agoodyarn | for the_second

He hears it all right -- the doze is only light -- and at once he opens his eyes and gives the attic room a wary glance. Everything in front of him is where it should be, as it was last night and the nights before. It takes hearing his name again for him to realise he didn't dream it.

Um. Huh.

John is a wooly hot water bottle in the bed beside him. Charlie breathes quietly, watching, not wanting to wake him. It's a rare privilege to get to see him asleep.

The way his name was said has made his eyebrows ride a little high. A secret, freakish part of him is waiting for John to say it again -- only to ascertain whether Charlie misread the tone the first two times, of course.

There isn't much movement, but the name will be said again, John's low and rumbly voice adding a sultriness to it that doesn't last through the whole name, the last syllable pleading and wanton. His lower half turns, and if there was any doubt in Charlie's mind what was going on, it will probably be erased as he sees John's cock, no longer hidden by the bulk of his haunches, very clearly unsheathed and at half-mast. If he watches, he'll see it harden a little further, bob against the soft plain of his stomach, John's hips shifting in the aborted part-motions of a dream.

He doesn't usually wear much to bed other than his 'robe', which has rucked up from various movements overnight to reveal most of his abdomen and chest in a way that might feel posed for how the interplay with the yellow and the gold and the deep black of his flesh play into the gentle arc of his body. There's even a golden crack, much like the one near his face, that seems to run along his hip bone and delve down like an eldritch treasure trail.

No, no, there is no question that John said Charlie's name... and that John is out.

Hah. Well that leaves essentially nothing in question then. Charlie's eyes move themselves right down the golden treasure trail without his say-so, and glue onto John's cock as it gently moves and stiffens. Seeing it that one time already cursed Charlie with visions, so how long will he be thinking about this for.

His breathing is a bit faster, and he can tell himself it's surprise all he wants but he's not buying it. He wonders if he accidentally put this idea into John's head with the, uh, kitchen ambush.

Rapidly he tries to remember who else might be at home, without actually getting up to check. Arthur- Arthur said something about where he was going. The sometime housemate downstairs hasn't been around. It's just him and John and... this.

Okay yeah, if there are no witnesses then he's not beating around the bush: that's kinda hot. Whatever the fuck is wrong with him that's into John's sheath pulling helplessly back and John saying his name like that in his fucking voice, whatever's into the fact that John's apparently having a goddamn dirty dream about Charlie fucking Dowd, he's just going to have to face it and walk backwards into hell.

Gingerly he looks to see what the tentacles are up to. Sometimes they sprawl when John falls asleep, and Charlie remembers -- it doesn't matter what he remembers.

The tentacles are, for the moment, on the opposite side of the bed to where Charlie is, which is why they're only partially visible even now: they are sprawled, shifting and curling and occasionally entwining with one another in a desperate grasp-and-squeeze against one another, as if in the dream they are coiled around something and holding on for dear life.

His cock twitches, something faintly shimmering and slick now smeared lightly on his belly, leaving a trail that only holds a gold shine at the right angle. He's hard enough, and his hips have tilted now, so that Charlie can see (and probably smell) John's sac, the musk of it starting to drift through the air. It is... unique, even from other scents Charlie might know. Entirely his own.

He'll say Charlie's name again, arching a little higher, the muscles on his abdomen spasming in response to the imagined sensations. His claw flexes open and closed unconsciously.

Edited 2025-06-20 17:05 (UTC)

There they are. Charlie swallows, his mind on what they might be curling around, maybe in the only right frame of mind to think about that. Dreams were only dreams with the King, but sometimes he'd wake up from a dreamed fight with bruises where he'd punched himself, and sometimes he'd wake up from a dreamed fuck sore to the exact extent that he could never tell whether or not it was psychosomatic--

The smell is not helping him be no-homo about this. Charlie suspects that he should probably morally leave. He doesn't make a single move to do so. What he wants to do is put his hand on John's twitching cock and help him along, see how many noises he makes then, or maybe John would wake up from the touch and fuck him absolutely stupid--

But John is fucking asleep, that's not -- he isn't -- he doesn't. He doesn't want to do that, outside of a moment of insanity. Not when John's sleeping. But when Charlie covers his mouth and slides his other hand down under the blankets, over his pyjamas, he's half-hard himself.

He's not actually going to jerk off. A dirty dream is one thing, but Charlie's got no such excuse. He's just, you know, relieving pressure while he stares at John's moving hips and glistening navel. The hand over his mouth muffles a shaky breath. A thought comes from that fucked-up part of him: nobody would have to know if he did, because he's able to lie again now.

Nobody would know. And the soft gutteral moans from John certainly aren't judging his choices. No, no, they're urging, interrupted occasionally by little wanton grunts, and then the first real phrase that could be parsed out from the dream babble.

"Mmmm fuck me-" And then, of course, another, half-begging "Charlie..."

More of the slick, shimmering fluid is dribbling out from the head of his cock, settling into the little crevices of his muscles, outlining the void-black shape. The balance between debauchery and divinity, the inhuman and the all too human, it's all here.

"Jesus Christ, kid," says Charlie very quietly into his palm, because it has to be said. When John gets into a dream he really gets into it. He always knew how to put on a show for Charlie. Well, no, John doesn't, but-- he's thinking too many things at once. "You got it."

Instead of fisting his own cock, he hooks a finger around it through the fabric of his pyjamas, lifting it the way the tip of a tentacle might. He pushes down on the head with his fingertip like something looking to force its way inside. He pants quietly into his hand. Fuck, this is... this is a moment already being compartmentalised even as it happens.

A complete lack of shame or societal concern about overdoing it is a hell of a drug. Or just very convenient for being Charlie's own personal porn played out in their bed accidentally.

The timing in dreams is, of course, different from the timing in the waking world, so even if Charlie has no idea how much time has passed since this all started, it's abundantly clear that dream!Charlie is fucking John like it's his job, and John's getting close. His horns are pushing up against the pillows, the dream keeping his movements short and half finished, but Charlie will get to watch it happen: he strains upwards and the breath is punched out of him as his cock shoots over his belly, his chest, up along his face and jaw, every drop catching the light in shimmering gold against the darkness.

God he wishes that was Him Charlie instead of the version John's horny subconscious has come up with.

Charlie has no chance of catching up to John from his late start, but by god he tries-- when John starts making movements that imply he's about to burst, Charlie takes himself in hand and starts tugging like he's just heard the starting gun. He doesn't know how much time he has; in the back of his mind is both the hope and dread and godawfully sexy thought that John might wake up any second. Even for a Uranian he really is a goddamn reprobate.

He's not even close to the edge when John comes, but the sight sure has him near-painfully hard when he forces himself to stop, dead still, not willing to be caught should John's climax shake him awake. Maybe he wouldn't care, maybe he'd find it invasive and disgusting, maybe he'd like it--

He can feel his entire pulse in his cock, and it drives him halfway nuts to stop working it and lie still to see if anything happens. Jesus, if John does wake up then Charlie is going to have to lie here simmering and hiding it and hoping John'll realise and do something to him about it, and why the hell does that make him harder.

John's body relaxes then, his back touching down again on the mattress, hips shifting and cock laying soft against his belly in the languid aftermath of his pleasure. The glowing eyes don't even flutter, but the 'mask' of his face tilts up a little more, the shadows hiding what is underneath as a long, tentacle-like tongue begins to lick up the mess on his jaw and along his throat. A tongue is not a perfect tool for such a thing, however, so all it does is spread a thinner coat there, the curve of his jaw and clavicle now catching the light just so before the tongue slips back under and the 'mask' lowers again. The muscles of his abdomen flex and relax in turn and the tentacles unravel, coiling slowly in the sheets like a set of sated kittens.

It looks like he's going to nod back off before-

"...Charlie?"

Questioning, hazy, between waking and sleep, the sound of a tongue against something (if not lips) tasting the air, catching a scent.

Then-

"...it was real?"

Because the slivers of gold are open and looking right at Charlie, who's here. In bed with him.

Edited 2025-06-20 19:33 (UTC)

Okay well Charlie has never wanted anything inside him more than he wants whatever the fuck that was, but anyway.

With anyone else, especially in a small town, he'd be a lot more scared. With John, a part of him that's horny-stupid is running rehearsals on how to explain really convincingly that John shouldn't mention certain things to anyone else because they're bad, but should be really cool with them himself because they're good.

"You, uh, got some distance there, kid," he says, feeling like the village idiot trying to play it cool and low-key with pink cheeks and a damp forehead. "Went off like a firehose." Shut up shut up shut up.

John is waking up a little more now and he finally takes in Charlie, the pink face, the strange scents in the air, the feeling of something on him and the taste on his tongue. He looks over not so much at Charlie as to him and it's obvious that the gears are turning as his tentacles reach over to touch the shimmering pool outlining his abdomen, slicking his cock. Then two of the tentacles wrap completely around it, his cock, two others slipping below to knead and play with his sac and the last one plays with the slit, slicking up the tip of the tentacle.

His body isn't human, after all, so why the hell would it have a refractory period?

Finally, he says-

"...did you like it?"

Ponderous. A little hungry. But cautious.

Edited 2025-06-20 20:02 (UTC)

Charlie takes, like, eight years to answer, because every time he opens his mouth he's using it to make words instead of to hang out down there with the tentacles and that's just not what it's trying to do right now. For him this has come out of fucking nowhere; he didn't even know that John thought about that kind of thing, but he's awake now and this is pretty clearly flirting. Charlie nearly dismisses the question three separate times out of various levels of maladaptive self-defence, but stops himself in time.

No. No, he's not going to blow this. Wait, he means he's not going to blow the chance to blow this. Wait, he means--

"I'm still lookin', ain't I?"

That, composed and deliberate, with a crooked smile that makes it pretty damn clear he likes what he sees. Because he is still looking. He sure as hell is looking. The landscape is fucking bizarre but you know what, he supposes that's just what's doing it for him these days.

John was once a part of an eldritch entity of hedonism, overindulgence, of bohemian ecstasy. If Charlie thinks 'orgies' have not been a part of the King in Yellow's cult, he's got another thing coming. And John's had some of those memories, shadows from behind the flames, dancing in his head. It's only now, here, where he has to sleep, where he dreams, that his mind has taken those pieces and done things with them, processing his emotions.

He can't really complain to the results.

John nods to the question and, after breathing in, closes his eyes again. He'll start stroking himself, slowly, lazily, his cock returning to hardness quickly enough; whether that's the stamina from his Old Bear's blessing or just the result of a supernatural entity in a physically constructed body is anyone's guess. But he's not asleep now, and that means he's going to talk.

"I was imagining you fucking me," he says thoughtfully, "my tentacles coiled around the headboard to keep me in place, your cock inside of me, thick and heavy, striking deep every time, hard enough to feel it in my throat. You had one hand on my horn, at least then. Earlier, you held both, my maw wide open and my tongue wrapped around you, while you fucked my mouth. I don't remember how many times I came in the dream. Or how many times you came, always inside me, warm and thick and distinctly yours.

"You said I was beautiful like that, filled with your seed. You wanted me, took me, touched me everywhere, kissed me so many times. I felt... weak with it, the abundance of pleasure, the pure enjoyment of your affections. Normally, I hate sleep but... when I felt myself being pulled from this dream, I dove back in. I wanted more."

Charlie drinks in every word, half picturing it and half watching John stroke himself, transfixed. His own hand is moving at the head of his cock again, through the fabric (no longer entirely dry), less than he wants (exactly as much as he wants).

Then, while John is still talking, he shifts. Tortures himself by letting go again and gets up on one elbow, so that he can slide his fingers down that yellow brick road in John's abdomen, fording golden liquid that sticks deliciously to his fingers. His brain is fizzing.

"Wowie," he says. Science may never know why, but he's gotten quite breathless.

His hand probably reaches the squirming tentacles before it reaches John's cock, but to be honest Charlie is equally excited to meet both.

The tentacles are like the rest of his skin: a touch like rose petals, soft and matte, warm with his body heat. The three around his cock slip over to loop gently, loosely, around his wrist, his lower arm, and he surrenders his dick to Charlie completely while the other tentacles keep at his balls. There's a sound like a soft gasp and the golden glow is closed halfway.

John's dick is similar, albeit firmer (at the moment) and there is some sort of texture even if it's difficult for the void to show it. It's thick, Charlie's hand only just fitting around it, and the length is to size with the rest of him.

It's a monster, in short, and a low rumble of pleasure begins shortly after Charlie takes over. John, for his part, simply lays back to enjoy.

"You can touch anywhere you want. I want you to."

There isn't not a bit of a moment, when the tentacles actually touch him, but Charlie keeps it inside him where it spins and bounces off the walls: fear bleeding into thrill, Charlie's powerlessness in the Dreamlands contradicted by John's surrender to him here. The moment ends with him no less hot and bothered than before.

Oh, John'll definitely need a quick lesson on what does and doesn't leave this bed -- and for a moment Charlie lifts his head and gives a furtive glance to the larger ground floor of the cabin. They're still alone.

Later. They can talk about safety later.

"Not that I don't want to have you shoutin', but keep in mind, we gotta make sure the neighbours don't hear us." He does say that up top, just because he knows John has... not exactly an indoor voice sometimes.

It takes nanoseconds after that for Charlie to shift again, breathing warm air into the head of John's cock. He keeps his eyes open and on it as he sinks down onto it, and whimpers in his throat at how far it pushes his jaw open. There's something frightening, exciting, all of the above, about John's body -- warm, physical, in a colour Charlie's not entirely sure he can see properly -- and the shimmering liquid that shot out of it, both in Charlie's mouth, immediately past any conceivable defence. About his position over John, like a bow. About the fact that John looks more like one of the gibbering things from Carcosa than like any form the King took on to bribe him. Yeah, even that.

This is going to bruise the shit out of the back of his throat when they really get going. Good, good, he likes that.

Edited 2025-06-20 22:35 (UTC)

John has the time to nod and really just that before Charlie is getting his mouth around him and he's rumbling, low and heated, almost immediately afterward. His hand, delicately claw tipped, will slip over and into Charlie's hair, careful but overwhelmed, hips as still as he can make them.

"Fuck," he adds intelligently, and Charlie will get a pulse of that shimmering liquid straight to the back of the throat.

"Oh, Charlie," he adds, like he's seeing something wondrous. "Fuck, your mouth." Descriptive words fail him for the moment, but his eyes slip closed again to focus on the sensation, the vision of it burned into his memory.

Charlie has gotten that feedback before, though not, as far as he knows, from a god in mortal form. It has never gotten old. He grins and hums and very deliberately swallows, the first of many to come.*

The claws in his hair are really doing something. So is the bizarre squirming of tentacles below his chin and about his wrist. They could do anything there, hurt him, tear his night-clothes, wrap round his neck and pull him flush to John's torso. Force him down so far on John's cock that they can touch its shape through his throat. Anything. John is so, so fucking gentle and careful, and Charlie knows first-hand that he is also so, so fucking strong. He could. He wouldn't. He could. Fucking hell Charlie's turned on.

John's also so so still, so if Charlie wants to get his throat bruised he's going to have to do it himself: down he goes, as far as he's able, rolling his tongue and swallowing and lifting slowly up to the head again, breathing through his nose with careful timing. He's missed several things from New York, and this was one of them, anonymous and intimate -- it's the weird things that keep you sane sometimes.

*Yes, he swallows the shimmering alien void cum**. Podcast guys are nothing if not begging to be a Darwin Award.

**For those wondering, it tastes spritzy.

Fuck.

John's head rolls back, eyes closed, rumbling with deep satisfaction as Charlie deep throats as much of his cock as he can. Fuck. Fuck, that feels good. Fuck, he can't even look at it or he'll lose his mind.

The tips of his claws slide along Charlie's scalp, drawing together and spreading again in an effort not to lose it. He wants so much to savor this.

"Charlie..."

That same wanton, desperate tone from the dream. He won't move, can't move, sounds almost wounded when Charlie starts bobbing.

His hips shift, slowly, carefully, and his breathing is erratic as Charlie gets more of the liquid for his trouble. It's so good. It's so fucking good.

Edited 2025-06-21 11:58 (UTC)

God, John's noises. Charlie wishes he didn't have to tell him to be careful with them. He wishes he could beg John to touch him and not remember things that ruin the idea. At Ninth Avenue and at the West Side, it was easier -- he always went there with intent, never found himself there, and only rarely was he approached by a face he recognised. Even then he did more watching and touching than he did being touched.

He's feeling good, though. Really good, actually. He's getting warm despite the chilly air outside the blankets, and his mouth and throat are stretched and tingling. He nearly takes another quick glance at the perimeter, but finds that he can't quite summon the concern. It's just so much more satisfying to stay where he is: bottoming out on John's cock with a groan, pulling off to lap at the parts that wouldn't fit, listening to all John's thoughts on the matter, and getting rock-breakingly hard about it.

...and from there it would just be unthinkable not to tilt his head a little and lap at the tips of some of the tentacles too, right?

The way it feels when Charlie's mouth is on him as far as it can go and the way it feels when he pulls off, the air on the slick skin, that tongue lapping at him and then-

"Fuck," he says again, though he draws out the vowel, lets it turn into a low moan as the tentacles squirm and shift and release their hold on himself. One turns to stroke Charlie's cheek tenderly, while the other goes wherever Charlie's tongue is nudging it, whether it's against his own skin or into Charlie's mouth, but without any force. It does end up with a few drops of gold along Charlie's cheekbone, and the scent of the musk is heavy down there, almost intoxicating. The claw in Charlie's hair turns to a flat hand, petting and thankful.

John's voice is strained when he speaks-

"Do you want- I want to make you feel good too. Your fucking mouth."

"Mm-mmmmm," says Charlie, because the answer was b: into his mouth. He circles the slick tip of John's cock with his thumb; his own cock practically punches him in the stomach at John's suggestion and at his smell and at the twisting thing in Charlie's mouth.

Yeah, he wants. He wants an astonishing number of things, and he wants them with a decreasing amount of anxiety. He feels good, and sort of fuzzy, and liquid and loose, and more than okay with all of it.

He can't see them, but his pupils are, like, an inch across right now.

"Whadda you wanna do to me," he says, unmistakably lustful but also a bit muffled by a tentacle.

John can't see them either, both from the angle and from the fact that he'd need to figure out how to look down for more than a second without the suspicion that he's going to come just from seeing Charlie looking that good hovering over his dick.

John swallows and it's clear that he's taking the responsibility of having a brain in this situation, that this is a burden he will willingly bear. But then he speaks, voice syrupy and with an undercurrent of want.

"I don't want to do anything to you," he says slowly, " but I want to- I want to do things with you. I want to hold your thighs and kiss the sensitive skin along the inside; pull your sac into my mouth and wrap my tongue all around you and let you feel how good it can be while I stroke you. I want... to slide my tongue inside of you and eat your ass until you're slick and ready, and if you want it, press my cock inside slow so you can feel every inch and there's no more room and you're so full you can barely breathe for how good it feels. And then I want to kiss you all over your back before I move, grind against your insides, only after that will I start nice and slow." A pause before he breathes out. "I want you to say my name the way I was saying yours."

Christ, Charlie's hips are moving in desperate little shapes just from John's promises, and the slight catch of his cock on the fabric of his pyjamas is exquisitely frustrating. Yeah, yeah, all of that. All of that at once? Is that possible?

"Make it even slower," he says, still lustful, still muffled -- this time against the mound at the base of John's cock, where his face is pressed like he's trying to climb into John's hip. "Hmm- make me beg you to move. Hold me down so I can't just go and sit on it. I gotta take everything you give me. Every hole. I can't say no to you."

...they seem to be working on slightly different wavelengths here.

for the_second_noel: SING AU

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CW for an implied lack of consent

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