[ 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. ]
[ He feels like his heart is a drum reverberating throughout his whole body and he's going to lose it regardless but something deep and wicked and curling in his belly wants Charlie's mouth around him when it happens more than anything.]
[ Charlie dives back onto him before the words are all out of his mouth -- because he's eager, because he wants John in his mouth when it happens too, and he's lightheaded from how forcefully John wants it. He swallows and moans around him, not letting up but driving him towards it. ]
[ He might have had some control if Charlie wasn't moaning around him, but the sound of that, the feel of it, the push pull of arousal and desperation between them has Charlie getting exactly what they both want as John lets out a deep and utterly inhuman sound of satisfaction that the words 'fuck' and 'yes' and 'Charlie' only surface from near the end as he does just that.
By the time he's finished, he doesn't feel drained so much as high and his eyes are practically glowing as he looks down hazily at Charlie. So many wires and so many of them are buzzing and he wants to-
Fuck he could-
He could lift this man into his arms and take that mouth and kiss him for days. He could rip every bit of clothing off of him and taste every inch revealed, fuck him-
Christ he could fuck him for weeks. Listen to him pant his name, beg for him, breathe for him. Wring every ounce of pleasure from him until he didn't even know his own name. Love him so thoroughly-
No.
Stop. No. Fuck. Goddammit.
Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Once his... everything is sorted, he ventures words. ]
Hey, can I- I want to kiss you. And suck your dick too. Can I? Please?
[ The noises John's making go through Charlie like thunder in a storm directly overhead. His nose is pressed into John's wiry hair, wet with spit, and he can feel the repeated clenching of muscles against his face. He swallows cum like it's wine, pulling and coaxing John through it, his heart jackhammering until John is spent and Charlie pulls back to gasp in air. John's cock is flushed and wet, and so is Charlie's mouth, and his satisfaction is immense even though his own body's screaming for attention at this point.
He's looking up hazily while John gathers himself, in between planting bites and touches on John's stomach and thighs. He's not quite ready to venture standing up and letting the blood back into his knees yet.
Holy shit. A lot to unpack about this and not a braincell to do it with.
Somewhere beyond his single-minded focus on taste and smell and sensation, he notices how careful John's being with him, even now, and he's reassured by it. Somewhere closer to home and much dumber, he thinks that if John doesn't kiss him and suck his dick right now instead of just asking about them then he's going to lose his mind. ]
Oh f-fuck, yeah, yeah, John.
[ The grunt and wobble when he gets to his feet, though, are symptoms of his joints rather than his horniness. Such is life. ]
[ Charlie's knees will not have much to do for long because John is going to reach over and bodily lift him up, one hand on his ass and the other on his side, to start kissing him into the opposite wall like a rabid thing even as his hips move to grind against poor Charlie's yet unattended to excitement.
The wall kiss will only last until John is sated enough to move him, and then they're headed for Charlie's bedroom on autopilot. His human companion might be surprised at how gently he can get him lowered to the bed while attempting to find Charlie's tonsils with his own tongue, but once he's on that bed, John's going for clothes.
Trousers first, if only because he can keep kissing him while he's at it.]
[ Charlie's surprised squeak at being lifted turns incredibly quickly into open-mouthed moans and deep kisses. Now he knows how the table felt, and it's great!
He's panting, moving his hips, genuinely concerned that the grinding of John's massive dick holy shit against him is about to take things too far too soon but enjoying it too much to say anything about slowing down (in a second he'll-- he'll say something in a second, in-- in another second--). Getting bodily carried to the bed barely counts as a reprieve, because look at it.
When John pulls his trousers down, they drag over the rigid shape underneath and make Charlie whine and swear with surprising clarity considering his tongue is fully inside John's mouth. If John happens to look down, he'll find Charlie's underwear does absolutely nothing to hide how erect he's gotten.
Charlie, meanwhile, finally turns his face just far enough to clear the way to stammer breathlessly: ]
Please, I... q-quick, I dunno if I can... I dunno how long I, I... please please please.
Breathless. For him. Fuck, he did not need help being turned on. He was well and truly turned on already, thank you, but hearing that?
He'll give Charlie one last kiss before practically dropping down: one hand pulling his dick free as he swoops down to get his mouth around the head, swirl his tongue around it once, and then the whole of Charlie's cock is disappearing past his lips and down his throat as John gives a deep rumbling sound of relief. Like hell was he not getting Charlie in his mouth before it was too late. One large hand will shove the underwear the rest of the way away to give his sac a light knead.
Which is when he'll start swallowing. And he won't stop. Nor, it turns out, does he need to pause to breathe.]
Charlie resists the urge to slam into John's mouth, using just about the last thread of his self control -- but he does push up, incrementally, insistently, wanting more of that - of - holy fuck. With a hand on John's shoulder and another in his hair, he groans and pants and shakes. He's talking like he can't stop himself, but the only words he can manage are strings of fuckpleaseyesmore -- lustful, unthinking, worshipful -- and John's name -- in a tone exactly the same.
An unsleeping watchman is blowing his whistle, urgently, violently, louder and louder, though it's taken Charlie this long to notice the warning. It's the only warning so far that hasn't somehow egged him on, because it's the same one that wakes him up over and over when he tries to go to sleep at night. His breath catches, but it's just one caught breath among many, and the watchman is just one passenger in the boat as it finally goes over the falls. ]
I'm- I'm- I'm-
[ Ah fuck it's too late to warn John before Charlie is over the edge in an ecstasy of whimpered sounds, of babbling John's name, of bucking under him and only half-managing to hold the movement back. ]
[ He was made for interstellar expanses and the void between the stars, and if they were there yet, John would moan while telling him happily to fuck his mouth red. As it is, he's going to swallow down every drop greedily, breathing in deep to remember the scent right against his skin along with the taste as he works him down, hands sliding out to smooth along Charlie's inner thighs. Once Charlie is spent, he will carefully draw back and press a soft kiss to the slick underside of his cock. He almost departs before he can't resist, taking Charlie's sac into his mouth to tongue lightly at his balls. A few more kisses there before he looks up, the silliest thing: a smug (still very human looking) puppy of a man who says with rather a great deal of enjoyment-]
Perfect. That was perfect.
[ Before Charlie's thighs are getting a few more nuzzled kisses. He didn't get to spend as much time here as he'd intended. ]
[ Charlie lies there overwhelmed, twitching and making small sounds to the aftershocks and to John's welcome touch on places that are still buzzing and sensitive. He answers John's comment with a smile, though he pretty much looks like there are bluebirds flying around his head in lieu of vocabulary.
He's taking stock.
He'd rather not be, but that's what's happening. While he's lying here in a glow of satisfaction, feeling such intense fucking stunned fondness towards John, some asshole in his head is going over what he did wrong to let his guard down, and why he should be scared of John actually, and how if this was the Dreamlands he would've just committed a colossal unforced error (and it doesn't matter that this isn't the Dreamlands, because 'this isn't the Dreamlands' is exactly the kind of thing you think in the Dreamlands). And that asshole wasn't invited, but is impossible to kick out: he knows what he's talking about, because he's the only reason Charlie still existed after ten years.
And thanks to this asshole, the whirlpool Charlie's spinning in is no longer an enjoyable one, despite his body still feeling good. He doesn't know what he's afraid will happen, exactly, but he's deeply afraid and very still, and trying to stuff that fear back where it came from, with no idea what else to do about it from the position that they're both in. ]
[ He feels the moment good turns to bad. He feels when loose turns to slack, when expectant turns to clenched. He feels it and he stops kissing and he looks up to Charlie to see his face, look him in the eyes. ]
Tell me what you need.
[ Very steady. Very calm. ]
If you can't, just shake your head or nod. Do you want me to leave? You can watch. I'll get dressed where you can see. And I'll go.
[ He's fighting it, is the thing, which is why he says ]
Stay,
[ quietly but insistently. He doesn't want John to blame himself. He doesn't want John to feel like he fucked up. And he knows John won't tell him if he does. He's mortified by what he's doing to the moment.
He's already picking himself up when he says it, and he continues shifting himself into a folded sitting position, instinctively moving with the smooth slowness of someone who doesn't want to be noticed moving. If this is giving him whiplash, he can't imagine what it's doing to John. ]
You ain't done anything wrong, [ he says. After all, says the asshole, Charlie's the one who chose to throw all his caution and defences out of the window to fool around with someone whose past and powers are the King's. An instant later, he's alarmed and dismayed by tears appearing in his eyes. Fuck. Fuck, fuck. ]
[ John, however, maybe not in the active part of his mind? But the passive part? That assumed this would happen. And that's why no, he's not upset. He's not upset at all. Instead, he nods and he'll start crawling up the bed to settle beside him, a nice large real steady presence that's a little sweaty and a little messy and his hair is definitely not 'kingly' at all.]
[ Part of Charlie -- a part that's going to need a lot more than two years to work out of his system -- is trying to curl up like a woodlouse in the shadow of a descending foot. He fights that too, round-backed and with his arms around his knees, because there's nobody... he's decided that there's nobody in this room right now to be afraid of. He's choosing repeatedly to believe it, even when it's like forcing a square peg into a round hole, when an affirmation of John's goodness is more than half because he's begging not to be proven wrong.
The worst case scenario here, he feels instinctively, is John walking away feeling guilt, and hiding it because of even more guilt. That's what decides his stalemate between curling up further and leaning into John, pressed against his warm kind skin and his unearthly marks, praying it'll comfort one or both of them.
The marks, in some kind of dreadful post-nut clarity, are prompting him to remember some of the shit that went through his own head during all that -- some of it shit that hasn't gone through his head in two years, not even in the turned-around and upside-down way it did today. The mantra about yellow lipstick is invasive to the point that he could stab out his own eardrums to escape it. He feels abruptly that if he doesn't cry, he might throw up every thing inside his entire body instead; both at once is not off the table.
And he worries about what that'd do to John, who's been nothing but kind. ]
I know this ain't your fault, [ he says through a shrinking straw, smiling too brightly at John, steady in the last-ditch, throw-everything-at-it sort of way that comes before a collapse. He's not 100% parsing the question. ]
S. Sorry 'bout this, kid.
[ And then the next heartbeat hits, and he starts hyperventilating and sobbing on top of one another. ]
Edited (accidentally a word) 2024-07-14 08:45 (UTC)
[ John isn't sure he should- no, he knows someone should but he's not sure if it should be him, but the only person here is him. That's why he reaches over and starts to carefully, silently wrap himself around Charlie.
[ The fact that he keeps falling into these hysterics lately, and that they feel worse every time, isn't great. The fact that this time he's doing it sticky and naked and half-tense, half-languid makes it more confusing. The fact John's wrapping around him is... helpful on some levels? There's a lot spinning around right now.
He does woodlouse, actually. He does that, not because it's safe but because it's familiar, his face pressed to the bed as if frozen while performing a raka'ah. But before he does that, he clutches one of the hands that are moving around him and pulls it down with him, holding it tight enough to hurt a normal human. ]
[ If there is one thing he knows will make this worse, it's his voice. His voice outside, his voice inside; his voice is the voice of the King and what frail control or reality Charlie has will shatter the moment he uses it. He worries about how much he might have already done harm by asking, but he won't do it again. Instead, he lets his fingers curl as if to tell Charlie that he can squeeze as tight as he needs. And he'll move the other hand to rub up and down his back. He makes sure to keep the pattern irregular; 'lulling' won't help right now, would help least of all. This is an imperfect human person who loves you touching you, Charlie. That's what he's trying to say. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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Jesus fucking Christ, Charlie-
[ A growl as he finds the word. ]
Yes, fuck yes. Fuck- I'm gonna fuckin- please, Christ, Charlie-
[ He feels like his heart is a drum reverberating throughout his whole body and he's going to lose it regardless but something deep and wicked and curling in his belly wants Charlie's mouth around him when it happens more than anything.]
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By the time he's finished, he doesn't feel drained so much as high and his eyes are practically glowing as he looks down hazily at Charlie. So many wires and so many of them are buzzing and he wants to-
Fuck he could-
He could lift this man into his arms and take that mouth and kiss him for days. He could rip every bit of clothing off of him and taste every inch revealed, fuck him-
Christ he could fuck him for weeks. Listen to him pant his name, beg for him, breathe for him. Wring every ounce of pleasure from him until he didn't even know his own name. Love him so thoroughly-
No.
Stop. No. Fuck. Goddammit.
Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Once his... everything is sorted, he ventures words. ]
Hey, can I- I want to kiss you. And suck your dick too. Can I? Please?
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He's looking up hazily while John gathers himself, in between planting bites and touches on John's stomach and thighs. He's not quite ready to venture standing up and letting the blood back into his knees yet.
Holy shit. A lot to unpack about this and not a braincell to do it with.
Somewhere beyond his single-minded focus on taste and smell and sensation, he notices how careful John's being with him, even now, and he's reassured by it. Somewhere closer to home and much dumber, he thinks that if John doesn't kiss him and suck his dick right now instead of just asking about them then he's going to lose his mind. ]
Oh f-fuck, yeah, yeah, John.
[ The grunt and wobble when he gets to his feet, though, are symptoms of his joints rather than his horniness. Such is life. ]
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The wall kiss will only last until John is sated enough to move him, and then they're headed for Charlie's bedroom on autopilot. His human companion might be surprised at how gently he can get him lowered to the bed while attempting to find Charlie's tonsils with his own tongue, but once he's on that bed, John's going for clothes.
Trousers first, if only because he can keep kissing him while he's at it.]
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He's panting, moving his hips, genuinely concerned that the grinding of John's massive dick holy shit against him is about to take things too far too soon but enjoying it too much to say anything about slowing down (in a second he'll-- he'll say something in a second, in-- in another second--). Getting bodily carried to the bed barely counts as a reprieve, because look at it.
When John pulls his trousers down, they drag over the rigid shape underneath and make Charlie whine and swear with surprising clarity considering his tongue is fully inside John's mouth. If John happens to look down, he'll find Charlie's underwear does absolutely nothing to hide how erect he's gotten.
Charlie, meanwhile, finally turns his face just far enough to clear the way to stammer breathlessly: ]
Please, I... q-quick, I dunno if I can... I dunno how long I, I... please please please.
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Breathless. For him. Fuck, he did not need help being turned on. He was well and truly turned on already, thank you, but hearing that?
He'll give Charlie one last kiss before practically dropping down: one hand pulling his dick free as he swoops down to get his mouth around the head, swirl his tongue around it once, and then the whole of Charlie's cock is disappearing past his lips and down his throat as John gives a deep rumbling sound of relief. Like hell was he not getting Charlie in his mouth before it was too late. One large hand will shove the underwear the rest of the way away to give his sac a light knead.
Which is when he'll start swallowing. And he won't stop. Nor, it turns out, does he need to pause to breathe.]
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Charlie resists the urge to slam into John's mouth, using just about the last thread of his self control -- but he does push up, incrementally, insistently, wanting more of that - of - holy fuck. With a hand on John's shoulder and another in his hair, he groans and pants and shakes. He's talking like he can't stop himself, but the only words he can manage are strings of fuckpleaseyesmore -- lustful, unthinking, worshipful -- and John's name -- in a tone exactly the same.
An unsleeping watchman is blowing his whistle, urgently, violently, louder and louder, though it's taken Charlie this long to notice the warning. It's the only warning so far that hasn't somehow egged him on, because it's the same one that wakes him up over and over when he tries to go to sleep at night. His breath catches, but it's just one caught breath among many, and the watchman is just one passenger in the boat as it finally goes over the falls. ]
I'm- I'm- I'm-
[ Ah fuck it's too late to warn John before Charlie is over the edge in an ecstasy of whimpered sounds, of babbling John's name, of bucking under him and only half-managing to hold the movement back. ]
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Perfect. That was perfect.
[ Before Charlie's thighs are getting a few more nuzzled kisses. He didn't get to spend as much time here as he'd intended. ]
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He's taking stock.
He'd rather not be, but that's what's happening. While he's lying here in a glow of satisfaction, feeling such intense fucking stunned fondness towards John, some asshole in his head is going over what he did wrong to let his guard down, and why he should be scared of John actually, and how if this was the Dreamlands he would've just committed a colossal unforced error (and it doesn't matter that this isn't the Dreamlands, because 'this isn't the Dreamlands' is exactly the kind of thing you think in the Dreamlands). And that asshole wasn't invited, but is impossible to kick out: he knows what he's talking about, because he's the only reason Charlie still existed after ten years.
And thanks to this asshole, the whirlpool Charlie's spinning in is no longer an enjoyable one, despite his body still feeling good. He doesn't know what he's afraid will happen, exactly, but he's deeply afraid and very still, and trying to stuff that fear back where it came from, with no idea what else to do about it from the position that they're both in. ]
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Tell me what you need.
[ Very steady. Very calm. ]
If you can't, just shake your head or nod. Do you want me to leave? You can watch. I'll get dressed where you can see. And I'll go.
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Stay,
[ quietly but insistently. He doesn't want John to blame himself. He doesn't want John to feel like he fucked up. And he knows John won't tell him if he does. He's mortified by what he's doing to the moment.
He's already picking himself up when he says it, and he continues shifting himself into a folded sitting position, instinctively moving with the smooth slowness of someone who doesn't want to be noticed moving. If this is giving him whiplash, he can't imagine what it's doing to John. ]
You ain't done anything wrong, [ he says. After all, says the asshole, Charlie's the one who chose to throw all his caution and defences out of the window to fool around with someone whose past and powers are the King's. An instant later, he's alarmed and dismayed by tears appearing in his eyes. Fuck. Fuck, fuck. ]
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I know. Do you know that?
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The worst case scenario here, he feels instinctively, is John walking away feeling guilt, and hiding it because of even more guilt. That's what decides his stalemate between curling up further and leaning into John, pressed against his warm kind skin and his unearthly marks, praying it'll comfort one or both of them.
The marks, in some kind of dreadful post-nut clarity, are prompting him to remember some of the shit that went through his own head during all that -- some of it shit that hasn't gone through his head in two years, not even in the turned-around and upside-down way it did today. The mantra about yellow lipstick is invasive to the point that he could stab out his own eardrums to escape it. He feels abruptly that if he doesn't cry, he might throw up every thing inside his entire body instead; both at once is not off the table.
And he worries about what that'd do to John, who's been nothing but kind. ]
I know this ain't your fault, [ he says through a shrinking straw, smiling too brightly at John, steady in the last-ditch, throw-everything-at-it sort of way that comes before a collapse. He's not 100% parsing the question. ]
S. Sorry 'bout this, kid.
[ And then the next heartbeat hits, and he starts hyperventilating and sobbing on top of one another. ]
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His voice won't help. Maybe his arms will.]
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He does woodlouse, actually. He does that, not because it's safe but because it's familiar, his face pressed to the bed as if frozen while performing a raka'ah. But before he does that, he clutches one of the hands that are moving around him and pulls it down with him, holding it tight enough to hurt a normal human. ]
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quietly refreshing that nsfw warning
Re: quietly refreshing that nsfw warning
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