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.
CW for an implied lack of consent
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.