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more moan than request

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The thing is, Charlie literally can't stop talking. Sometimes it's situationally-appropriate babble, like when David is sucking him; sometimes it's understandable, like when he's excited about a new game or a film that involves clowns with chainsaws; sometimes it's eminently reasonable, like when they're maybe/sort of negotiating the boundaries of their relationship (oh god).

But sometimes it's just… sitting on David's lumpy sofa at three in the afternoon on a Wednesday, riffing about Bake Off when both of them are actually trying to get something accomplished. Sometimes it's just morning, when they're both in the kitchen, Charlie in charge of food and David in charge of tea, neither one more than half awake but for Charlie's recounting of the batshit plotlines from the previous night's dreams.

David likes it – in sexy moments it takes away the burden of trying to think of something to say himself, and most of the rest of the time it makes him laugh – but he can see that Charlie gets a little embarrassed. Which is why he suggests, in a liminal moment of undressing, the gag.

"Oh, fuck yes," says Charlie. "That would be, yeah, very—" David puts a hand over his mouth. Charlie makes a choked noise in the back of his throat and stops talking. It's a bit weird, actually. But weird is basically normal for each of them individually, so it might as well be normal for the both of them together.

"In the meantime," he says, "you can babble while you fuck me."


He buys the gag off the internet and it arrives a few days later, delivered in a plain brown wrapper like a terrible but convenient cliché. He sticks it in his bedside drawer and tries to forget about it until an opportune moment.

Of course he can't forget about it. Who could forget about a fucking ballgag in their bedside table?

But it never seems quite the right time to bring it out. Either Charlie is too cuddly (who would have thought that Charlie would be a cuddler?) or things are too frantic for David to think about anything other than skin and mouth and cock.

It's not until one lazy afternoon, when they're still in bed half curled around each other, that David seriously thinks about using it. They're watching something on Charlie's laptop – David was paying attention for a while, but Charlie is beginning to rant about it, and David moves from being vaguely annoyed that he won't shut up to excited that, well. He won't shut up. Which means David gets to make him shut up.

He reaches over without looking and tugs open the drawer, sticks his hand in and finds the gag. Then he reaches across and presses the thing to Charlie's mouth. It takes a second, but Charlie stops talking, groans, and shudders.

"Yes?" David says.

"Yeah," Charlie says, alarmingly quick, shifting under the covers as if he's hard already. Which is probably true; David's pleasingly familiar with the way he can turn Charlie on at the drop of a hat (or a coat. or a sock).

"Sit up, then."

Charlie shoves the sheet aside and sits up, opening his mouth. David settles the ball in gently, then makes a rotating gesture; Charlie gets the idea immediately and turns his head helpfully away so that David can fasten the gag in the back. He makes sure not to catch Charlie's hair in the elastic because, amazingly, pain is not a thing for either of them. When he's done, he draws Charlie around again, pushes him back against the pillows, and starts kissing him.

Not on the mouth, no, not at first. On the chin, sliding up the jaw over the stubble that Charlie refuses to eliminate completely, on earlobe and cheek and the little creased places at the corner of his eye. He slides his mouth back down to Charlie's jaw and bites at him. Then to his mouth at last, licking around the gag, tasting salt from the crisps they'd been having earlier. Charlie shivers, reaching up to clench his hands tightly on David's biceps. He's definitely babbling behind the gag; David singsongs 'I can't hear you!' at him, and Charlie laughs so hard that David has to lean back and let him breathe through his nose for a bit.

He could probably get off just from listening to Charlie laugh.

Instead he takes a moment to close the laptop – cutting off the sound of whatever it was – and set it on the floor. Then back again, slinging one leg over to straddle Charlie's hips; he can feel Charlie's arousal even through two pairs of worn-thin pajamas.

"Mmmph," Charlie says emphatically, pulling him closer.

"Yeah," David says. "Absolutely."

It's easy to just rut against each other for a while, body to body even if they haven't yet reached full on skin to skin. The line of Charlie's neck is intensely arousing as usual and David keeps kissing him there, feeling the movement of Charlie's throat against his lips.

Charlie begins to shiver even harder at that and so David trails the flat of his hand down over Charlie's chest, tracing the soft roundness of his stomach and then cupping his cock at last. There's something decadent about touching each other through clothes, like clothing is physical evidence that they're in no hurry, that they can spend as long as they like here. David does just that, playing with Charlie's cock until the fabric is overheated and sticky, the air between them thick with the smell of sex.

He likes the feel of it, the texture of fabric against his palm and then his fingertips when he stops stroking to tease. There are the sounds, too; Charlie keeps making sweet, desperate noises, words that aren't quite words, babble that's more moan than request.

David wonders briefly how he'd got here – getting to feel Charlie's cock in his hand, knowing what he liked. It was markedly close to the fevered, late-night fantasies he'd had for months, right up until the moment when they'd been sat in the pub alone together and looked at each other and simultaneously thought, Can we do this? Yeah, yes, absolutely.

Better to enjoy it rather than analyze it, David reminds himself, and so he pulls Charlie's pajama bottoms down just enough to expose his cock. Charlie shudders as David wraps a hand around him, using precome to make it slick as he begins to stroke. David keeps it slow, deliberately just slightly too languid for Charlie's usual preference. He half expects a noise of complaint, but what he gets instead is a low, drawn-out groan.

"Yeah," David says; he's so focused on how arousing the noise is that he can barely hear himself. "Yeah." He keeps moving, rolling his hips against the half-parted vee of Charlie's thighs; it's not quite enough pressure to get himself off, but that's all for the better since it means he can draw this out, take his time. He tries to match his strokes to the movement and soon Charlie is rocking up against his thighs, into his hand.

David had thought he might take this opportunity to talk, even despite how excruciating it's always been to come up with something appropriately sexy to say, but in the moment words seem inappropriate. He watches Charlie instead, looking for that wild expression that means he's almost there; when he sees it, he lets go on impulse, leaving Charlie with nothing but air to push into. Charlie groans, shuddering desperately, but after a moment he jerks himself into stillness.

His hands are clenched on David's hips and David knows that Charlie could just pull him down, press their bodies together and shove up and come any time he wants. Or even just put a hand on David's wrist to guide him back again, guide his strokes into something tighter, deeper. But instead all he does is hang on, breathing hard and shivering, letting David do what he wants.

The deliberate surrender is intoxicating. David waits until the shivering has eased a little and then reaches down to start stroking again, slower, teasing. Charlie moans again, the sound muffled by the gag. It's nothing like words now, and David feels a rush of satisfaction at pushing Charlie past babble into utter instinctive noise.

He works him up again, slower than before and then stopping again just before Charlie comes. It's probably a bit mean, at this point, but both of them have made a career out of being a bit mean, so it's not like Charlie won't have seen it coming.

Charlie's really shaking now, past shivering into uncontrolled shudders. David leans down and kisses the side of his mouth again; Charlie tips his head back, wordlessly begging for more, and after a moment David obliges him, licking a circle all the way around the gag and in the corners of his mouth where it's wet from the press of his lips.

When he starts stroking Charlie again, he knows he'd better not make it last too much longer; that really would tip over the edge from enjoyably mean into actually cruel. And he's aching himself now, halfway to coming just from the slide of his damp pajamas over his cock.

It takes a bit of coordinating to get himself out without losing his grip or his balance, but once he does it's fantastic: the air sticky-hot between them and the sweetness of pulling closer, getting his hand around both of their cocks at once. Charlie gasps, the sound just barely audible.

"Oh, fuck," David groans. "Fuck, Charlie—" He tightens his stroke, and it's enough to drag them both over the edge.

He needs two minutes of panting through the aftershocks before his hands are steady enough to remove the gag; there's definitely come in Charlie's hair at the end of that maneuver, but David's too preoccupied to care. "All right?" he says.

Charlie makes a vague, wordless noise, pressing his face into the side of David's throat. He could say anything now, blither as much as he likes. But all he does is close his eyes, lashes stuttering down over David's sweaty skin. David kisses the top of his head, helplessly, and neither of them says anything else at all.