[To onlookers the pair are intimately close, Charlie leaning down over Fuuta to listen to his stammered, uncertain responses while the boy's hands tangle in his clothing. To him, there's a chill - distance - unpleasantly lingering between them. Brought to stark attention by the quickly cooling splotch of spit on his shirt, Fuuta's mouth is sorely missed.
So when he demands a kiss, Charlie's smile sharpens. There's a hum, soft and satisfied, in his throat as his Adam's apple bobs in a dry swallow. He'll indulge without hesitation, the dim reminder that Fuuta's blood would taste better than his drool tucked away from his mind.]
Sure... [He wonders if Fuuta will have the sense to demand that Charlie owes him for the pleasure, but that curiosity only leaves his shoulders shrugging - duly amused - as he presses his lips into Fuuta's. The connection is anything but chaste.
Charlie's quick to open his mouth, dragging hot, slick flesh beneath between his lips. He leaves his own spit beneath, no care spared to make this an idyllic tease or romantic affection. He's greedy, just like last time, tongue pressing into Fuuta's mouth to brush along the boy's.
It's so fucking warm, the acrid bite of lingering liquor hardly occurs to him as he shifts farther into his partner. Charlie perches his knee on the bench to Fuuta's side and presses his hand to the boy's collar bone to steady himself. That he can feel searing blood pump from Fuuta's chest beneath his palm is a bonus.
Intoxicatingly so.
He groans, a sound someone more within their senses could identify as want, the vibration in his throat captured in their mouths.]
[ The moment Charlie's lips touch his, he knows he fucked up. His drink-addled mind might have made that demand thinking a kiss would take the edge off that heat roiling his guts -- would just be enough to take the edge off the unbearable lust and let him think straight, so he wouldn't embarrass himself any further -- but he immediately knows that's pure delusion.
Like hell he can pull back now that he's being given what he desperately wants.
Just the crush of lips against his own sends electricity racing down his spine, earning a hard jolt; the wet drag of Charlie's tongue pressing against his is almost too much to take. Fuuta meets the kiss blearily at first before giving as good as he gets, leaning in to drag his teeth against Charlie's lip. And when he feels that hand press against his chest, that light pressure making his nerves light up, he nips harder on reflex. Almost hard enough to break through skin.
Enough to leave a little tender spot when he pulls back, only because his lungs are aching for air. Fuuta gasps, chest heaving, as he breaks the kiss, though his fingers remain insistently tangled into Charlie's clothes; with how scrambled his thoughts are between the alcohol and whatever his drinks were spiked with and now that kiss on top, it takes him far too long to find any words. ]
This -- this is all your fault. Alright. 's not my fault. It's not.
[ It's said with as much grit as he can muster while breathless and bleary, one hand twisting harder into Charlie's clothes. The other shamefully, guiltily, slips under the waistband of his sweatpants so he can paw at himself. The sort of thing he'd never do in public, except he feels like his heart's going to explode if he doesn't immediately address the maddening heat in his veins. It's equal parts desperate, demanding and furious when Fuuta yanks at Charlie's clothes to demand another kiss; it's all he needs to push himself over the edge, he thinks, then surely he'll be able to calm down a bit. ]
[Fuuta's tongue tangling with his leaves a pool of drool in Charlie's mouth. Hot and slick, he can't swallow the mess. The delight of sucking his lip into his mouth - feeling teeth nip his own - doesn't do anything to sate his blood. His body would reject the spit with a retch. So he gives it back, cupping it in his tongue to press the cooling saliva back into Fuuta's mouth right before he pulls away.
A bit spills, dripping onto the boy's pantleg.
Charlie's tongue hangs over his bottom lip, retracting slowly. Disappointed in his partner's need to breathe, he stares duly into Fuuta's hazy eyes.]
Yeah...? And so I'm takin' care of you... [Charlie's voice is soft, not the whisper of a man attempting subtlety, but damningly affectionate. For all his bluster, for the deficit to his chips he insists on causing, Charlie's fond of this guy. Because his blood must be delicious. Because he's a greedy kisser. Because he's so easy to wind up.
Simple reasons.
Taking care of him is simple, too.
One hand remains on Fuuta's chest and the other descends, fingers trailing lightly along the folds of a too-baggy hoodie until they meet his wrist. He wraps his grip around the slim joint, but rather than tug the boy's hand away he lets his digits travel down his palm to replace his grasp on his cock. There'll be no arguing that Charlie 'owes him' for this one.
When Fuuta demands another kiss, Charlie of course reciprocates, though after a few nips and squelches of tongue against tongue, he nudges the boy's face aside. His lips travel over flushed jaw, tracing towards neck. At the base of Fuuta's ear, he pauses. Not yet. That shit's still in this guy's system.
With a quiet groan, Charlie brings his hand up from Fuuta's chest to grab his face and tilt it back towards him for another kiss.]
[ Somewhere at the back of his mind, he registers the damp patter of his own spit dripping onto his clothes. Vaguely, he knows that's gross, and he'd normally have a lot more to say about it, criticizing Charlie for his sloppiness and bitching him out for letting that happen and saying something or the other about cleaning fees. But honestly, all those thoughts feel miles and miles away, buried under hazy thoughts of how nice that kiss had felt.
Then he feels that hand tracing down his wrist, grazing against his palm for a moment before wrapping around his cock. The unnatural chill of Charlie's skin does earn a start and a jump, Fuuta's legs giving a startled jolt from the unexpected sensation of it, a confused grunt stifled at the back of his throat.
Whatever hesitation that surprise had merited is easily squelched, though, the moment those fingers squeeze.
Even cold, the touch of another's skin always feels drastically different from one's own. And riled up as he is by the drinks' influence, Fuuta's in no position to turn down that tantalizing stimulation. It barely takes a few deft movements before he's squirming and tensing against the couch so hard that the cushion squeak softly in protest. And when Charlie rewards him that kiss he'd demanded, that's all that's needed to push him over the edge. It's a relatively paltry amount of stimulation, something he'd be mortified to be climaxing from under normal circumstances, but there's no room in his brain for such notions at the moment -- right now, all that matters is that the feel of teeth grazing over his lip and tongue swiping against tongue feels good enough to wipe his thoughts clean, and Fuuta comes messily over Charlie's hand with a choked moan.
It's a climax that hits sudden and hard, enhanced several times over by whatever's in his system, and Fuuta shudders against the couch as he works through the waves of pleasure, rapidly starting to go limp against the cushions as his field of vision spins.
-- fuck. This really isn't how he'd thought this evening would go. ]
[Only half-hard himself, Charlie pays no attention to his own arousal. He'd intended to get something out of this exchange, but his own climax never came to mind. At first he'd only meant to spend more time with the guy. Wind him up, get a rush out of the way he blusters and argues...
When had he decided he wanted to taste him tonight? Charlie doesn't remember, but the greed persists. Even if it won't be satisfied-
Charlie sneers into their kiss. It's subtle - easy to miss when one is completely enshrouded in their own pleasure. Fuuta's blood would be delightful any day, but the taste of blood at the height of climax is a pleasure Charlie hadn't indulged in until his visit to the Casino. There's a certain sweetness to that moment, and he realizes as it passes him by - polluted by aphrodisiac - that he would have enjoyed the flavor.
Ah well. Next time.
Tongue working over Fuuta's forcefully, as if he could pin the boy's organ in his own mouth, Charlie continues to yank seed from his partner until he gets the sense he's only smearing it around. He brushes his palm against the back of Fuuta's hand, sloppily half-cleaning himself before he removes his hand entirely.
And then he releases Fuuta's jaw to place that hand - steadying - on his shoulder. Looking down at him, he's a mess. Is he going to pass out? Charlie's lips pop apart, quiet but audible in the silent lobby.] Huh.
How you feelin' now? Better? [Unintentionally, idly, his thumb strokes at the fabric beneath it curving over Fuuta's shoulder. Affection.]
[ It's not even like he's deliberately trying to be rude (for once). It's just -- his thoughts still feel mushy, his head still spinning as the aftershocks of the orgasm finish sliding down his spine, and Fuuta squirms when he feels Charlie's hand pull away from his cock to smear the mess on his hand, instead. A part of him's pissed about that, he thinks. This whole mess is already going to be a pain to clean up, but he just has to make it worse? But mortifyingly, a greater part of him kind of wishes that hand stayed there, cold or not.
Climaxing once has taken the worst of the edge off the dizzying high of whatever had been in those drinks, but it'd be a lie to say he's completely calmed down. At least he can think a bit straighter now, his thoughts no longer dominated by that blinding hunger for stimulation above all else, but his nerves do still itch -- something he can't quite hide. His gaze lingers for a moment too long on Charlie's lips, slick as they still are with spit, and when he feels that thumb brushing against his shoulder, he shudders, his next breath coming shaky.
It takes him far too much effort just to muster words. ]
Get offa me. [ His words are still coming a little rough around the edges, and Fuuta's movements are stiff as he tries to scoot away from Charlie's weight, a hand weakly braced against the couch cushions as he turns away. ] M' fine now. I just ... needed a moment. I'm good now.
[Shutting up is an impossible demand, but Charlie acquiesces to releasing Fuuta's sweat-damp hoodie. His hand falls to his side; a more keen minded observer would spot disappointment in the way his fingers brush one another on their descent. What Fuuta can clearly see is the way Charlie's head tilts, tongue tucked into his upper lip.
His brows are raised - he isn't buying this guy's assertion of recovery.
Typically, Charlie's happy to go along with the bullshit someone spouts even if he knows it's a lie. Anything to keep the conversation going, to keep the other person talking. But the idea of a snack still fogs the edges of his thoughts, and he's cautious with his food. He doesn't want to end up like the boy: mussed and cum-splattered on a public couch.]
You sure about that? What are you gonna do if you get out that door and get all eh, excited again? [Turn right around and plop back on the seat? A funny scene - Charlie chuckles at his own imagination.] You've already got my help, why not use it? I'll even let you keep tellin' me what to do. [A proposition. An offer. Will he adopt Fuuta's favorite transactional mantra and insist the boy owes him after?
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So when he demands a kiss, Charlie's smile sharpens. There's a hum, soft and satisfied, in his throat as his Adam's apple bobs in a dry swallow. He'll indulge without hesitation, the dim reminder that Fuuta's blood would taste better than his drool tucked away from his mind.]
Sure... [He wonders if Fuuta will have the sense to demand that Charlie owes him for the pleasure, but that curiosity only leaves his shoulders shrugging - duly amused - as he presses his lips into Fuuta's. The connection is anything but chaste.
Charlie's quick to open his mouth, dragging hot, slick flesh beneath between his lips. He leaves his own spit beneath, no care spared to make this an idyllic tease or romantic affection. He's greedy, just like last time, tongue pressing into Fuuta's mouth to brush along the boy's.
It's so fucking warm, the acrid bite of lingering liquor hardly occurs to him as he shifts farther into his partner. Charlie perches his knee on the bench to Fuuta's side and presses his hand to the boy's collar bone to steady himself. That he can feel searing blood pump from Fuuta's chest beneath his palm is a bonus.
Intoxicatingly so.
He groans, a sound someone more within their senses could identify as want, the vibration in his throat captured in their mouths.]
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Like hell he can pull back now that he's being given what he desperately wants.
Just the crush of lips against his own sends electricity racing down his spine, earning a hard jolt; the wet drag of Charlie's tongue pressing against his is almost too much to take. Fuuta meets the kiss blearily at first before giving as good as he gets, leaning in to drag his teeth against Charlie's lip. And when he feels that hand press against his chest, that light pressure making his nerves light up, he nips harder on reflex. Almost hard enough to break through skin.
Enough to leave a little tender spot when he pulls back, only because his lungs are aching for air. Fuuta gasps, chest heaving, as he breaks the kiss, though his fingers remain insistently tangled into Charlie's clothes; with how scrambled his thoughts are between the alcohol and whatever his drinks were spiked with and now that kiss on top, it takes him far too long to find any words. ]
This -- this is all your fault. Alright. 's not my fault. It's not.
[ It's said with as much grit as he can muster while breathless and bleary, one hand twisting harder into Charlie's clothes. The other shamefully, guiltily, slips under the waistband of his sweatpants so he can paw at himself. The sort of thing he'd never do in public, except he feels like his heart's going to explode if he doesn't immediately address the maddening heat in his veins. It's equal parts desperate, demanding and furious when Fuuta yanks at Charlie's clothes to demand another kiss; it's all he needs to push himself over the edge, he thinks, then surely he'll be able to calm down a bit. ]
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A bit spills, dripping onto the boy's pantleg.
Charlie's tongue hangs over his bottom lip, retracting slowly. Disappointed in his partner's need to breathe, he stares duly into Fuuta's hazy eyes.]
Yeah...? And so I'm takin' care of you... [Charlie's voice is soft, not the whisper of a man attempting subtlety, but damningly affectionate. For all his bluster, for the deficit to his chips he insists on causing, Charlie's fond of this guy. Because his blood must be delicious. Because he's a greedy kisser. Because he's so easy to wind up.
Simple reasons.
Taking care of him is simple, too.
One hand remains on Fuuta's chest and the other descends, fingers trailing lightly along the folds of a too-baggy hoodie until they meet his wrist. He wraps his grip around the slim joint, but rather than tug the boy's hand away he lets his digits travel down his palm to replace his grasp on his cock. There'll be no arguing that Charlie 'owes him' for this one.
When Fuuta demands another kiss, Charlie of course reciprocates, though after a few nips and squelches of tongue against tongue, he nudges the boy's face aside. His lips travel over flushed jaw, tracing towards neck. At the base of Fuuta's ear, he pauses. Not yet. That shit's still in this guy's system.
With a quiet groan, Charlie brings his hand up from Fuuta's chest to grab his face and tilt it back towards him for another kiss.]
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Then he feels that hand tracing down his wrist, grazing against his palm for a moment before wrapping around his cock. The unnatural chill of Charlie's skin does earn a start and a jump, Fuuta's legs giving a startled jolt from the unexpected sensation of it, a confused grunt stifled at the back of his throat.
Whatever hesitation that surprise had merited is easily squelched, though, the moment those fingers squeeze.
Even cold, the touch of another's skin always feels drastically different from one's own. And riled up as he is by the drinks' influence, Fuuta's in no position to turn down that tantalizing stimulation. It barely takes a few deft movements before he's squirming and tensing against the couch so hard that the cushion squeak softly in protest. And when Charlie rewards him that kiss he'd demanded, that's all that's needed to push him over the edge. It's a relatively paltry amount of stimulation, something he'd be mortified to be climaxing from under normal circumstances, but there's no room in his brain for such notions at the moment -- right now, all that matters is that the feel of teeth grazing over his lip and tongue swiping against tongue feels good enough to wipe his thoughts clean, and Fuuta comes messily over Charlie's hand with a choked moan.
It's a climax that hits sudden and hard, enhanced several times over by whatever's in his system, and Fuuta shudders against the couch as he works through the waves of pleasure, rapidly starting to go limp against the cushions as his field of vision spins.
-- fuck. This really isn't how he'd thought this evening would go. ]
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When had he decided he wanted to taste him tonight? Charlie doesn't remember, but the greed persists. Even if it won't be satisfied-
Charlie sneers into their kiss. It's subtle - easy to miss when one is completely enshrouded in their own pleasure. Fuuta's blood would be delightful any day, but the taste of blood at the height of climax is a pleasure Charlie hadn't indulged in until his visit to the Casino. There's a certain sweetness to that moment, and he realizes as it passes him by - polluted by aphrodisiac - that he would have enjoyed the flavor.
Ah well. Next time.
Tongue working over Fuuta's forcefully, as if he could pin the boy's organ in his own mouth, Charlie continues to yank seed from his partner until he gets the sense he's only smearing it around. He brushes his palm against the back of Fuuta's hand, sloppily half-cleaning himself before he removes his hand entirely.
And then he releases Fuuta's jaw to place that hand - steadying - on his shoulder. Looking down at him, he's a mess. Is he going to pass out? Charlie's lips pop apart, quiet but audible in the silent lobby.] Huh.
How you feelin' now? Better? [Unintentionally, idly, his thumb strokes at the fabric beneath it curving over Fuuta's shoulder. Affection.]
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Nn ... jus' shut up for a second.
[ It's not even like he's deliberately trying to be rude (for once). It's just -- his thoughts still feel mushy, his head still spinning as the aftershocks of the orgasm finish sliding down his spine, and Fuuta squirms when he feels Charlie's hand pull away from his cock to smear the mess on his hand, instead. A part of him's pissed about that, he thinks. This whole mess is already going to be a pain to clean up, but he just has to make it worse? But mortifyingly, a greater part of him kind of wishes that hand stayed there, cold or not.
Climaxing once has taken the worst of the edge off the dizzying high of whatever had been in those drinks, but it'd be a lie to say he's completely calmed down. At least he can think a bit straighter now, his thoughts no longer dominated by that blinding hunger for stimulation above all else, but his nerves do still itch -- something he can't quite hide. His gaze lingers for a moment too long on Charlie's lips, slick as they still are with spit, and when he feels that thumb brushing against his shoulder, he shudders, his next breath coming shaky.
It takes him far too much effort just to muster words. ]
Get offa me. [ His words are still coming a little rough around the edges, and Fuuta's movements are stiff as he tries to scoot away from Charlie's weight, a hand weakly braced against the couch cushions as he turns away. ] M' fine now. I just ... needed a moment. I'm good now.
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His brows are raised - he isn't buying this guy's assertion of recovery.
Typically, Charlie's happy to go along with the bullshit someone spouts even if he knows it's a lie. Anything to keep the conversation going, to keep the other person talking. But the idea of a snack still fogs the edges of his thoughts, and he's cautious with his food. He doesn't want to end up like the boy: mussed and cum-splattered on a public couch.]
You sure about that? What are you gonna do if you get out that door and get all eh, excited again? [Turn right around and plop back on the seat? A funny scene - Charlie chuckles at his own imagination.] You've already got my help, why not use it? I'll even let you keep tellin' me what to do. [A proposition. An offer. Will he adopt Fuuta's favorite transactional mantra and insist the boy owes him after?
Maybe.]