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Holovids in good condition are rare all the way out in the Capital, but when Vaultie finds one he always takes it back right away to Underworld, too precious not to share. Carol graciously always offers to host the movie nights, free-for-all, other than payment of food and drink.
Winthrop and a group of some of the more physically minded ghouls set up mismatched chairs, clustered tight in rows. The first time they held a viewing, Vaultie took off his Pip-Boy to use as a projector against one of the walls. After that, they searched through the Museum of History proper. They found a big projector in one of the classrooms, and though all of the educational holovids on President Lincoln had been riddled with turret bullets, the projector itself was serviceable. Winthrop figured out how to fix it in a week, and now they wheel that in, even have a mostly clean white sheet that they tack up on the far wall.
For the ghouls of Underworld, it’s a chance to relax, to reminisce, or at the very least, a night to not think about anything else. For Vaultie and Charon, it’s an excuse for Vaultie to drop any job and go back to the city, and take time for themselves.
It’s always packed by the time the picture starts. Charon likes to sit in the back, with the back of his chair against a wall, because he can’t not sit like that in Underworld.
Tonight, it’s some pre-war slapstick comedy, three men who keep disguising themselves with outlandish costume changes and getting into mischief. There’s sound this time, even if it’s one or two seconds behind the picture; there isn’t always sound with the holovids.
Some of the holovids are better than others. Comedies like this are the most popular, universally palatable, even though they’re not Charon’s favorite. Carol’s is packed, both the front and back rooms.
Which is why Vaultie is standing in front of him: “There’s not enough chairs,” he stage whispers unnecessarily. The lights are still on and people are still filtering in towards open seats. It’s true, seats are filling fast, but Charon is following Vaultie’s shifting gaze. There’s still room, though, and Charon could stand for him. He doesn’t mind standing. Some other ghoul wouldn’t mind moving, either, especially if Charon growled out the request.
They usually sit side by side for movies. Sometimes, he’ll sit with Willow, and once when Gob, when he made the journey. But in the dark, it’s nice to sit side by side, quietly hold hands.
This is a little different, though. “Well?” Charon leans back in his chair, legs spread wide as he looks up at him. Vaultie huffs.
The lights are starting to dim, Greta shooing stragglers aside. Vaultie’s eyes go upward, following the dimming of the overhead lights, then the lamps. He’s turning red, even as darkness settles over them, clutching an oversized quilt wrapped around him even tighter to his body. “C-can I?”
Charon glances away, “It’s dark. Nobody will notice.”
And nobody does, especially as Winthrop finally gets the projector working with a open-palmed slap to the side; the light flickers on, flashing the entire far wall with white light, and the fan starts to click, and there’s a murmur of excited noise form the crowd. Vaultie sucks in an audible breath, before spinning and settling on Charon’s lap, the blanket rustling up with flourish. Charon doesn’t need the blanket. He’s naturally warm, especially in this room with so many other bodies, and he’s dressed appropriately. Vaultie practically wears pajamas, like he’s at a friend’s sleepover: cotton jogger tie-string pants that ride a little too low because of their size and a t-shirt so soft it borders on threadbare.
He won’t complain, though. Vaultie shivers into the blanket, bundling it across their laps and around his shoulders, shifting back into Charon’s chest. The beginning credits roll, a flute trilling over the holovid projector’s built-in speakers as the title card flickers onto screen.
Charon doesn’t mind Vaultie in his lap like this. He’s warm, and it gives him something to occupy himself with, because watching grown men poking each other in the eyes isn’t exactly Charon’s form of entertainment. It reminds him the way his mind would wander standing at the wall in the 9th Circle, but this time, it can wander to the smell of his hair tucked beneath his chin, or the warmth of his skin seeping through his lap. The press of his entire body to his own. They don’t share closeness publicly like this, and when they do, it sinks straight through him, that warm feeling curling in his belly as hot as any whiskey would do. Arms above the blankets, he folds them around Vaultie, and rests his hands in his lap.
On screen, a man in a clown nose trips over his own big shoes, falling into a puddle; Vaultie laughs, vibrating against Charon. Charon adjusts his legs, and he can Vaultie shift in reply.
“Comfortable?” Charon murmurs.
Vaultie nods, but he’s still squirming, shifting his weight from side to side.
Strange. He tries to adjust his own lap, shifting his hips, spreading his legs slightly wider. Vaultie goes still, almost slides down his lap. Charon moves to pull him close again; the drag of his knuckles bump— oh. He’s erect. Vaultie shivers as soon as he touches, then goes rigidly still right after. Charon feels his heart clench; that heady feeling he gets, when he touches Vaultie, like he’s getting away with something. Except, he is getting away with something this time.
He could let Vaultie watch this. They could both ignore it. He could. Charon pulls Vaultie up flush against him, and then, very casually, smoothes his hands down the front of the blanket, like brushing away crumbs— except he’s very pointedly running them down the front of Vaultie’s lap, over his swelling erection.
Vaultie breathes in sharp through his nose. Laughter from everyone around them covers up the sharp gasp Vaultie makes when Charon’s hand dips under the edges of the blanket, creeping large and warm to knead at his thighs, the thin material of his pants doing nothing to cover the heat and smoothness of his skin. He kneads his skin, nice and slow, keeping notice of the blanket. The quilt is so oversized, it’s folded and tented in ways where light movement wasn’t noticeable.
Charon’s good at pulling a straight face. Vaultie usually isn’t. He’s looking straight ahead, tucked against him and under his chin, so he can’t see his face. But he can imagine: Vaultie looking unguarded, lips parted and eyes hooded. Eyes darting to glance at Charon as the tension builds, waiting for his hand to move, and stop torturing him with the slow squeeze of his thighs. Maybe thinking if they were alone, instead of surrounded by a full crowd of people, how Charon would peel off the blankets and bite his thighs through the fabric of his pants until he gasped.
He digs his thumb into the meat of Vaultie’s thighs, the taut muscles jumping under the firm touches. Charon can feel himself stirring to life, pressing up against Vaultie’s ass and the sudden tightness of his fly. When he looks away, he can’t find anyone else staring at them, noticing at all.
He tilts his head, so that his lips are just ghosting the edge of Vaultie’s ear. “Keep going?” His voice is low, impossibly low, rough and gravelly. He runs his hand, too slow, dipping down to the crease of Vaultie’s thigh; even through his pants, he’s overly sensitive, entire body shivering under his grasp. He moves achingly slow, over from his thigh, across his groin and up the length of his erection that’s standing at attention in his loose sleep pants.
Vaultie nods, imperceptibly, shivers hard as Charon’s hand finds the head of his cock and squeezes him through the fabric. He’s wet, there, where pre-cum has leaked from the slit, and Charon finds himself playing with that patch, thumb slipping easily over the slick.
Vaultie jolts against him. He’ll need to steady himself if he wants Charon to keep doing this; it seems too obvious. Or maybe, Charon only notices because he’s so hyper focused on Vaultie. Maybe nobody else can hear his quiet breathing, the way he sucks air in through his mouth, struggling to control himself.
There’s nothing that interests him going on on-screen, but Charon looks up to watch it, anyway, partly as cover, and partly because he knows from behind Vaultie can feel his head tilt upward to look at the screen. As if the way he’s touching Vaultie now was just an afterthought, gripping his shaft through his pants and rubbing his thumb over the head in tight circles.
Vaultie reaches, under the blanket and through his arms, to grab at Charon’s side, fingers flexing against his skin. His fingernails press into him every time he moves his hand just right, every time he moves just a little faster.
Sitting next to them, a ghoul whispers to their friend, “Do you want another beer?” It’s interesting, shifting his focus. Looking at everyone around them, as he’s teasing the head of Vaultie’s cock in such featherlike strokes that, if they weren’t surrounded by so many people, he would be wailing and writhing in his lap. Instead, he’s just trembling in his arms, a low vibration, as if all of the sound was bottling up and threatening to spill out. Charon can only imagine the way Vaultie is biting his lip to keep from gasping. Everyone is sitting fairly close together and yet nobody else can tell that Charon has pushed down Vaultie’s pants enough to free his cock, jerking him in slow, languid motions to keep movement under the blanket to a minimum.
It feels sudden, when Vaultie shifts.
“I have to– go to the bathroom,” his voice squeaks, and he manages to seamlessly stand and pull his pants up; his shirt is a longer sleep shirt, to cover his erection tucked behind the waistband of his pants.
Thankfully, he doesn’t take the blanket with him. Charon knows his own erection would be too obvious if he did. Charon almost stands to follow, but Vaultie is picking his way between the chairs, through the darkness, slinking like he does when he’s cloaked in his suit. The sliver of light from the door opening shows the pinkness of his face and then he’s gone, door closing behind him.
Charon exhales slow. His hands, still under the blankets, can feel where Vaultie’s cock smeared precum against the blanket when he moved. He can’t focus on the movie, not when he’s trying to ignore the tightening in his balls and the thought of Vaultie spilling into his own hands in one of the dingy bathroom stalls of Underworld, his fist stuffed into his mouth to keep him silent. He surreptitiously loosens a few of his buttons on his fly to relieve the pressure. Maybe he should follow. At this point, he doesn’t care if he accidentally knocks over a row of chairs trying to bulldoze his way out, he wants—
And then, the door opens. It’s Vaultie again. It doesn’t take long for him to walk his way through the crowd, murmuring shaky “excuse me”s until he finds himself in front of Charon. Charon blinks. His face is still flushed, and he wont meet his eyes as he lifts the hem of the blanket. In one admirably smooth movement, he eases back into his lap, pulling the blanket over them both with one hand, his other hand is pulling down the hem of his pants, getting just a glimpse of his ass before the blanket covers it.
He’s not seated fully, though, half resting against Charon’s legs, half hovering, Vaultie’s thighs around Charon’s legs holding him upright.
Charon wraps an arm around him, even though he knows he doesn’t need it to keep himself upright. Spending so much time crouched in his suit has blessed Vaultie with a stamina and strength that even surpasses Charon’s ability. ‘Down’, his fingers tap on the back of Charon’s arm, his other hand tapping at his leg– his pants.
Charon almost groans. He almost forgets where they are. He looks around, quickly, but still nobody is paying attention to them.
Vaultie reaches back. There’s more laughter on screen, and in the crowd. His fingers stutter when they find that Charon’s fly is already halfway unbuttoned; he makes deft work of the last two, pulling his cock out. It’s mildly uncomfortable for Charon, because there’s not a lot of room, and Charon’s cock is sizable, pressed a little too hard against Vaultie. It sits against the cleft of Vaultie’s ass, and there’s a touch of coolness there, something slick–
Charon’s fingers dig into the meat of his side, involuntarily, as he realizes— he had left to prepare himself.
The strange shifting of their bodies didn’t bring attention before so he raises himself again, and Charon’s hands scramble under the blanket to hold his shaft steady by the base as Vaultie blindly starts to sink down. There’s a moment where he worries that he isn’t prepped enough; he can feel the head of his cock against his hole, and he’s big, and he won’t fit and in this moment they’ll be suspended too long– but the head pushes past the first ring, and Vaultie grunt-whimpers as he sinks down. Maybe a little too loud, because from the corner of his eye Charon can glimpse Patches from across the aisle giving them second glances, until something more interesting on screen pulls his gaze away.
He’s tight, and hot– and Charon can’t think of any more descriptors, any other words, because he’s so tight it’s almost dizzying, and Vaultie has never sunk down so fast on his cock before, and yet here he is, seated fully on his lap.There’s another peal of laughter from the crowd. Charon isn’t paying attention anymore.
Vaultie leans back, his head against Charon’s shoulder. His forehead is damp in the low light, pupils blown wide as he gazes up at him. “G-good movie, huh?” He murmurs, voice wobbling, completely unconvincing.
Charon can feel him flex, clamping tight around his cock in his hastily prepped ass. He wants to grab his hips and fuck up into him, hard, the way Vaultie likes when he sits on him like this. But, they can’t— they can’t even really fuck, because the rise and fall would be noticeable.
Charon lowers his mouth to the shell of Vaultie’s ear again: “Good movie. There’s a lot of ghouls here, tonight,” He murmurs lowly. Vaultie goes rigid. He doesn’t have to look down to know that a flush has crept up to his ears. He knows Vaultie’s inclinations, obviously. And he knows, especially, that in a dark room filled with the gravelly laughter and the smell of just a few too many ghoul bodies, sickly-sweet, the kind of arousal that’s curling in his belly, the kind that will have him cumming sooner than later.
Vaultie starts to move, minutely, grinding down, hips swiveling.The kiss he presses to Vaulties neck looks innocent. But he lets his teeth scrape, just barely. Vaultie shivers. Charon moves his hand back under the covers, finds Vaultie’s flagging cock and starts to pump it again.
He reaches behind Charon, to rub his fingers down his neck; he’s sure he meant it to be more casual than it is, fingernails digging into the sinew of partially exposed tendons, just brushing over the hard ridges of bone at the base. But from afar, Charon is sure it looks like he’s scrabbling for a lifeline.
The shifts, the grinding, get a little more bold. Vaultie rises, just a little, falling back onto his dick, and Charon feels his breath catch in the same way it does when they’re trying to hide from deathclaws. There’s a part of him, a part of him that’s never entertained this kind of idea before, drunk with arousal— he wants to push the blanket off, push Vaultie to the floor, and fuck him hard. Imagining it makes his cock pulse; what if he fucked Vaultie in this room, showed everyone how much the last, best hope for humanity cries for him when he’s thrusting into him. They could give them a real show, Vaultie utterly exposed in his lap, entirely his. Those hungry ghoul eyes watching him debase Vaultie, watching him play roughly with his hard nipples and run ragged nails in pink lines down his smooth skin. His hand is moving faster around Vaultie’s cock, the knuckles of his fist lightly hitting the blanket, the smallest of disturbances.
Vaultie exhales, almost moans, barely covered by the music going on in the film. It goes straight to Charon’s cock. He’s spreading his legs a little wider, as he grinds down, settles his hands against Charon’s thighs. Vaultie takes a chance. He rises, and falls. Once, twice, thee times– each higher, each faster, and Charon looks around wildly, but nobody is watching, nobody is paying attention— and as he squeezes Vaultie he cums, a jolt, spilling into him.
It’s silent save a sharp inhale from Charon’s nose– but Vaultie whimpers, and Charon notices, from five seats over, Patchwork’s uncoordinated eyes shifting towards them again, and Vaultie’s head turns. There’s another round of laughter as something unfolds onscreen; Vaultie’s cum is spurting between his fingers, coating the underside of the quilt, as he rides out his orgasm with small movements of his hips.
As soon as he finishes, Vaultie sags back against his chest. Light from the film flickers across the room, across the pattern of the quilt and the way Vaultie’s body is slumped under it, Charon still inside of him. Charon takes his clean hand and pulls it out from under the blanket, wrapping it around Vaultie. Charon presses a kiss to the top of Vaultie’s head; he laughs, quietly, in reaction to something on screen, a few sleepy huffs.