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Carlos realizes shortly into their sixth (official) date why he's never seen Cecil drink. He figured it was a personal thing, and Cecil would tell him if he wanted to, but Carlos likes having a glass of wine or two over dinner and figured it wouldn't be rude to bring a bottle when Cecil offers to cook dinner for him.
He knocks and waits for the inevitable “come in” shouted from the other end of the apartment, Cecil up to his elbows in- something- in the kitchen. He shuffles inside and kicks off his shoes, nudging them up next to Cecil's loafers by the door. The apartment smells earthy today, like warm spices and vegetation, a hint of something sharp like vinegar. That's fairly normal, for Cecil's apartment.
The first time Carlos was invited in, he couldn't stop gaping at the décor of the apartment. It's surprisingly normal for Night Vale, with only a few blood sigils and pentagrams in subtle places. The furniture is all worn, old, and comfortable from years of use, in practically every color imaginable. Carlos is used to living in labs, or taking his work home enough that his apartments eventually looked like labs themselves. He's not used to such cozy surroundings, every surface inviting and touchable without gloves or other protective gear.
But tonight he doesn't spare any thought for the intriguing paisley pattern of the couch, or the soft hand-woven rugs under his bare feet. He heads straight for the kitchen, grocery bag in hand.
Cecil is at the stove, stirring a large pot of something that bubbles and smells mostly like food. He glances up when Carlos enters and flashes that bright, unguarded smile that Carlos is starting to really fall in love with. He twirls a wooden spoon in one hand and brushes his hair out of his face with the other, uncovering the third eye in the middle of his forehead.
That was something that startled Carlos the first time he saw it, but he's gotten used to it by now. After all, it's been well over a year since the first time they met. The only time it really unsettles him is when Cecil gets a little too intense and forgets to blink it every once in a while.
“My dear Carlos,” Cecil coos, “you're early.”
“I know,” Carlos apologizes. “I stopped by the store on the way here, but it didn't take as long as I thought it would. I guess I'm getting used to the aisles switching places every week.”
“And your check-out chants are getting much better,” Cecil adds enthusiastically. There are a few specific chants that must be performed to ensure the card scanner doesn't burst into flames, the bags don't ooze strange blue slime, stuff like that.
Carlos sets the paper bag on the counter and pulls out a tall bottle of red wine, a good one according to Steve Carlsberg (who, despite Cecil's ranting, is actually an okay guy). Cecil oohs at it, admiring the fancy flourishes on the label and the deep, deep color.
“Would you like a glass too?” Carlos asks on impulse, opening the cupboard. Cecil has no wineglasses, but he figures a normal glass won't kill them. He gropes around for a couple of suitable glasses, and when he shuts the cabinet Cecil is peering at him, considering.
“I think- perhaps I will.”
Carlos grins and pulls a corkscrew out of his lab coat pocket. Cecil looks deeply impressed at his preparedness.
“A scientist is always prepared,” Carlos says seriously. “And I figured you might not have one. I've never seen any wine bottles or glasses in your place.” He feels his cheeks heat a little at his own rambling, but Cecil just smiles and goes back to stirring the food on the stove.
They sit down together at Cecil's small kitchen table, a retro looking thing with a checkered vinyl surface. It's small enough that when they both scoot their chairs in their knees bump together, making them both laugh nervously. The stew is good- Cecil explained that it was a stew his mother used to cook when he was very small. Carlos asks as few questions as possible about its ingredients, knowing that Night Vale cuisine is bizarre and occasionally horrifying if you know how it's made.
As they eat, they chat about the usual things: Cecil talks about the radio station, the newest interns, and Khoshekh. Carlos gushes about some research he's been working on, tangentially related to the clocks and the fact that time is weird in this town. He pauses mid-sentence, losing his train of thought when he glances back up at Cecil.
Time has been doing that strange thing again, where it passes without Carlos noticing. He's on what is clearly his second glass of wine, and Cecil is pouring himself another as well. What distracted him was the flush of color creeping onto Cecil's face: a faint lavender blush that accentuates his sharp cheekbones. He sets the wine bottle down and looks back up at Carlos, taking a dainty sip from his glass. He quirks an eyebrow, and Carlos realizes he's gaping a little bit.
“Sorry, what was I saying?” he tries to recover, fumbling his way back to the newest research, his fellow scientists, and the goings on at the lab. Cecil just watches him, smiling that sweet little smile, an occasional giggle escaping his lips.
By the time they finish the meal, Carlos is just the smallest bit buzzed, head pleasantly fuzzy and warm. He helps Cecil clear the table and starts in on dishes, with a bit of protest from his host.
“You cooked,” Carlos says, “it's only fair that I clean up. Go pick a movie for us to watch, and I'll be out in a few minutes.”
When he goes into the living room, Cecil is curled up on the couch waiting to start the movie. It's some sort of western, Carlos thinks, or an action movie? It's in Russian, so he's having a hard time following the plot. It's also hard to concentrate when Cecil drapes himself into Carlos's lap, nose pressed into his collarbone, breath warm against his skin. He shifts a little, and almost thinks Cecil has fallen asleep when he feels a warm hand working its way under his shirt. Carlos squirms, and Cecil giggles.
Come to think of it, Cecil isn't usually this giggly. Carlos nudges him gently and Cecil looks up at him with a face more deeply flushed now. It's Carlos's turn to raise an eyebrow at his boyfriend.
“How much exactly have you had to drink?” Carlos asks, teasingly. Cecil's eyes go unfocused for a moment, like he's counting.
“One and a half.”
Carlos thinks it would be rude to laugh at his boyfriend's inability to hold his liquor, but it's hard to hold back the amusement in his voice.
“You, Cecil, are drunk.” He nuzzles into Cecil's hair, loving the giddy squeak that escapes Cecil as he does it. The other man shakes his head dramatically.
“'M not that drunk, just-” He punctuates his sentence with a little shove to Carlos's chest. “Just really like you. My perfect Carlos.”
The movie is quickly forgotten. Cecil winds his fingers into Carlos's hair and pulls him down for a kiss, sloppy and warm and just right. They've kissed several times now, usually as one or the other goes home for the night, but now Cecil is insistent, deepening the kiss and moaning softly into Carlos's mouth. Carlos is not complaining. He manages to take his glasses off and set them on a side table before Cecil pushes him over on the couch, straddling his hips and fiddling with his shirt buttons while they kiss.
Carlos loses himself in the lovely sensations: Cecil's mouth pressed against his own, the both of them sinking into the overstuffed couch cushions, the warmth of their breath when they break apart to breathe, Cecil's hands- dear lord, Carlos thinks, he's handsy tonight- curling in his hair, around the back of his neck, stroking his hip---
Wait.
Carlos counts the points of contact and finds that there are at least two too many. His eyes snap open, but he can't see much beyond the silvery-gray curtain of Cecil's hair falling into his face. He presses gently against Cecil's shoulders, prompting him to lift up for a moment, eyes wide and confused, and then Carlos can see what's going on.
He stops breathing for a moment, stunned at the smooth, iridescent black appendages now sprouting from Cecil's back. They're, well. Tentacles.
“Um,” Carlos says, eloquent as usual. “Ceec, you have. Uh.”
Cecil looks puzzled for a second before it snaps into place. The tentacles are gone in a flash, leaving several spots on Carlos open to the cool air again. Cecil is, if it's even possible, blushing even more.
“I'm really sorry Carlos, I didn't mean- that is, I was going to tell you eventually, but they tend to come out when I'm excited and I forgot, but I can work harder to keep them hidden next time so you don't even have to worry about it, okay?” Cecil rambles quickly, apologetically, bringing one hand up to caress Carlos's stubbly cheek.
Carlos takes almost no time to make up his mind on the matter. The appendages, tentacles, whatever they are, they are a part of Cecil- and, like his third eye, they are just another thing that makes Carlos love him all the more. (Plus, though he will fervently deny it to anyone who might ask, his browser history would indicate at least a passing interest in these things, late at night when he's alone and lonely.) His heart breaks to see Cecil so concerned, almost distraught.
“Sweetheart,” Carlos croons, mirroring Cecil's touch. “I like you- every part of you. There's nothing you need to change, or to hide, for me.”
“You mean it?” Cecil asks, head ducked and eyes peeking out from behind his disheveled hair. It's a sight Carlos thinks he could never tire of seeing.
“Absolutely,” he confirms, pulling Cecil back down on top of him, pressing a kiss to his pliant lips, hoping he can convey all the warmth and acceptance and love he is feeling into that one simple gesture.
Apparently he is successful, because Cecil squeaks appreciatively and returns to his previous enthusiasm, tongue exploring Carlos's mouth and both hands fisting gently in that curly hair he loves so much. Carlos keeps his wits about him, and when he feels the tentacles' reappearance, he moves a hand gently upward on Cecil's back until he meets the spot where they seem to phase into existence right through Cecil's shirt. It's scientifically astounding, the way the matter interacts with the surfaces around it, but Carlos gets a little distracted at the mewling sound Cecil makes when his fingers brush along the base of one tentacle.
“Does that feel good?” he asks gently, rubbing small circles with his thumb into the smooth, soft skin. Cecil nods and hums, arching his back a little. Carlos uses his other hand to catch another tentacle closer to his head, wrapping his fingers gently around the squirming flesh. Cecil giggles, wriggling in Carlos's grasp.
The tentacle is smooth, gently tapered, and it feels a bit like the muscular arm of an octopus (minus the suckers, for which Carlos is thankful- octopi can give a mean hickey if you aren't careful). It's not slimy by any means, but it does feel almost moist in his hand, like it might secrete something naturally to maintain hydration. Carlos is intrigued, and not only for scientific reasons.
On a whim, he pulls the tentacle closer to his face- and licks it. The noise Cecil makes is incredible- it sounds like a low groan and a high pitched squeal all at once, like he's got at least two sets of vocal cords, which he very well might. So of course, Carlos does it again, taking the tip of it into his mouth and sucking gently, swirling his tongue around it. He might be intentionally teasing, just a little bit. Cecil wrenches the tentacle away from him and yanks him up for a kiss that could leave bruises, all tongue and teeth and desperation.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” Cecil says quietly, voice rough and dark. It goes straight to Carlos's dick, which he had pretty much entirely forgotten in his quest to explore Cecil's new(ish) appendages, incredibly hard against the too-tight confines of his jeans. Cecil is just as needy, grinding down into Carlos's lap, continuing to make those beautiful noises.
“I think,” Carlos gasps when he is able to get his breath back, “I have some idea.”
At some point he suggests moving to somewhere with a bit more room- shortly after Cecil's knee slips off the edge of the couch and he almost concusses himself on the coffee table.
Cecil's bedroom is like the rest of the apartment in that the furniture is all old and well-used, comfortable and just oozing Cecil's decorating style. It is unlike the rest of the apartment in that it has an enormous bed taking up most of the room, with dark navy sheets and a plush quilt that looks handmade. Cecil flops backwards onto it, tentacles splayed beneath him, beckoning to Carlos with one crooked finger and a lewd smile that promises every debauched thing Carlos could ever imagine.
They're still fully clothed, making out and dry-humping on Cecil's bed like a couple of teenagers. It's all a bit ridiculous, Carlos thinks briefly, but then Cecil is unbuttoning his shirt and pushing the undershirt up to leave hot kisses along Carlos's sternum, nuzzling into the coarse curls of his chest hair. He's always been a bit self-conscious about his body hair, thinking that it somehow clashes with the rest of him- he's rather effeminate despite his stocky build. But Cecil seems to love it, rubbing at Carlos's chest with one hand, pressing his face into the thick hair and sighing dreamily.
“Oh, dear sweet perfect Carlos,” he murmurs. “I have loved the hair on your head from day one, but I never imagined you could be this perfect.” Carlos could laugh at his boyfriend's strange hair kink, but all that comes out is a strangled sort of squawk. Cecil looks up, grinning. As revenge, Carlos works his hands under Cecil's shirt, pinching at Cecil's nipples until he squirms in an undignified manner.
In a flash of fabric Cecil is free from his shirt, and Carlos's shirts only get snagged for a moment before Cecil pulls them off and tosses them into a heap on the floor. The lull gives them a moment to shimmy out of confining pants, leaving them both in nothing but underwear. Carlos pauses, taking in the expanse of Cecil's skin, the complex tattoos usually covered by his clothes. The ink is a mass of tendrils, arcane symbols, and whorls of color that spread from his elbows to his chest.
Carlos briefly considers asking if there's anything else he should be prepared for, after the whole tentacles thing, but Cecil shifts uncomfortably under his gaze, that brilliant violet blush creeping down his neck, his embarrassment apparent. Instead, Carlos settles for kissing along the lines of Cecil's tattoos, whispering words of adoration into his skin. A tentacle wraps around Carlos's shoulder, caressing gently.
Cecil is, below the belt, shockingly normal. Compared to his third eye and the tentacles phasing into existence somewhere in the middle of his back, the cock that bobs free when Carlos pulls down his briefs is almost startling in its lack of weirdness. He grins and kisses everywhere but where Cecil wants it- his hipbones, his thighs, the dusting of hair on his stomach. When Carlos finally gives in and takes just the tip of Cecil's dick in his mouth, Cecil groans and thumps his head back onto the bedspread.
He takes it slowly, savoring the taste and feel of Cecil. It's been a long time since Carlos has done this, and he knows his jaw will get sore quickly, but for the moment he just enjoys himself and the noises he's able to coax from his boyfriend. After a few minutes Cecil is reduced to a litany of Carlos and perfect and mine. His fingers comb through Carlos's hair, tentacles stroking his back and shoulders as he tries desperately not to buck into Carlos's mouth.
When his jaw starts to ache Carlos sits up, letting Cecil's cock slip from his lips with an obscenely wet pop. He tugs his own underwear off and climbs on top of Cecil before he has a chance to move, pinning the taller man under him. Cecil makes only a slight noise of protest before Carlos swallows it in another burning kiss.
They get into a good rhythm, grinding against each other, Cecil making more of those delicious sounds as Carlos sucks a hickey into the soft spot where neck meets shoulder. He gets lost in the exquisite feeling, and hardly notices the tentacles wrapping tighter around his hip, his shoulders, one coiling around his bicep and squeezing gently. He does notice when one snakes its way between them, wrapping around their erections and adding yet another form of friction and pressure. It's slick with whatever substance it was secreting earlier, and Carlos takes a moment to press his forehead into Cecil's shoulder and take a steadying breath.
Cecil doesn't give him more than a moment before his hands are twining into Carlos's hair again, pulling him back into endless kisses, sloppy and desperate as Cecil's tentacle works both of them toward ecstasy. Cecil is the first to come, and when he does his voice cracks, a broken stuttered groan of Carlos, said like a prayer to the Old Gods, and all his limbs tighten as he spills over his own stomach. Carlos follows a moment later, pushed over the edge by the spasms of the tentacle still wrapped tightly around them.
They lie together like that for a while, panting, Carlos trying to regain his composure enough to roll off without hurting any of Cecil's limbs. It's harder than expected, as Cecil doesn't readily let go.
“Uh. Ceec, can you maybe-” Carlos wiggles his arm a little, where one of the dark tentacles is still coiled along it, looser but still too tight for him to remove. Cecil sheepishly loosens his grip further, each tentacle unwinding and receding until he's back to the standard number of human limbs. Carlos proceeds to flop over onto the bed, none too gracefully, and they both laugh a little at the awkward landing.
“That was- well. Um.” Cecil stumbles over his words, uncharacteristically fumbling for something to say. Carlos knows the feeling, so he just reaches over and grabs Cecil's hand, squeezing it lovingly. “Yeah, fantastic,” he concludes, and when Carlos looks over he's blushing again.
“Scientifically speaking, that was very, very good,” Carlos says, grinning and giddy and just so damn pleased that he could put Cecil in such a state. “We should probably clean up, though.”
Cecil stumbles out of the room and returns a moment later with a damp cloth, wiping gently at Carlos's stomach before cleaning himself off. He tosses the towel into a convenient laundry hamper and crawls back onto the bed to curl himself up against Carlos, one hand resting on his chest, listening to the slowing thump of his heartbeat. Carlos smiles, sighs, and when he glances down Cecil is looking up at him, all three eyes focused intently on his face.
“Stay the night?” Cecil asks, just a touch of hesitance in his voice. Carlos doesn't have anything to wear to sleep in, no toothbrush, and he'll most certainly face an embarrassing walk of shame through the lab in the morning to get to his apartment, but with Cecil wrapped around him like that he can't imagine leaving for anything.
So he says “of course,” and pulls Cecil closer, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Cecil manages to work the blanket free and pulls it up over them. As Cecil's breathing slows and evens out, Carlos lets his eyes close and smiles softly to himself.
And in the moonlight filtering through the window, the two men fall asleep- each one thinking of love, and content in the fact that they will wake up together to face whatever else the world will throw at them.