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2demondogs · 6 days ago

Note

If it’s okay could i request something with preferably fem!reader and Charles? Specifically something where he’s protective but in bed he’s more submissive? If that’s okay!

It took a lot of self-restraint for me to hear submissive man dominant fem and NOT immediately fall back on pegging. Everyone be super proud of me for only alluding to it once.

I did, however, do that thing where I take something that's probably supposed to be super hot (protective Charles) and turn it into a decidedly unsexy subplot.

Words: 7.3k Tags: NSFW, toxic masculinity that is addressed everyone cheer, oral sex, PIV sex (riding), I don't know why the smut came out kind of sappy, as per usual for me: autistic Charles

Charles isn't one for town. You know he's pre-emptively fed-up with dealing with most folk, and oftentimes you think that's a fine way to run along.

The discomfort leads to tension leads to whatever uneasiness is settling in the air at the saloon counter as Charles leaves to relieve himself outside. Mid-day, a lovely one to spend away from camp at that: sky pale and the spring sun thawing what Colter had chilled slowly, but surely. The saloon is hourless itself, the way these places are always designed to be, and looking out the windows too long warrants squinting.

Your lower back is still warm from where he'd laid his hand on it. You liked that, and you had liked the way he leaned on the counter next to your seat, too, crowded into your space as if it were the only comfortable spot for miles. The bar counter wrapped for a while, smooth tawny wood pockmarked and aged by brawls and idle hands, and most of it was empty. Charles hadn't tied his hair back, and it fell in his face nicely. You wonder, as you look at your nails and consider if they're dirty enough to pick clean or not, if he kept it down so that he could hide behind it.

Probably in part, if the stiffness in his gait says anything as he disappears out the swinging doors. Without raising your head, you look around, take in where people are, what they look like, who is drunk. Most are crowded around the poker table, look like the usual noon crowd at this kind of establishment, and they are all drunk. You hadn't even realized you'd skipped this familiar ritual — consciously, at least, because so many of these faces look fresh, but familiar — when the two of you had walked in. Looking down at the counter again, you forget your nails and wonder if Charles is managing to turn you soft. There are marks in the bar as if someone got bored and chipped away streaks at random, moving against the grain.

Outside, fresh-painted signs advertising a horse race next weekend are propped on the porch. The unfinished back of one crudely cut slab of wood leans against the front window when you glance out of it, blocking view of half the road, but you remember the relative care taken with the other side of it. Smooth lines, though paint had obviously dripped off the head of a black horse and a futile attempt to chip away the dried blemish was made with a knife.

An old story stirred in your head looking at it, one you'd heard Micah talking about and which you try now to organize enough to tell Charles when he returns. With a few easy paint-chips of your own, you're sure you can make it into something actually worth listening to. It's not like you feel bad about stealing off that man, neither, given he's more of a—

The pieces scatter in your mind when you feel a hand on your bicep, lighter than Charles' would be, more uncertain. You don't turn, at first, until the stink of whiskey invades your space and the firmness of it makes it clear you're more than an ill-chosen stepping stone on the way to a barstool.

"I seen you with that feller," a man begins. The slur of seen you that sounds more akin to sinew digs a dreadful pit in your stomach considering what might come next.

Turning, he is pale as a sheet, dressed for an indoor job with no color in his face, barely a tan. He looks as pleased and as strong as the walking dead. Immediately, you bite back a sneer and look at your hands, wishing you'd taken your knife out when the idea came to you. Would be enough to scare off a man like him. Probably, that is. Liquid courage blurs sharp edges like knives and personal space.

"I don't remember invitin' you to join us," you reply, far more even than you feel. You're not spineless, but you aren't a fool, either. There's an instinctual tension that wrings your shoulders as the stranger slides his hand up to curl around it, as if he's been caught in a windstorm and needs to seek purchase. When you spare a glance from your peripheral, he's swaying just the same, a gaudy thing against the warmth of the saloon. Suddenly, the clearness of the sky outside seems distasteful with how well he blends into it.

You open your mouth to speak, but he starts first. "I's gon'—" He begins, and while you keep your eyes on him wearily, his own creak towards the saloon doors. They stick there, watching, bleary wanderer making sure he is not caught in the chicken coop. He continues, more urgently: "Offer to buy you's a drink. I..."

"It's barely noon," you reply simply. Anger twinges, noting just how conspiratorial he's making this feel; it's not some two-person deal, not like that. Shrugging him off crosses your mind, delayed, but is tempered in the name of what usually gets you out of these situations the cleanest: abiding with clenched teeth, posthumously taking the aggression out on something nonliving.

He's ready to pretend to be offended, the way these men do, thinking it's a cute show of quirkiness to bluff that they have emotions beyond pitiful desperation and rage. Another hand is on your back, sliding 'round to your waist. It's Charles, must be. Men like this one do not encroach on each other's... whatever they think of women as. You shift on your feet. Point is, it shouldn't be another stranger.

You half expect him to slap the fool away. Instead, he guides you a step closer to him. The stranger's hand falls and he pales further, spouting something sorry that is not a sorry and which you have a feeling is only because Charles is not hunching over, now. Another delayed reaction, you glance in his direction and polka dots play at the edge of your vision. Not relaxing, you lean heavier against the counter and drop your gaze.

All of it chafes you, so you don't listen to what's said. Charles doesn't sound angry — have I ever heard him sound angry? you ask yourself — though he's certainly displeased and his fingers dig into your shirt a little with tension. If he'll deal with it, you'll let him deal with it, because clenched teeth are living teeth and you know that a man as tall and broad as Charles is much scarier than any gun could be sitting on your hip.

Still, the gesture seems to insinuate that there is something you must be moved for.

The rest of the hour passes in uneasiness. There is something on both of your minds, that much is obvious, though you aren't sure if he has got as good a hold on your troubles as you do on his. Solitude-seeking versus a web of complexity. Charles attaches himself to your side so firmly that your ankles may as well be tied together, and that solves half of his worries for the time being.

Conflict brews in you: between your typical swooning over how he clings in public or a newfound sourness that tastes objectionably object-like; between telling Charles after you leave that you'd rather he get you both a bounty than yank on you like that again, or simply letting it go for worry of looking unappreciative. As if that sort of guilt's got any right to take up space in you, but, so it goes. Some old fears do not die. Both are ignored in favor of studying the scars on his forearm and retelling that story you'd begun to plan so non-cohesively that Charles smiles and askes who you've stolen it from half-way through.

You lie again, feigning sheepishness. "Ain't like Bill would miss it."

Regardless, the lock clicks into place inside the corner room. You hear the bed depress beneath his weight. Pivoting, hands retreating behind your hips in a faux-coy lean against the doorframe. Being mildly aggravated doesn't stop you from appreciating the sight of him. It's harder to pin than aggravation, anyways, isn't enough to keep from taking advantage of this sparing time away from camp. The curtains are respectfully half-drawn, light seeping yet through the thin fabric of what's covered. Picks some of the strands of Charles' hair to backlight, keeps it from blending with the dark wood wall behind the headboard. The rooms are as timelessly divorced from the world as the barroom downstairs.

Brows expectantly cocked, mouth drawn firm, hands clasped between his spread knees where he sits at the edge of the bed; Charles looks exasperated when he's nervous. It's sweet that he gets jitters when he's alone with you despite the months you've spent together. Giddiness isn't something the man shows outwardly, even if, once or twice, you suspected it of him; but he has slipped and shared what he feels, what it means when he cannot sit stone-like, how to tell that he is more or less writhing on the inside.

"Charles," you say. Dark eyes move from where they'd fixed on your shoes to your forehead, but at least they're on your face. You bite the inside of your cheek and consider the attractive option of letting it go— but he's grown, and it is not your problem if it dampens the mood for him when it's in the back of your mind, too. "Y'know I can protect myself, right?" There's a pause, his brows fall minutely. You were right, he didn't think twice of it, but you don't give him the time yet. "But I appreciate that you care."

Not placating, but it rings too close to that when it's said. You scratch the wood of the doorframe with your nails and then step from it, drawing a step or two closer.

In this pause, the time doesn't seem to be taken to think of it twice, either. "It's my job," Charles says. He isn't dodging it, but you run your tongue along your teeth anyways.

"What's that mean?"

He looks a little hesitant, if not embarrassed. Fingers wring each other a little more thoroughly. "As your man, it's my job." He doesn't sound too confident in the words, and that slips further when you stand still, arms crossing. "Isn't it?"

"You don't have a job, Charles," you say. His voice is always difficult to read, even for all the tells you've learned to find in his body language. There's an openness to his spread knees, settled shoulders, his eyes finally finding yours and staying there. You take that as an alright sign, if not a good one. "You ain't got to do anything special." You turn from him, glance in the mirror propped up atop a basic chest of drawers as you move to unbuckle your gun belt and pile it atop. Whether anything comes of being alone together, it's more comfortable to relax without it. "I like you."

Needing to state that, hopefully, he also likes you is unnecessary. As you turn, intending to sit on the bed beside him, Charles reaches a hand out to your hip and nudges you back around the corner of it. Lacks any kind of command, feels needful. You follow where the gentle pressure leads and stand between his legs. Windows crisscross on one side of the room, the other condemned to shadow, and the freshly-made bed is split down the middle by it.

"Wasn't thinkin' about it that way," he says. There's an excuse on his tongue, but he lets out only that stagnant, expectant air which lingers when something goes unspoken. His hand moves over your hip, settles more comfortably near your knee. "Wasn't trying to make you feel— weak, or anything. You're not."

"I know," you say, because that's what you ought to say. It grits, some, but you do know he doesn't think that. It would take more words and more vulnerability to unravel any of it completely, more than you are willing to spare. You move your knuckles over his cheek, feeling rough branches of scar tissue beneath your skin, flowering stubble. "I'm not mad." Again sounds placating, but the lack of strain in your spine makes it easier to tolerate. There's no expectation that Charles would actually need the gentleness in the words, and so they come freely.

He lays his untouched cheek against your stomach. Quiet, just as his hand seeking you before. You cannot decide, sometimes, if he is shy or not. His head rests on you, but his hands are held once more between his legs, brushing against your knees, that self-conscious huddle over his middle that men form when they are unsure. The sun is mellowing in the early afternoon. It isn't late enough yet to be drawing those curtains and this space is personable, silent save for cracks of laughter beneath the floor as people gather to drink and eat.

You trace his jaw, over what lines you can feel on his face, the crowsfeet forming by squinting, not smiling, and the pale web spun by some wild animal's rage. Always, you've liked the look of him at this time of day, how the sun turns his skin to gold and brings out the warmth beneath it. It doesn't reach him enough here, but he looks just as well looking up at you, intending to speak— and then there is that hanging in the air, but the twitch of his mouth tells you it's not choice that takes his words from him.

The room fades in your peripherals. Your hand hesitates, lays against his jaw afterwards. There is sometimes no need for things to be said aloud. Charles lets you close to his throat without flinching, would forgive you for biting it open before thinking it was done in malice. He barely blinks as you push his hair from his temple, let nails run into the roots there before trailing them back to his jaw.

"No one touches me like you do," he says.

How he keeps himself steadfast when his words make you want to melt, you'll never understand. The idea that they come so naturally to him as to not even feel like flirtation is more flustering than they could ever be. Biting your cheek does nothing to keep a smile at bay, only makes it come in lopsided.

"Is that so?" You tease, draw out the words and shift on your feet to play up the visage of flattery.

He huffs a laugh through his nose. "I didn't— well, I could mean it that way," Charles says. Even voice, but his cheeks tint darker. If you're lucky, he will talk himself into a corner, wind himself up. "It'd still be true."

"You're sweet," you say. His eyes break off your face and find some interesting patterns in the wrinkles of your blouse, where it tucks into your skirt. It's a distraction from being looked at intently, and also quite fondly, which you've noticed he struggles with. Still, it starts to replace the softer warmth of being leaned on with something hotter. "Look sweet, too."

Another short laugh. His hands brush your legs as they release themselves, trail over the sides of your thighs and curl around the backs. Near the knees, and then up, your breath mirroring the climb where it sits in your lungs until his hands are settled against the bottom of your ass, skirt fabric bunching. Air drafts along the backs of your ankles where they're exposed.

Chasteness goes then, too, at least inside your head. It was difficult enough to temper the heat when he looked up at you. Not an unfamiliar sight, but he is the only one to have ever looked so pleased while pulling you close, your hands anchoring themselves on his shoulders as you slide a knee onto the mattress one at a time, press them to his hips. The bed creaks under the added weight of the second, more as Charles lays willingly back and you find yourself knelt above his ribs. The curtains don't shade him, now, sun coming in and laying over his face handsomely, the scars and that dark streak and the bruised skin that lays beneath softened eyes.

Despite going as far as this, you decide to toss a roadblock at him. "What do you think you're doin', mister?" Teasing lilt to your voice as you move to settle on his lap.

Charles' tongue runs along his teeth, awkward shadow passing over his cheek. He hesitates before all his boldest words, and even though it's likely fear of misstepping, you're glad for the second to collect yourself. Makes it easier to feign having any more prowess than he does.

"You're too short to be standin' for this," he says. In lieu of nudging, his hands run over the tops of your thighs, rippling the fabric of your skirts, but the idea is just the same: eagerness. There he goes, working backward into that corner. He must know it as soon as he's finished his sentence, because his lips press together in a firm, expectant line.

"And what's this, Charles?"

He nods once, admitting defeat, splayed black hair shifting with his head and eyes falling to where your knees straddle his sides. His palms continue on your legs, turning from an eager touch to one seeking confidence, maybe the right words, skirts muffling the heat of his heavy hands. You like pinning Charles, however it happens. It's unbelievably easy to do, if only because — somewhat unfairly — he's got so little experience besides you. If he didn't care for it, he would say as much. You get greedy with it, at times. There's a mutual excitement in his internal search for an answer, in knowing that you'll refuse him if he doesn't give one. Pushing, seeing where he loses his patience and starts to unravel the way you want him to.

Working through a stage of denial, of bargaining, he comes the acceptance of what he simply must say, even if the words are not so eloquent. "I, uhm," — his gaze returning to your face, hesitance that's fixed with a raise of your eyebrows — "I want to put my mouth on you."

Warmth blooms over your cheeks at once, spreads down your neck and collects hot in the base of your spine. It's never proved a bad decision. Charles waits nearly as patiently as you had, though there's smugness coloring his silence as he watches what must be a visible, entirely expected reaction. His hands fall, and he moves to prop himself up on his elbows, bedframe holding its complaints this time. Stretched out under you, only getting closer— oh, this must be the tension he feels when you dance your hands over his thighs, run your boot up his ankle beneath a table. Hideously nice.

"Alright," you say, try to act as though the silence was more consideration than it was blank-minded heat.

Charles' smile is small, shows a sliver of crooked teeth. He moves up the bed, face passing out of the light that's slowly gaining more definition as the sun travels across the sky. Warmth passes over his hand, your leg, as he paws at your side to get you to follow him down. It puts you at a familiar place above him, though you've got to fumble around when you find he's laying on part of your skirts. Tangled, awkward. He's already tugging on your clothes in a way, baring a wink of chemise to the room.

No matter what, he seems to find a way to catch on you like this. His hands skim your sides and knock over your hips, run over the waistband of your skirt and roll it down. Cold passes over you where the shadow blocks the sunlight. With how aware he is of himself, you can't help but suspect it's a touch of romantic incompetence. If he gets himself caught in your dress, well, it probably ought to come off. There go his fingers catching in the band, in the folds of your top. Typical, you think as you taste the lingering smoke of his pipe from this morning on his teeth. The smile on your lips is excusable as excitement, not a flash of reluctant fondness. Charles' hands settle on your waist and throw a short stretch of chill across your back.

The thought softens and you mold along him thinking, more gently — more hopefully — that your presence puts at him ease, or at least greater ease than what has trained him into hyper-vigilance. He goes pliable with you, yes, that's it, is spreading out along the bed with his arms encroaching your waist the only reminder he's still got strength to him.

You'll tease him for acting like he's got no sense around you and he'll say it's true, because you're both too backward to speak any of it outright. A kind of limitation is placed on affection when it's brought to the light. That's what you reassure yourself with, anyways, that words would cheapen it.

There's nothing empty in the press of his neck into your palm when you rest it there, though, the skin hot and the pulse thrumming beneath your thumb as it traces over his artery. He does not mind when your fingers catch in a tangle of his hair trying to slide back towards his nape, knot hidden in the darkness of it. Parting from his mouth to apologize earns you a hand up your spine, bringing you back down like the inch apart was a meter and just as dreadful. He lets your fingers draw out and wander back in, then. No doubt lays in your mind that it's more trust than it is a feeling of pressure to allow it. Even with you, Charles hasn't any second thoughts about taking your hand and moving it elsewhere if he doesn't like something.

No resistance comes when you take his. A hand skims over the rolled-up sleeve of his tunic first, and then fingers trace over the scars along his forearm and the patches of hair that do not grow through them, the rough spots of sun damage along his skin, the lines of hard muscle and thick veins. You leave his mouth to kiss his jaw, stubble scratching your lips before you've waded across it to his throat. As if hesitant, you reach and take his wrist from your waist, draw his hand around your side slow. It's half to give him the chance to resist, say no, and half to build your own arousal, feeling his palm drag over your hip just how you want it, edge across it and towards your navel.

Leaving his mouth leaves Charles able to say something, but it is mostly for the sake of yourself again. "Touch me," you say against his neck, draw down until your nose presses to the crook of it, and his breath already has that thin quality frosting over it. You're aware of how tuned out to the world you are, how much you're straining to hear his heart skip beats or hear him inhale too-sharp; you're satisfied with both when his hand really finds you, slipping beneath the waistband of your skirts and drawers and sliding between your legs. Something better than any feeling lays in just how affected he is by touching you.

The angle is awkward, even if you spread your knees further, but the lack of any good pressure behind his fingers as they crowd together and run along your sex only makes the desire worse. He's barely found a good rhythm or spot by when there's no sufferance left. Without warming each other's beds, having few spare moments, and both of you having a bad habit of bottling things away, the want comes on strong when it's given an empty room. Your skirts, your bloomers; Charles catches on you again once you're lain on your back, mouth finding yours despite the anticipation.

It's a chaste kiss, only long enough for him to nudge up your skirts and then decide he will ask to take them all the way off. The air's mild on your bare skin when he has, but he stays close, mouths over your throat and then traces down your blouse with his nose. Feels like your breathe follows the path, drawing down, making you aware of just where his eyes skim and where they linger. You decide, then, that he isn't possibly shy. The way he holds you in public, the open appreciation of you, the lack of hesitance here— Charles is just Charles.

His lips find your stomach, your thighs, face disappearing behind a curtain of black that slips down the sides of your legs, ticklish, to fall between them. He's not impatient, but his patience is only a tolerance for waiting. Without any good reason to, like a word from you, Charles only spends the moment to push his hair over his shoulders before he gets comfortable, bed creaking beneath you as legs, shoulders rearrange themselves. Same as alcohol, the headiness of your thoughts blurs sharper edges.

No time to waste, but plenty of time to think, now, and your thoughts fall as they often do to Charles and his strong arms beneath your legs, his hands curling around where thigh meets pelvis, fingers idly smoothing the skin there. It's always felt familiar to lay with him, whether it was sex or not. Peaceful could be a better word, as the room loses its shape and the wood walls lose their grooves and your focus falls on delicate strands of black hair glinting in sunlight between your legs, the hot warmth of his mouth working over you, the wet sound.

There's an appreciation in how he touches you, unbridled want with no real form. For where he slips into the usual bad habits, he makes up for it with tenderness where it's uncommon to find, better or worse. Charles would be as pleased to have this and nothing else as he would if you made love afterwards.

There is, too, an appeal you can't name in knowing he's sturdy enough you can relax all the way against him, atop of him. A quiet, pleased noise is muffled by your skin, his tongue starts to work in a steady path — up and down, feeling and tasting like it is more than worth doing, like he's thought about it — and suddenly definite ideas are difficult to form in your mind, everything losing ends. Your eyes close, hands drifting down to curl your fingers around his, squeezing between him and your hips to get purchase. Smooth, tense scar tissue and rough callouses all along them run along your palms, the inside curl of your hands. With nothing in your sight, you can feel the warmth of him better, the lines drawn over the insides of his fingers.

Another noise, this time one of effort, comes and broils your nerves as Charles' tongue trails up and finds your clit. What his fingers couldn't do much of, between gravity and being pinned, he makes up for with suckling, stubble against your thighs. Tightening your hold on his hands, you're glad he's the one to break for breath, as much as the raggedness of it warms you. Light splays less sharply as the day wears on outside, running not nearly as hot over your midsection where it touches bare skin beneath your rumpled blouse. It is his job, you suppose, to keep your heart racing now. The sensation had been growing sharp, near painful, but you didn't have it in you to tell him to stop, didn't really mind so long as he worked you the needful way that he was.

And he works at you again, nose pressed against your pelvic bone. It's not until you feel that half-painful overstimulation cutting through the pleasure a little too sharply that you reach for his shoulder, squeeze. He draws back and you have a moment to figure out what to say, avoiding his eyes lest you forget it.

"Come here," you settle on, nails scratching over his shoulder lightly through his shirt. Not pulling, but itching to.

"Somethin' wrong?" He asks. You look at him then, his face flushed, the hand you'd let go of coming from around your leg to wipe at his wet mouth before the other slides from your grip, too. Asking, but quick to follow anyways. You taste a praise on your tongue, decide it's not the right moment.

"No," you say. If it weren't for sensitivity, you could've — would've — lain there all night. Sensitivity, and camp waiting at the end of the day. He has to suspect it, having spilled what he wanted so readily. "Just... no one touches me like you do, Charles."

Spoken with a little smile, thinking he'll taunt you. He only huffs through his nose as he settles onto his elbows above you, eyes drifting down to watch your hands where they lay on his chest or perhaps only to study what your blouse reveals of your breasts. Plagiarism is the farthest thing from his mind. You don't think he'd care, anyways, because he knows you mean it.

You shift, feeling too-naked, too-excited. "I wanna be on top," you say, watch him take the moment to process it and feel his hardness brush your thigh as he fails to cant his hips away. As if you aren't half-undressed and wet with his spit; how coy of him. "Would you—?"

It's cut off by a kiss. You grin against his lips, then snicker. There's a playful scolding on your tongue about where he just had his mouth, as if you've never kissed him after being on your knees and as if you don't kiss him once you're sinking down onto him, straddling his hips again. Back-and-forth with one another, unplanned, as haphazard as it always is between the two of you. Doesn't need fine lines, really, if it is raw and from the heart. The warmth is fading from the sky outside, settling into mid-afternoon. It draws over the two of you, bleary curtain shadows framing it.

Moving your fingers where they curl into the sheets beside him, you feel the tips of his running in circles over the backs of your hips. Wasting the energy sparked by the burn of adjusting to him helps keep your mind from the discomfort as it eases, inch by inch. Charles' breath shivering as it does helps, too, the way you can sense the buzzing beneath his skin as if he's got no idea what to do with himself. Dark eyes find you every time he must be asking the question in his head. It's sweet, makes you feel that keen sensation of being wanted, being trusted that winds the muscles up tight in your gut. You take another inch of him, chest raising, falling. His nails dig into your skin and then fix themselves quick, a twitch.

How he falls apart is quiet.

Bending, Charles grunting as he shifts half-inside you, you lean over him to kiss him again. A hand comes up your back, rests on the nape of your neck, solid, asking to keep you there. You oblige. Your own hands steady themselves on his chest, as bared as yours because you've both got similar interests. Tracing lines and keloids and chest hairs sprouting fresh occupies your hands enough that you're only aware of the pleasant, overwhelming fullness once your hips land on his.

That, and Charles' hands moving more. The less you struggle with not moving, the more he does. He's good about giving you your time regardless. You mouth over his jaw, lips following brambling light scars to the soft underside of it that gets a nip of teeth. A minute or two goes by without any real reason besides liking how he flails in that controlled, subdued way of his— it feels as though he's pressing into your lungs, but that pressure won't subside for you with patient stillness. Grows a little overwhelming, makes the teasing less enjoyable and is one of the reasons you drop it relatively quick this time. A sharp inhale, loud exhale; he's clearly grateful when you begin to move, rocking your hips slowly. Beyond the arousal, it's nice to feel him so plainly.

Shifting up, almost begrudgingly, nudges him a little deeper. You grunt, eyes finding his face drawn tight. Off-putting at first, but the crease of his brow and the tight line of his mouth are nothing except for endearing tells that he's enjoying things. Lashes don't hide that his eyes almost immediately trail down you, settling where you meet. That much is flustering, and the nervous laugh you huff garners his attention.

"What?" He asks, looks up.

You bite the inside of your cheek, scratching your nails over his chest lightly. "I can see you starin'."

The corners of his mouth curl up, eyes focusing on your shoulder as you're granted another sliver of teeth. "I think you're beautiful," he says, lets his hand run over your side, find its place on your hip. The aversion of his eyes doesn't dampen it, makes it a little sweeter.

"Admiring?" It feels dangerously egotistical, and yet it doesn't, not when Charles looks at you like a word couldn't describe it. Naked or with your clothes on, when you are or are not looking; his affection is silent, but it's enough to make your legs feel unsteady, thigh muscles hardly working yet beyond a repetitive, slow rocking.

"Admiring," he agrees. His hand trails up, cups and squeezes your breast. Fingers cross your shoulder like he wants to pull you down again, but they restrain themselves, running down your arm, feeling the details. Admiring, indeed, his eyes following although you think it might take him some convincing to be the most interested in a few freckles.

Charles gives no resistance when you take his wrist in your hand and pin his arm to the bed beside his head, careful to avoid yanking on his hair. He could get out of the grip easily enough that you barely bother to use any strength in it besides pressing down enough to hold yourself above him. His eyes find yours, then, and there's a trace of the smugness he had before, as if he knew where touching your wrist would lead and as if he takes a real good amount of pleasure in listening without needing to. Should've known, you think, lick your teeth to stave off a smile as he lets you take his other arm and join it above his head.

"Gon' stay put?" You ask. You know the answer before he nods, moving your hands down to rest on his biceps. Shifting, closing his fingers around the opposite wrists and loosening up.

There's something real fine in having a man so pleased with being underneath you. Charles isn't spineless, is no romantic fool — not in the hopeless sense, anyways, suits the term more literally if he suits it at all, as much as you love when he goes blank — and yet he stretches his torso long, now, relaxes where you've placed him as well as he can. Like he's thought about it. It's that part which really needles inside you and starts the fire. Charles is careful and thoughtful, plans things out, has admitted that he rehearses talks in his head; and it must lead to this, to you, based on how easy he is going.

To think he treats the idea of you just as princess-like as yourself— you squeeze his arms, work up the pace. Charles admires.

You can feel the tension in his hips, his legs, where your skin meets his. It thaws slowly, once he must think it won't make you whinge to roll his hips up now and then. Both of you moving causes the cheap hotel bed to give a creak. Much beyond grinding garners the same groaning, and so sex drags on slow, starts to simmer low and hot. Charles sighs, real nice, a smooth and deep sound that rolls right down your spine.

There was no expectation for this, same as there is no expectation you will feed his ego with words, go above and beyond affection. To call it as much is, you think, to cheapen the words you do say: that he is handsome and you're admiring too, that he feels good, that you like him and how his face is scrunching and the way his arm jumped when you put your weight into the drag of yourself along him. The praise falls freely and with meaning, over his face, his throat, his shoulder. It's followed closely by kisses, teeth, tongue. Charles knows you like him, if only because you cling to him, and you know the same. For how his face twists hearing it, it's worth trying to wrangle the things you feel into words, watching his chest raise and cave with labored breaths.

He tries the same, even if he mirrors you for the most part, talks low and leans up as far as you'll let him to land his lips on your jaw, your temple, the corner of your mouth. It doesn't bother you because you know the agreement is meant, that it's easier say those are the words when the thing you are agreeing on has very few words that can describe it to begin with. Descriptions lay in the back of your throat. Admittances that Charles is all you've ever wanted in a man, for one, and other things which are so sincere as to be outright vulgar.

You keep it to the thin words like beautiful and leave the rest to action, to moving onto your arms and ignoring how your hamstrings burn with the repetitive motion. Briefly, you wonder if this is how it feels when the roles are reversed, find the idea a little too appealing. It pulses, starts working your nerves towards snapping.

Charles' usual, uneven sighs gain more body, start to catch in his throat. A kiss muffles the first and only groan that falls from him, though half of your own escapes his mouth. It's the sloppiest of them with you moving, Charles dealing with the on-off for a minute before he raises to his elbows. His voice is nice, your favorite. Again, your hands find his shoulders, one crawling up his neck, nails scratching over the baby hairs of his nape; his mouth falls open.

Breath fans hot and heavy fanning over your face in the seconds between kisses. You know you've got him, dig your nails in a little more and feel the corners of his mouth raise lazily. A hand comes to your hip, your ass, nudging a warning you listen to despite the comfortableness of having him inside. The emptiness there is after raising your hips and replacing yourself with your hand is distinct, makes you burn with want. Crescents are left on your side by blunt nails as you work your fist along him, and then he's relaxing all over, fingers pressing into your back and kneading into your skin.

It's only a few moments before Charles is asking: "Did you...?" His voice is breathier post-orgasm.

You like that he asks. As you slow your hand and lay the somewhat clean palm against his now dirtied stomach, you feel awkwardness in admitting the truth, whether it is self-made or conditioned. Your libido takes a small hit. "Not yet."

His hands move down your hip, over your leg, and you realize you're still tensed in the air above him, letting yourself sit on his thighs. Your muscles are sore from more or less thrusting — that image in your mind again, stirring things up — and he must feel the heaviness with which you drop, shifting to run both palms over your legs. "Do you want my mouth again?"

He knows you well. Again, that hesitancy attempts to undo some of strings in your gut but you focus on his hands, on how open his face looks. There's no question if he wants to give it when you nod, roll off of him and let him take his place between your legs a second time.

Charles wanders over your body more, now, free to do it. He starts at your sternum and kisses over the sweat slicking where your breasts had rested against your ribs, down the fold of those bones, over your navel. It feels good to lay back and let your body sink into the bed, even with the anticipation keeping you on edge. Your core is burning minutely, legs certainly, and you twitch when Charles' fingers splay around you, teasing.

Whatever had slowed with the nerves of him asking is let go, now, feeling his tongue work as it had before. More eagerly, if you aren't imagining things. A taunt comes to mind about it, but you can only lay your head back and let him work, canting your hips up to guide his mouth back to your clit sooner. He finds it with more exploration, suckles and draws his tongue over it, pushes into it firmly though it slips with the swollen arousal of it. Over-sensitive, it's still good, might even be better when he misses the mark more often than not and ends up teasing.

Building fast, your hands finding his shoulders, breath falling out at once and then storing itself. He must feel how you draw tight, hands sliding beneath your thighs to curl up around the tops of them. Charles works you until your legs close on his head and doesn't stop, has always seemed to like being pressed between them. Your hands get pinned in the clench and you worm them out to grip the blanket, offset some of the overstimulation until you must tell him to stop. It feels good to be carried through it.

Like usual, he's tired afterwards. Charles sleeps light and in short bursts, habitual insomnia leftover from years of surviving on his lonesome. The chance to rest is nice, especially considering you don't feel much like saddling up even the blessedly short ride back to camp. Body too heavy, hips a touch sore, eyes having fallen closed for a half hour even if you did not sleep more than a few winks of it.

Having him half-atop you, arm curled up to your side and face resting heavy on your breast, isn't bad either. There are so few chances to get comfortable like this and the weight of him is the nicest you've ever felt. Sweat's gathering at every point your skin meets for the past hour, but it lends itself to the soothing sort of warmth that can only come from the body of another. All but where you trace along his tricep, now and then, when your own stops feeling too tired.

Feels right, all downsides included. Everything except for the soft chatter of the busying barroom downstairs, of course, and the passing of people on the road outside. You aren't sure what would feel right surroundings-wise, but it would probably be something quiet.

A nice place of your own, somewhere in a grove, maybe. Tucked away wherever it'd be, with plenty of natural beauty around. You stare at the wooden ceiling while you daydream, thinking and discarding the most over-romantic ideas, trying to build a fairytale Charles might enjoy as much as you. Not too far from town, but a long enough ride the smog doesn't wisp by as often and you're capable of choosing at a whim if you wish to remember there is anyone alive save for each other. That seems right as you can imagine now.

A strong whiff of cigar smoke, hefty tobacco and a twinge of fruitiness, rolls past the room of the door and reminds you that people are even closer than down the stairs. Sighing, you look down and begin to study Charles' bicep, feeling your mind go silent. You don't stop to ponder why camp is not the place you imagine, either, even at its quietest.

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