, and let his fingers curl lightly, entwining the fingers. There might be another small blush on his cheeks, or it's just still there from earlier. Who can say?
But he will discover, as they start moving, that John absolutely has the rhythm for it. He was once a thing of tattered cloth and shadows and movement, a thing of song and performance. If anything, he seems to relax more once he's dancing, as if being still is the more unnatural state.]
no subject
You'll lead. Backwards, right foot first, on the beat. Just keep goin' in a circle, and I'll count and follow.
[ And, somewhat breathlessly, he guides John's right hand to his own shoulder, moving a half-step closer to him; then he lets go and slides his own hand up John's arm, skimming its shape under the fabric, coming to rest behind John's shoulderblade. There's only a thin layer of fabric between his fingers and the muscle below, and the full lengths of their arms rest against one another, one cupping the other the way their bodies would be if they weren't still held at that small distance. Charlie's grip is careful to the point of tension, for the sake of not going too far. He doesn't look away from John's eyes for a second while he's positioning them. ]
This okay?
[ His voice could definitely be called husky at this point. ]
no subject
John follows the directive, steps smooth and on the beat, a certain floating grace to his movements despite the size of him.
To the question, he gives an immediate nod that's almost gruff in how quickly he gives it. When he processes the tone, the way Charlie's voice has dropped, how close he sounds, he makes a decision and makes sure he has Charlie's eye when he answers. ]
It's perfect.
no subject
He catches his breath, slightly interrupting his count, though he's back in time on the next beat.
At first he follows carefully, at what one might call an 'I don't want to step on your feet' type distance. It's been a hot minute since he went dancing, so this turns out to be more for his sake than it is for John's. But he remembers the steps like he'd remember riding a bicycle, and John's a goddamn natural, so by the time they've done a full turn round the room his approach changes and the real dance begins. He's closer, eyes riveted on John's, moving forwards at the same speed but now doing it with intent. Their feet move as if controlled by one mind, only avoiding collision because both men are hitting their marks over and over. It's not following any more. It's a singleminded pursuit. ]
no subject
He knows what he wants. He knows what he's wanted, how he wants, can only look at Charlie's face and think of when and how and how many times he wants to kiss him, look at his still-bare forearms and the hands entwined with his own and think of what they might feel like if they settled on his hips or slid across his chest or cupped his cheek. It makes him realize all suddenly very important things he doesn't know about Charlie. Like...
Would Charlie want to kiss him against the wall, press his body to his, hold him down, put him where he wants him? Put those hands everywhere and anywhere, curl in his hair or comb through it, take everything John would willingly give him?
Or does he want John to put his mouth and his hands to every inch of him, make pleasure where once a part of him caused pain, hold him down and make the world small and simple and good as he gives him anything he could ever want from a body?
Because he has no doubt at this point that Charlie wants. A suit covers many things, but it doesn't make this strange caged heat between them or allow the two of them to move like two pieces of a single whole. Charlie's voice is rough and low and if he thought in even the smallest part of him that he had the right to ask, to translate want to action, to decipher instead of waiting for a choice-
Jesus Christ, the dance they would do.
But even a single word, even saying Charlie's name, would be too much. It would ask of him, and he refuses to ask anything of substance from him. He'd even doubted he should ask about the suit until Charlie had seemed so eager to help.
But it's just as possible that Charlie is not ready to take that step. Whatever hungers he might have, whatever his thudding heart or his warm hands or even his well-adjusted belt might desire, it's Charlie's mind that he trespassed against and Charlie's mind that must be free to make its choice. All the control, every single bit of it: it has to be Charlie's.
Even if it's an exquisite kind of agony to dance with him, so close and yet so far, and feel as if all the roiling emotions inside of him might very well explode if he doesn't figure out something to do. ]
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...No, that's a lie. He could take it indefinitely, compliment John on his dancing, let him go back to his cabin with his suit question answered, and then think and pace and wonder and take a cold shower and wonder. Nothing ventured, nothing lost.
He isn't as worried for their safety as he thought he'd be, because the Barge culture doesn't seem to be that way -- Arthur and Sheehan for one are shameless -- but it's been a really long time since a person he's slept with and a person he's friends with have been the same person, and god knows he's out of practice at it. And that's before you even bring in their history, or... not exactly their history, but... before you bring in the complications. He could take it.
He doesn't want to take it. And he doesn't think that John wants him to either. And he's not thinking with his whole brain at the moment -- at least not with the parts that like to remind him how much more this will make it hurt when one of them dies, or leaves, or thinks better of the arrangement.
He doesn't want to just take it. ]
...and stop, [ he finishes the count. But he doesn't stop until the step after John does, bringing them even closer, and John's chest is warm, and the hand on John's back becomes a hand at the nape of his neck, encouraging his head down. Still controlled: not urgently pulling like Charlie wants to.
Charlie's standing as tall as he can, and then on his toes to get a little taller, reaching up with his face. His mouth is held slightly open, wanting. He can't stop looking at John's.
He doesn't close the final inch. Nearly in a whisper, he asks his question again. ]
This okay?
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Charlie's right there. Charlie's asking and he's right there. He hopes to whoever might be listening that when he speaks, when it's a low, heated growl of a thing, Charlie's hindbrain can tell the difference between the overwhelming want that's fueling every system in this traitorous body and something else.]
More... please.
[ He tries to find another word. But none of them are right. ]
Please.
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Whatever his hindbrain makes of John's growl, it quivers in delight about it. Something in him that reacted to the gold as it rolled through the sigils sits up, and attempts to comprehend the scope of the thing that's happening -- the god-creature of unnumbered age who wielded power like an icepick through the skull and whose other self is in every nightmare and whose power is still to Charlie's what a tsunami's is to a child's, is asking him desperately for more thing -- while the rest of him is busy shouting for John on a different level. This comprehension doesn't discourage him. In fact, it makes his head bubble with something that's honestly a bit feral. ]
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The first noise he makes at finally being kissed is a desperate, wanton thing and once Charlie is kissing him, being kissed by him hungrily, that's when the growl that sits at the center of his chest returns.
His hands feel useless until he can get one into Charlie's hair, and a wrench in his middle tells him remember, record, savor him because he can't believe he'll get to have this again.
He finds their hips too far apart, remembers the dance from the club and settles his hips into a groove against Charlie and rocks, grinds, needs more sensation, more everything from him. ]
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[ It spills out desperately against John's mouth when their hips meet, rolled into a single syllable. John's sounds and his hands and his body were already driving Charlie to distraction. He doesn't know what sort of experience John might have, if any, with the way he takes the world as if it has endless new things to show him -- but if he knows, then he knows, and if he doesn't then jesus, Charlie wants to show him.
If he actually lasts long enough to show him anything. Listen, there's a lot going on, and he'll never live it down if one half of this is over before either of them even has their clothes off. And there really doesn't seem to be any pressing reason to keep them on.
John's a smart lad who's perfectly capable of bending over under his own steam; Charlie slides his hand from the back of John's head to his ass, pulling him even closer and grinding too, panting into his mouth more than kissing him. But then he starts walking them backward -- from John's perspective -- as if dancing again, because there's a very nice wall there that John needs to be pushed against. Pushed against with some care, so as not to actually hurt him, but also-- pushed against aggressively.
It's aggressively that Charlie attacks the strings of the corset, too, though he's immediately frustrated, fiddling with it almost cross-eyed. How's he meant to concentrate on knots at a time like this--
With some stammered combination of comedy and desperation: ]
Aw hell... John, you- you gotta untie this or else I'm gettin' scissors.
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The corset hangs open, now, revealing the bottom of his torso: lightly defined muscle and soft golden hair that thickens a little near the waistline. There's also unquestionably a heavy shape below that, straining against the fabric.]
Fixed. Can I-
[ Shirt. He wants to unbutton shirt. ]
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Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.
[ What he wants to do more than anything else in the world is mush his face against John's chest one nipple at a time and then work his way down, but he can exercise patience for a few seconds while John... what? Right, right, buttons. It would go faster if Charlie helped, but his hands are busy roaming around John's stomach and sides before moving to the button of his pants, and his eyes are busy staring a little lower.
No amount of tactical trouser adjusting would hide Charlie's own excitement at this point, either. John's absolutely doing him in. ]
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As for Charlie's own project, John isn't shy: his hips tilt it so the button is easier to reach. Please. ]
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Hopefully the trousers don't get a torn seam or anything. The smell from here is already sort of whiting out Charlie's higher functions. ]
cw extremely NSFW moving forward (not that it wasn't come to think of it)
Almost. If it weren't for the way that suits sit, he might have had a real problem on his hands.
But thanks to the oddities of male fashion, Charlie does in fact have a cock staring him in the face, curling up and bouncing lightly against John's belly, brushing through the soft hair there. There's a heavy sac just below, right where it ought to be, and Charlie will no doubt be able to tell that that's where most of that smell happens to be coming from. Unsurprisingly, it is... appropriate to the size of the rest of him, uncut (as one might also expect), and leaking just a little at the tip.
John's hands, for lack of anything better to do, are going to end up against the wall to keep himself upright the normal way. ]
...fuck, you feel so good.
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He shoots John a smirk up his torso, a smirk of 'you ain't seen nothing yet' with a side of horny idiot. Then he dives and puts his mouth on the underside of it, letting his whole tongue sit on it, pulling at the skin with his lips, obsessed. A second later he moves up and gets the head in his mouth, a thumb running up the wet spot he left behind. He whines as if their positions were reversed as he rolls his tongue around the head, following the leak to its source until he's tonguing right at the slit. At some point along the way he's ended up on his knees, and they're going to hate him for it later, but they can suck it too.
He deserves a fucking service medal for pulling himself off and replacing his tongue with a circling thumb, but he wants to draw this out. He wants it to last. And he wants to look up at John's face from all this, and he wants to ask: ]
You ever had this done to you before?
[ Rough, and excited, and somehow steady even though his head feels like a lit catherine wheel. ]
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He has never had this done to him, no, because he's never had a dick during sex. Because he's never been inclined to let his partner focus so wholy on him. And because he's never been so focused on keeping his human form human at the same. It's almost like a type of bondage, holding himself this way, keeping every tentacle on his skin, and the way it makes him focus on all the human sensations and human nerve endings and human processes has brought to light a whole new appreciation for the human body he hadn't had before.
Which is to say, be looks almost drunk on how good that feels and looking down at Charlie, how gorgeous he looks hungry to suck his cock, lips a little reddened from their kissing and the aforementioned, a full body shiver goes through him at the intensity of his own feelings.
That whine, Christ. ]
No.
[ And that voice is rough, barely words in the low rumble. ]
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Frightening. But once again, the fear sparks strangely off of... all of this: off the way John's moving under his fingers and the way he asked for more, off the times Charlie's taught him something he never knew and the things he's about to teach him. John's flushed and beautiful, and behind that beautiful face is something fluid and dreadful that can look any way it wants, and he looks genuinely like he's unravelling and he's beautiful.
There are a lot of ideas fighting at speed through Charlie's head. Thousands of recollections of kneeling. A perverse idea of John and worship. How completely different this seems, as if Charlie's not beneath or smaller than him at all, even though both are physically true. How completely different he can make it. A hundred reasons to want to make John feel good, both repeatable and not. Incandescent desire.
Very few of those things are conscious. The thing that matters to be conscious of is the skin of John's belly -- warm and salty -- as he rakes his teeth across it, holding back from biting him like an animal. ]
Jesus, you're... you're...
[ His voice is strained this time, shaking slightly with want, words very clearly not wording. ]
Jesus. John.
[ He takes John's cock in his mouth like his life depends on it -- or, well, as much of his cock as will fit, his hand keeping the rest occupied. ]
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His can't help that his hips rock for a moment before he can control himself, and one hand goes out to Charlie's hair, runs through it, settles not on top of it but just off to the side: a gesture of affection, not subjugation, of love and want and need and never force. The other hand shifts to his thigh, because he worries about Charlie's walls; he can only control so many things at once while he's feeling so intensely, and he'd rather clench against his own flesh than chance harming anything of or on or near Charlie. ]
Fuuuuck, Charlie. Christ, your fucking mouth.
[ He can still feel the teeth across his belly, Charlie's beautiful hands wrapped around the base of him. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. ]
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When he feels things moving, John's sack pulling tighter, he thrills and pulls back just long enough to growl against John: ]
You're gonna cum for me.
[ It's not a question. John gets to go back in his mouth the moment he says yes, and not before. ]
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quietly refreshing that nsfw warning
Re: quietly refreshing that nsfw warning
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