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He was more than a little drunk, is Joe’s excuse. And it was more than a little Charlie’s fault.
Joe can hardly be blamed for liking the way Charlie tucks himself up under his arm, how he giggles obligingly at Joe’s slow-talking hooded-eyes routine, or the way he tapped Joe’s shoulder and leaned in to ask into his ear, adorably apologetic: “Have you got a ciggy? I’m all out.”
“Yeah, I’ve got a ciggy, my darling,” Joe had said back, half-assedly mimicking Charlie’s accent. “Come along, then.”
The noise of the cast party is dull from where they stand out the back door, looking down an alley. Or, Charlie’s looking down an alley. Joe’s looking at his face, flushed red with drink, his cheeks hollowing around the cigarette.
I wanna lick the inside of your mouth, Joe thinks. He reaches out to cup his palm around the back of Charlie’s neck and rest his thumb just behind the shell of his ear. Charlie looks at him sidelong, eyes wide, mouth parted slightly around the butt of his cigarette. Joe’s cigarette.
Joe can’t take it. Hasn’t been able to for some time. He rounds on Charlie, one hand where it is and the other on his hip, underneath his suit jacket and fingers just slipping under the hem of his button up. Charlie makes no move to pull away, just watches him, equal parts stunned and curious. Anticipatory.
“Joe,” he says in the same tone one might speak to an animal that’s been particularly clever.
Good thing Joe likes to do tricks. “Let’s ditch these squares,” he suggests, feeling bolstered by the smile that curls up on Charlie’s face, confident enough to tug on one of his lapels like a negging schoolboy. “Let me take you home.”
Charlie blinks up at him slowly. “Okay, Joe,” he says, blowing smoke between their faces. “Take me home.”
The backseat of the taxi is a delicious kind of torture. Joe leans in close to Charlie—he considers saying fuck it and taking his face in both hands, pressing into him all the way, but the driver has been making a few aborted glances into the rearview mirror like he knows he’s recognizes them but doesn’t know from where.
He’s not drunk enough to be that reckless, but certainly enough to push his luck.
“Let me tell you something,” Joe whispers to Charlie. “Stop me if you’ve heard this one before.”
He brings his hand in front of his face like he’s telling a secret and behind it, puts his open mouth right behind Charlie’s ear, sucks a bruising red mark right at the corner of his jaw.
Charlie's slams his head back against the car seat. Joe pulls away just as the driver gives them another curious glance.
“I thought that was interesting,” Joe says innocently, hooking their ankles together. He looks out of the window and watches their reflections: Charlie looking straight ahead, his hand covering the side of his face, and Joe’s dumb smile smeared by the street lights.
They barely make it into Joe’s apartment. Joe finds himself occupied fumbling with the keys while his free hand grips the back of Charlie's head, dragging his bottom lip between his teeth, but they slip in and slam the door behind them. Too loud for this hour, certainly, but who cares? Not them, stumbling toward the bedroom, ties loosened and shoes strewn every which way.
They got caught in the doorway for a minute when Joe couldn’t help but to press Charlie up against the frame to hungrily dive into his mouth.
“You wanna fuck me?” Joe kept goading him, straddling the line of taunting and whiny because that’s the part he knows best, the performance. “You wanna fuck me, Charlie, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Charlie gasped around Joe’s nipping teeth.
“Then act like it,” Joe said, grin a little wild, at which point he found himself delightfully manhandled face first into the mattress.
Charlie’s weight on his back is warm and heavy, his hot puffs of breath lifting the hair on Joe’s neck. Joe keeps laughing, muffled in the sheet, because they’re two grown men but it feels just like it did to be a stupid college kid, getting lucky after a bowlful of punch, shitty suits and Charlie rutting mindlessly against the curve of Joe’s ass.
Charlie presses his open mouth to Joe’s neck, down to his jaw, makes a happy sound when Joe turns over his shoulder enough to sloppily kiss him back.
“Christ, your mouth,” says Charlie, deeply appreciative.
And Joe jumps on that like a bear trap. “Yeah? You want me to suck you off?”
“I wasn’t trying to—you don’t have to,” Charlie says quickly, but Joe can feel how his hips stutter like a skipped heartbeat, belying his interest. So polite, is his Charlie.
“I want to,” Joe promises. He shoulders Charlie a bit so that he backs up enough for Joe to turn on his back so he can really ham it up, give him the money shot: panting heavy, mouth open, lip slick and eyes fluttering. Joe likes to get what he wants. “Please?”
“Well,” says Charlie, sounding a bit faint, “I’ll hardly stop you, will I,” and lets Joe surge up and push him backwards.
Like this, he looks more like sex than he would if he was naked—resting on his elbows with his suit jacket off one shoulder, button up rumpled and rucked up to his stomach, Joe unzipping his slacks only enough to free his straining cock.
Joe kisses a trail of purpling marks along the exposed sliver of his skin, rubs his cheek along the head of Charlie’s cock and smiles when it makes Charlie exhale in one huge forceful sigh. “You look good like this,” Charlie tells him, threading his hand through Joe’s hair.
Joe smiles wider. “You calling me a slut, Charlie?”
Charlie laughs protestingly. “That’s not—!”
“It’s okay,” Joe interrupts. “I am a slut,” and he licks one long obscene stripe up Charlie’s shaft before taking it in his mouth.
“Fuck,” Charlie bites out, head tossed back. He’s hot and heavy in Joe’s mouth and Joe can feel his legs trembling, strung tense and tight. Joe laps greedily at him, makes muffled whimpers that have Charlie’s hand fisting tight handfuls of his hair. The sting is light but present enough for Joe to chase it, smarting pleasantly across his scalp like goosebumps and he wants more of it, wants to drive Charlie to madness and feel it.
He looks up at Charlie through his eyelashes and swallows him straight to the base, nose to his stomach, and Charlie can’t help it then, jerkily bucking up into Joe’s mouth with a strangled groan. Joe sputters when his cock hits the back of his throat and Charlie’s instantly slamming his hips back down onto the bed, shaking with the exertion of staying still.
“Sorry,” Charlie hisses, face red. He doesn’t get it—Joe, too dizzy with thrill to speak, intends to enlighten him. He grabs Charlie’s wrist and keeps it planted on his head, takes the whole length of Charlie’s cock again and stays there, holding his own head down with Charlie’s hand and only letting go once he’s sure he’s got the memo.
“Oh,” Charlie breathes, a feeble scrap of sound. “Okay, if—if you—I can do that.”
He’s still nervous about it, Joe can tell, thrusting in quick half measures like he doesn’t want to take it too far, but it only takes another moment of Joe encouragingly sinking down to meet him that his grip on his hair tightens so that he can fuck Joe’s mouth in earnest, drawing wet choked moans out of him.
Tears gather in Joe’s waterline. Joe whines long and pitiful around the cock in his mouth and makes sure Charlie’s looking at him when he grinds desperately against the mattress, hard and leaking through his pants like Joe could come just from this. Which he thinks he could, if he tried.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Charlie swears, “I’m gonna—off, Joe,” and the way he sounds like he’s chastising a misbehaving dog is enough for another involuntary sound to escape Joe. He obeys, pulling off and pressing his face against Charlie’s thigh just to stay close, smearing spit and precum against the fabric of his pants.
“You don’t wanna come in my mouth?” Joe asks hoarsely, only slightly pouting, blinking the water off of his lashes. “Or on my face?”
He would have rather liked that. Charlie would have too, it seems, judging by the way he groans “Quit it,” and hauls Joe up to his face by his collar for a sloppy kiss, uncaring that he’s tasting himself on Joe’s tongue.
“Thought you wanted me to fuck you, is all,” Charlie explains into Joe’s open mouth, almost shy. Joe’s painfully untouched cock twitches with interest.
“You thought right,” Joe says quickly, catching his mouth and kissing him again, and again, and again and again. Charlie cups Joe’s face with both palms, so gently, as if Joe hasn't been acting shamelessly depraved.
He’s gotta know he’s too damn cute. Joe pulls back from his mouth to press his lips to the side of his hand, scrapes the pad of his thumb with his teeth. “How d’you want me?”
“Just the way you are,” Charlie says, mock serious, then his smile cracks into mischievous when Joe barks an incredulous laugh. “But you could lie back, if you please.”
“I do please.” Joe snatches one more kiss while Charlie’s still holding his face, a little sweet lingering thing, and lets Charlie push forward until Joe’s back hits the mattress with Charlie leaning over him.
Charlie puts his teeth to Joe’s collarbone while his hands finally, finally undo Joe’s zipper, tugs off his pants. Joe lifts his hips into him, both helpful and needy. “Poor thing,” says Charlie sweetly, palming his dick through his boxers before he takes them off.
Joe inhales sharply, writhing underneath him. Charlie wordlessly brings his ring and middle finger to Joe’s lips and Joe opens his mouth for them without hesitating, flattening his tongue and sucking his fingers to the knuckle until Charlie pulls them out wet and slick.
Charlie gently nudges Joe’s knee, smiles when Joe’s legs fall obligingly open in response. He presses a finger against his rim and Joe takes both at once, arching fitfully at the burn. “Good,” Charlie murmurs, as if to himself, and that sears a hot hole through Joe’s stomach, makes him squirm. Charlie stretches him carefully, indulgently, taking his sweet god damn time. Joe’s up to biting his lip and huffing like there’s a bag of paint in front of his nose by the time Charlie brings up his free hand and presses his thumb on the leaking slit of Joe’s dick.
Joe makes a sound he’s not sure is possible to define. “Lube, Joe,” Charlie says leadingly, because even though Joe’s certain neither of them are quite sober yet, he’s still proper like that. Joe is frankly ready to just spit on his cock and tell him not to bother knocking before he opens the back door. “And—and a condom.”
“Nightstand,” Joe breathes. The cheeky fucker is still pumping his fingers in him while expecting an answer and Joe feels like a hot coil, burning burning burning. “Charlie, come the fuck on—forget the condom, come inside me—I want—Charlie, c’mon…”
In lieu of a proper response Charlie kisses him, pulling his fingers out and wiping them on his own leg. “You’re trying to kill me,” Charlie accuses breathlessly when he finds the words, leaning further over Joe to the promised nightstand, opening the drawer. His buttons are popped salaciously open and Joe thinks of him standing out in the alley back at the cast party, before he was thoroughly debauched, the start of it all.
Charlie pops the bottle and sits back on his haunches, warming the lube between his palms because he’s just so thoughtful. Then, hand slathered, he slips three fingers in and right out of Joe like it’s routine maintenance, just to check. Joe clenches every muscle in his body in place of verbalizing god, Charlie, I sure do like it when you treat me like a used car.
Probably more of a second date sort of confession. Charlie’s hand slides down Joe’s leg, folds it at the knee and lifts, hooking it over one of his shoulders. He slicks up his own cock, sighing gustily, and Joe’s breath catches when he lines himself up and eases the blunt head in.
Joe throws his head back and blinks hard at the ceiling, hissing a whine out through his teeth. It’s dizzying more than it hurts, the fact that it’s Charlie sliding into him, Charlie breathing hard, Charlie holding his leg tight enough that he leaves the imprint of his fingers behind.
“Fuck,” Joe heaves, then digs his heel into Charlie’s spine when he makes as if to slow down. “Don’t stop, c’mon, give it to me…”
Charlie makes a sound between a laugh and a groan. He slows to a crawl anyway, putting his face to Joe’s exposed throat, lips to his pulse point. Charlie bottoms out, sighs, then stops moving. “D’you need a second?” he mumbles, ignoring Joe’s cursing.
“No.” Joe squeezes his eyes shut and clenches hard around Charlie. Remind him what he’s missing. “I need you to move.”
Charlie just hums, like this is a mildly interesting bit of information. Joe can’t see his face but fucking knows what expression he’s making, that stupid little grin with the crinkled eyes, when he knows he’s being mischievous but has the gall to act sheepish about it.
Joe tries to do it himself, bearing down into Charlie but Charlie’s hands go to his hips, holding him still. “You want me to fuck you?” he asks, sounding slightly condescending.
Now that, that isn’t fair, because this whole thing makes Joe feel patronized, which goes straight to his dick. Because something is wrong with him. “Goddamnit, Charlie, did I just trip and accidentally get your dick up my ass? Yes, I want you to fuck me, I distinctly remember asking you to fuck me—”
“Then act like it,” Charlie interrupts simply, more of a suggestion than a demand.
Callbacks aren’t fucking cute in real life, Joe could scream, or Am I not currently acting like it re: your dick, my ass????? But no, that won’t get him anywhere, because he knows what Charlie’s fishing for. Joe can bite that hook. He’s a dab hand at biting. Another day he might draw it out, find the line where Charlie’s benevolent dictator thing runs out—it’s intoxicating just thinking about it, but right now his head is full of cottony, impatient desire, and right now, he’d just like to be good. See how it puts the look on Charlie's face like he’s pleasantly surprised that he got what he asked for.
So Joe sighs all put upon, flicks the lightswitch in his brain, and acts like there’s a camera in front of him. “Fine, Charlie, please,” he says, playing up a little embarrassed reluctance before the dam breaks into honesty. “I need you—I need you to fuck me, please. I’ll—I’ll be good. I want it. Wanted it for so long.”
Charlie stops holding him down, lets him wriggle trying to get closer, find any friction. “Have you?”
There’s his opening. Joe digs his teeth into it like an ambush predator. “Yeah, Charlie,” comes out half cooing. He feels like he's trying to, like, gentle parent Charlie. Or emotionally manipulate him. But he pretty much asked to be emotionally manipulated. Joe lets his leg slip from Charlie’s shoulder so that he can throw his arms around his neck instead. “I was thinking about it, at the party, the whole party, then out back—” Joe clenches around his cock again, grinds down hard, feels Charlie’s hands briefly tighten. “—thinking, I didn’t know if I could even make it home, ‘cause I’d have let you shove me up against the alley and fuck me right there, I’d let you do anything to me—”
Charlie surges up then, captures his mouth and shuts him right up. Joe gets what he wanted, as he tends to do, Charlie thrusting into him and slamming the headboard against the wall. The thought of telling him to watch out for the damn drywall gets shredded instantly into nothingness. Joe’s mouth hangs open, all the air knocked out of him, just a reedy noise every time Charlie buries in him to the hilt, lighting him up from the inside.
“Fuck, Charlie, that’s it,” Joe rambles, slurred nonsense, linking his legs around Charlie’s waist at the ankle. He feels like he’s about to be baring his goddamn teeth. “Like that, harder, damnit, harder…”
For a wild and blinding moment, he’s just drowning in it, clinging to the thread of Charlie’s wavering responses like a lifeline: mostly variations on “Good, that’s good,” and “Fucking hell.”
Charlie takes Joe’s cock in a loose hand, shushes him when he keens and arches. His voice comes snatched out between his rapid breaths. “You wanna come?”
“Yeah, yes, yeah,” Joe says quickly, stuck between bucking up into his hand and grinding down to meet his cock. Then, expecting Charlie to request some other bullshit rigmarole, he adds a plaintive, “Can—can I?”
Charlie looks pleased that he asked. “Of course,” he says, but promptly pulls his hand away, smiling prettily when Joe sputters in betrayal. “You can come without me touching you, can’t you?”
Joe knew it. Bullshit rigmarole. Charlie hasn’t been touching him, the piece of shit, why even make him think he might if he’s just gonna—Joe groans loudly and tosses his head to the side. You’re fucking kidding me right now, he hope it conveys.
“I know, I know, I’m being terrible to you.” He doesn’t even sound a whit apologetic. Charlie takes Joe’s face in hand so that he can turn his head back to face him. Joe’s budding scowl slackens when Charlie punctuates his request by burying all the way in him again, staying there. “But you can, right? You can. You’ve been doing so good.”
And god damn him, because he knows Joe would hate to disappoint in the face of that, and it works. Charlie ruts up into him again and Joe’s voice breaks around a guttural sound, “Yes, I can, I can,” coming tumbling out of his mouth without a second thought.
Charlie’s watching him with some sort of delighted fascination like he can't believe his luck, how willingly Joe folds under what is honestly negligible pressure. Sue a guy for being easy. “That’s a good boy,” Charlie says, low and a bit shyly, but Joe feels that like he took a shot of whiskey, a rush of fire.
Charlie lets go of his face, mutters look at me when Joe’s head tilts like he’s about to let it loll. Joe tucks his chin to his chest, feeling heavy, unable to keep his eyes in one spot on Charlie’s face. He looks stunningly disheveled and Joe’s sure he looks worse, fucked out and leaking uselessly onto hisnown stomach. This shirt is unsalvageable. Probably the whole kit is, for that matter.
The headboard hits the wall again, a drum beat background as Charlie starts fucking him in earnest. In his attempt to keep his hands busy Joe tightens his arms around Charlie’s shoulders in what is probably an uncomfortably hard grip but Charlie doesn’t complain, just lets Joe dig his fingernails into his neck and senselessly grab fistfuls of his shirt collar. Charlie presses his hand down on Joe’s stomach and that rolls like thunder all through him, gut to chest to head. He’s inescapable, Charlie is, inside him and curled over him and his sweaty hair in his face. Joe feels completely taken over, used, possessed, and he clings to that titillating thought, lets it set up the beginnings of a springloaded feeling in his stomach. He just needs—wants—
“Charlie, Charlie,” Joe whinges, not even bothering searching for anything intelligent to say. He knows he’d come up short. “Say it—again, please.”
Charlie shifts back just enough to look Joe in the face. “Say what?”
Joe heaves a hard exhale. “I’m good, aren’t I?”
“Oh,” Charlie breathes out, barely a whisper. Joe bites the inside of his cheek against the sudden fear that he’s going to be denied, but Charlie says “Yes,” emphatically, then bends to frantically kiss his neck like he can’t move fast enough.
“Yes, good boy,” he continues, words tumbling over each other to get out, petting at Joe’s face when it elicits a loud whimper and a hitched breath. “Good boy,” again, lips over his Adam’s apple, fingers brushing back his plastered hair. “My good boy,” Charlie presses into the underside of his chin, leaning into Joe so hard that his knees fold up to his chest.
Joe swallows back a sob, finds himself unable to stifle a second, and he’s gone just like that, thrashing and coming across his own front. Relief crashes in and out of him like he just crawled out of a cold plunge. Charlie fucks him through it, cooing praises until his tossing and twisting dies into jerky twitches. Only when he’s spent and flagging does Charlie take his cock in his hand, squeezing, light but enough to make Joe yelp and his shoulders seize up to his ears.
Fireworks go off from Joe’s tailbone up every vertebrae, jolts of overstimulating heat. “Told you you could do it,” Charlie says in between Joe’s high pitched stream of chatter, a litany of please fuck shit I can’t Charlie oh God. “I knew—you would be good for me. Shit,” he swears as an afterthought, and probably this is where Joe should start rattling off something filthy to help him out, but the inside of his skull is nothing but static.
Joe rakes his nails across Charlie’s scalp, his neck, gets his hands into the back of his shirt and just starts scrabbling, as if he might find purchase somewhere. He distantly thinks he might be tearing up again, or maybe he just isn’t blinking, mouth hanging open and mindless babble dying down to punched out breaths of ah-ah-ah. His limbs are numb, boneless, and he’s too heavy to move, too overwhelmed to do anything but writhe in place.
Charlie’s gone soundless too, save for his harsh breathing like there isn’t enough oxygen in the room, fucking him until his hips stutter and falter. He pushes as deep into Joe as he can possibly go and a little more than that besides, shifting as if he might be able to get further if he's desperate enough, and takes Joe in a bruising kiss when he comes inside him, hot and urgent and it might as well last for forever.
There’s a sheet pulled up between Joe and any real sense of awareness. He’s aimless, plucked from his body, and now the marionette strings have just been unceremoniously returned. Charlie’s half collapsed on top of Joe, pressure like a weighted blanket, softening inside him. He rouses himself enough to pull out, cum spilling down Joe’s thigh, and Joe makes a throaty sound, unsettled to be so suddenly empty. Charlie shushes him, thumb rubbing a circle on his hipbone, and he’s saying something softly, soothingly—asking a question, Joe thinks—but Joe’s not listening, exhausted, his eyes closing longer on every blink, and he’d much rather just needily nudge his mouth into the corner of Charlie’s and slump there, let Charlie bear the brunt of him.
By the time he opens his eyes again and actually feels alive, bleary but grounded, Charlie’s sitting upright slumped against the headboard. He looks like he’d make a good candid, head tilted back and hand brushing idly through Joe’s hair where Joe lays with his cheek pillowed in Charlie’s lap. Joe has the faint recollection of being aware that he was being handled, shuffled.
Joe breathes deeply once, twice. He’s still wearing his suit coat. He fumbles for the inside pocket until he can pull out his lighter and his cigs, flicking the pack open with his thumb.
Charlie wordlessly takes the lighter from him without being asked and holds it steady so that Joe doesn’t even have to prop himself up on an elbow to light his cigarette. What a gentleman.
“If I had known running out of ciggies was all it took,” Charlie starts lazily, his voice a meandering drawl. “I’d have bummed a fag ages ago.”
“You can bum this fag any time,” Joe says sleepily, smiles at Charlie's scandalized gasp.
The cherry lights up red and smoldering. Looking at Charlie’s face in the light of the flame, right before he lets go of the lighter and it flickers out, Joe thinks that maybe it’s not a candid, actually. Maybe there’s a song in this. Or a couple, Joe’d wager. He balances the cigarette between his teeth and watches the smoke spiral to the ceiling until it wavers, thins, and disappears.