[ 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. ]
[ His control is clearly worth shit already, if his scaring Faroe, and panicking in front of Saga, and breaking down in front of Arthur, and now this, are any indication. He's painfully aware of the fact. And without control he's worth shit as well, because without control he's-- well, fucking look at him.
And this is going to hurt John. So once Charlie reins in his breath far enough he's apologising under it, putting small kisses on John's forearm, the kind you'd put to a king's ring, trying to communicate... something. Regret, reassurance, love, the plea not to hurt and not to get hurt.
There's some sort of seismic activity going on underneath all of this, that's trying to pull him together. John's hand moving over his back without demanding he calm down is helping it. ]
[ He's worth everything. Not because of anything. Not because most of the time he's 'fine'TM, not because he's 'healing', not because he's getting better or being worse. He just is worth it, his single solitary human soul in his meat sack body, whether it's dressed up nice or slick with sweat and saliva. John will love him and John will do what he can to protect him, even from himself. Even from who John used to be. Even from who John could be.
He makes sure it isn't spoken into his mind but he's still willing Charlie to understand him as he holds him and pets him and presses a few kisses into his hair.
You cannot hurt me by being yourself, even with all the scars out in the open. ]
[ It sinks in, sort of. Charlie's still not sure if this is a brave face, or... he's not sure. But he isn't rejecting it.
By turns, he manages to uncurl some, and calm some. He turns his head and, still sobbing here and there but largely swallowing it, he starts to place very soggy kisses on John's chest. They aren't lustful kisses and they aren't supplicant kisses: they're just normal and grounding and good. He hasn't let up his grip on John's hand.
...He still has no idea how to off-ramp from breaking down in front of somebody, but hey, maybe they can just cuddle and avoid talking about it forever? ]
[ An excellent strategy. John will move with Charlie to set this up so that he can wrap an arm around him and curl up with him and press a few sweet kisses of his own. ]
[ Charlie sighs under the kisses. Strangely, this tenderness feels much more high-stakes than the tongue-battling they were doing before, but it still draws some of the pressure out of his chest.
After a bit of this, he clears his throat and says (into whatever part of John's body his face is currently resting against): ]
Whadda you say we pretend I didn't ruin it at the end there, huh?
[ It's very much a 'haha just kidding unless...?' sort of question. ]
[ This is why, so often, he likes being big. He likes having long arms and a nice broad chest and so much that someone can bury themselves against or curl up in or be held by when they need it or want it. Charlie's getting a few more kisses. Then he'll look at him and nod.
Then sort of bobble his head back and forth.
...it's okay, Charlie, it really didn't ruin anything.
He'll follow that with a kiss against his temple. ]
[ Another kiss, another sigh. It is comfortable here in John's arms, which feels weird to realise even though -- given all the time they've spent, platonic and not, human and otherwise -- it absolutely shouldn't even have to be a realisation.
It's in part so comfortable because, after the cardio of both sex and a breakdown, he feels ready to just melt into something. But he's used at this point in his life to that not being someone. He knows he's the weak link here and he feels a way about that, but he can guess why John's not talking, and he can say for sure that he's not going to sleep here, just... factually. The mere act of thinking about it makes him jump with the faint automatic movement that interrupts dropping off. He kisses John's collarbone gently, in case that was felt. ]
You're... a goddamn marvel, kid, I hope you know that.
[ It's more or less what he would have said if he hadn't, you know, instead. It still bears saying. So he's bringing them back to it. ]
[ Okay pal, he was just ready for the voice, you didn't have to murder him with words.
Charlie's heart is touched by that; it -- to echo John's words earlier -- makes him feel warm, there. He's also shifting to look John in the face, to work out exactly how he's intended to parse that statement. Love can mean something between friends, yeah, but it's a big word to use when they're wrapped together like this.
He doesn't want to give John the wrong impression, doesn't want to lead him on and hurt him later. There's attraction, yes, and friendship, yes, but Charlie's not falling for anyone. He only likes John, and is always happy to see him, and is charmed by his enthusiasm, and admires his many talents, and likes to tell him new things and see his eyes light up about it, and can't look away when he smiles, and stands in awe of everything he's survived through and everything he chooses to make himself now, and wants him to be happy, and wants to do right by him, and wants to spend time with him, and...
Oh. Oh, fuck.
We hope John is enjoying one of the very rare occasions when he gets to watch Charlie go on a face journey! ]
[ Oh this is a problem waiting to happen and Charlie is going to throw it in a bucket and examine it neverlaternever at some point that isn't now. ]
Huh.
[ ...fuck him, he doesn't have to examine it in order to turn his head and carefully kiss John's mouth. Those can be two different things. And the guy with the whistle can rattle Charlie's guts and shout about long cons all he likes, but he's being... ignored is a strong word, but he's deliberately not being actively listened to. ]
[ Charlie responds in kind. He can think of few more enjoyable distractions. He kisses slower than before, indulgent rather than urgent, and traces the rounded shapes of John's chest and shoulders with his fingers.
Look, it's not as if making out with John is going to be any more dangerously foolish the second time around, right? ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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And this is going to hurt John. So once Charlie reins in his breath far enough he's apologising under it, putting small kisses on John's forearm, the kind you'd put to a king's ring, trying to communicate... something. Regret, reassurance, love, the plea not to hurt and not to get hurt.
There's some sort of seismic activity going on underneath all of this, that's trying to pull him together. John's hand moving over his back without demanding he calm down is helping it. ]
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He makes sure it isn't spoken into his mind but he's still willing Charlie to understand him as he holds him and pets him and presses a few kisses into his hair.
You cannot hurt me by being yourself, even with all the scars out in the open. ]
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By turns, he manages to uncurl some, and calm some. He turns his head and, still sobbing here and there but largely swallowing it, he starts to place very soggy kisses on John's chest. They aren't lustful kisses and they aren't supplicant kisses: they're just normal and grounding and good. He hasn't let up his grip on John's hand.
...He still has no idea how to off-ramp from breaking down in front of somebody, but hey, maybe they can just cuddle and avoid talking about it forever? ]
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After a bit of this, he clears his throat and says (into whatever part of John's body his face is currently resting against): ]
Whadda you say we pretend I didn't ruin it at the end there, huh?
[ It's very much a 'haha just kidding unless...?' sort of question. ]
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Then sort of bobble his head back and forth.
...it's okay, Charlie, it really didn't ruin anything.
He'll follow that with a kiss against his temple. ]
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It's in part so comfortable because, after the cardio of both sex and a breakdown, he feels ready to just melt into something. But he's used at this point in his life to that not being someone. He knows he's the weak link here and he feels a way about that, but he can guess why John's not talking, and he can say for sure that he's not going to sleep here, just... factually. The mere act of thinking about it makes him jump with the faint automatic movement that interrupts dropping off. He kisses John's collarbone gently, in case that was felt. ]
You're... a goddamn marvel, kid, I hope you know that.
[ It's more or less what he would have said if he hadn't, you know, instead. It still bears saying. So he's bringing them back to it. ]
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Not too bad yourself, sir. ]
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Talk to me. I'm big and ugly enough to take it.
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You don't have to push so hard. Even if it hurt... the way you fight to love me- it takes away the sting.
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Charlie's heart is touched by that; it -- to echo John's words earlier -- makes him feel warm, there. He's also shifting to look John in the face, to work out exactly how he's intended to parse that statement. Love can mean something between friends, yeah, but it's a big word to use when they're wrapped together like this.
He doesn't want to give John the wrong impression, doesn't want to lead him on and hurt him later. There's attraction, yes, and friendship, yes, but Charlie's not falling for anyone. He only likes John, and is always happy to see him, and is charmed by his enthusiasm, and admires his many talents, and likes to tell him new things and see his eyes light up about it, and can't look away when he smiles, and stands in awe of everything he's survived through and everything he chooses to make himself now, and wants him to be happy, and wants to do right by him, and wants to spend time with him, and...
Oh. Oh, fuck.
We hope John is enjoying one of the very rare occasions when he gets to watch Charlie go on a face journey! ]
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He's assuming a panic attack.
So.
Back to silent again.
Charlie's getting a soft little nudge and a tentative kiss to the cheek.]
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neverlaterneverat some point that isn't now. ]Huh.
[ ...fuck him, he doesn't have to examine it in order to turn his head and carefully kiss John's mouth. Those can be two different things. And the guy with the whistle can rattle Charlie's guts and shout about long cons all he likes, but he's being... ignored is a strong word, but he's deliberately not being actively listened to. ]
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Look, it's not as if making out with John is going to be any more dangerously foolish the second time around, right? ]
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And the kissing. ]
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quietly refreshing that nsfw warning
Re: quietly refreshing that nsfw warning
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