[ 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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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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.]