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They only ever do this when they’re high.
It’s tradition at this point, the slow, mellow exchange of hands that takes place when all their friends have gone home for the night, leaving just the two of them still sitting way too close together on a far too spacious sofa.
George isn’t like, into Charles, but he can appreciate the potent thrill of doing something he shouldn’t. He’s gotten over the hot, slick pulsing feeling of revulsion that had washed over him the first time he’d wrapped his fingers around Charles’s cock—mostly.
This time, though, Charles wants more.
“Come on,” Charles whines, his face pressed into the crook of George’s neck, breath hot against his throat. His accent is thicker when he’s crossfaded, a soupy mix of uvular consonants and nasal vowels. “Haven’t had a fuck in weeks.”
“And that’s my problem, how?” George asks.
Charles doesn’t answer him directly. He scoots closer, shoving a clumsy hand down the front of George’s trousers without warning. George inhales a sharp gasp and tries not to reflexively fuck up into Charles’s warm, dry, too tight grip.
“I’ll make you come first,” Charles promises. “I’ll make it so good for you.”
And George might hate himself for it, but he’s never been good at saying no.
Less than fifteen minutes later, he’s on his back in Charles’s bed, legs akimbo, naked as the day he was born. And Charles is two fingers deep inside his ass.
George wants to believe that Charles’s galling lack of technique is due to the fact that he’s had several beers and eaten two pot brownies, but that would be giving him far too much credit.
“Do you finger your girlfriend like this?” George wonders as he stares up at the ceiling, head jolting against the pillow with every rough thrust of Charles’s fingers. He’s only hard because he’s high, he tells himself. Weed always gets him horny.
“She does not like to be fingered,” Charles replies seriously.
He doesn’t take the hint. Every jerk of the wrist is more forceful than the last, and George can’t help but let out a high-pitched moan—of surprise—when Charles somehow manages to jab his fingers straight into what George can only assume is his prostate.
It feels good. George wishes it didn’t.
“It’s no wonder,” George manages to bite out in between his own heaving exhalations. “You’re not using a power saw, you’re supposed to give it a little finesse. I bet you don’t even touch her clit.” That was probably going a bit too far, George thought, but after all this there was no denying that Charles needed the constructive criticism.
“You don’t have a clit,” Charles replies dumbly. He takes his free hand, cradling George’s right thigh in his palm and pushes it up, bending his knee towards his chest. Then he fucks his fingers in even faster, this time managing to hit George’s prostate directly on every single stroke.
It feels—George doesn’t know how it feels. There’s nothing to compare it to, just the feeling of hitting a wall at nearly two-hundred miles an hour.
George knows Charles doesn’t even know what he’s doing, that it’s just dumb luck, but that doesn’t stop George from shooting all over his chest and stomach in approximately fifteen seconds flat, his cock untouched, the whole thing dirty and obscene and overly theatrical like something from a porno. He isn’t even sure what sound came out of his mouth when he came, but when his vision comes back into focus again, Charles is staring down at him with an expression George has only ever seen when Charles qualifies on the front row, a future victory within reach.
Charles pulls his fingers out quickly—too quickly—and doesn’t acknowledge the hiss of discomfort that escapes George’s lips at the sudden loss. George wonders (with a sharp tinge of disgust) what it must look like from Charles’s perspective, whether he’s as open and raw and gaping as he feels, whether Charles has created a wound in him that he wasn’t meant to have.
George clenches down around nothing, pathetically, a silent plea, and it’s almost a relief when Charles plunges his fingers back in again, wet now with George’s own come.
“What are you doing?” George asks, still feeling a bit dazed from the orgasm that had just been wrenched out of him.
“I told you,” Charles replies, a bit impatiently. He pulls his fingers out again after only a couple quick probing thrusts and swipes even more come from George’s flat, trembling belly, using it to slick up his cock instead. “I wanted to fuck you.”
His dick is hard and heavy between his thighs, too big to point straight up at his belly button the way it should. George can’t even conceptualize the idea of having it inside him, not after the way that Charles’s fingers had rent him asunder. He shudders, thinking of steel-spark sensation of something that huge balls-deep in his ass, jackhammering away with no consideration for anything but the pursuit of Charles’s own orgasm.
George wonders if Charles would even bother to pull out, or if he’d come inside him just because he could.
“I could blow you,” George offers as he suddenly comes to terms with the horrifying vulnerability of having Charles between his legs, about to fuck him the way he fucks all his little brunette assembly line girlfriends.
Charles just stares down at him blankly, like he doesn’t understand. “I want to fuck you,” he says again, more insistently this time. He grabs the base of his dick, already shuffling forward on his knees to line up with the give of George’s over-sensitized hole.
George should tell him to fuck off: that just because he has a massive cock and a stupid nickname, it doesn’t mean that he can have everything he wants. But he doesn’t say anything at all.
He just lies back, listening to the chorus of their panting breaths cutting through the silence like knives, and thinks of England.