#charking

He’s accustomed to being in danger. Really, it’s par for the course; detective work seems to involve about one quarter research and fact checking, one quarter chasing down leads that go nowhere, and the rest is running for their afterlives. And Charles, as the self-proclaimed brawn, will always be the one to put himself on the front line.

He wasn’t expecting it this time, he’ll admit. Largely because he’s not on a case, he’s not dealing with a hostile apparition, and he’s feeling less afraid than he is…

Okay. Well. He’s just a bit turned on.

Because the Cat King has a slender, elegant blade to his throat, just barely touching; enough iron in it to make the ghost’s skin feel it, though it doesn’t burn like pure iron does. It’s not the knife that has the detective off guard, though. It’s the almost feral look in the shapeshifter’s eyes, a dangerous sort of smirk curving his lips, flashing the barest hint of gleaming fangs.

“Would’ve thought you’d use your claws if you wanted to threaten somebody,” Charles manages to get out, though he stays stock-still, chin tilted up under the pressure of that deceptively delicate blade.

“Who says I’m threatening?” The voice is a dark purr, the knife sweeping slowly down, pricking at the hollow of Charles’ throat, slicing through the half-corporeal fabric of his shirt, a hint of smoke curling off the blade.

Charles swallows hard. He’s seen the Cat King pissed before, certainly. And he’s seen him when he’s playing, toying with any one of his lovers for the sheer thrill of it. This is something between the two, and there’s something that lurks beneath that cold facade.

Oh, fuck.

“— shit. Sorry. Case went long, we should have—“

His voice trails off as that blade drags along his chest, the briefest touch that sears like lightning along his nerves. Thomas knows just what will ignite Charles’ ability to feel, and what goes beyond that to true pain. He’s still firmly on the former side of the line, but his temper is obvious nonetheless.

Charles is a city boy; he’s not much at home in woods and forests, but he still moves through them easily, trusting his ghostly nature and his instincts to guide him. It’s rare he even has reason to be out somewhere like this. Especially without Edwin. Especially when they’re not on a case.

Tonight, he’s here because of an invitation he couldn’t resist.

He and the Cat King have sorted out most of their issues, the serious ones at any rate, though they still tend to disagree on things and needle each other seemingly just for the fun of it. It keeps an interesting heat between them, and they’ve found a number of… entertaining ways to play with that. Thomas is always one to nudge his lovers into new experiences, and despite his initial hesitation, Charles has found that going along with it ends up really well for him most of the time.

So yeah. He’s here because of Thomas, really; because the other suggested he needed to blow off steam in a way that he isn’t quite willing to with Edwin or Monty. He’s still careful with both of them, after a fashion. Charles, though… Charles has always been a fighter. And he can take whatever the Cat King can dish out.

That’s the assumption, anyway.

All right, it’s still a bit odd, being out in the woods knowing he’s being tracked by something animal and supernatural. Usually the things hunting him aren’t so clear in their intentions. It gives him a bit of a leg up, or so he thinks.

He always tends to forget that the Cat King doesn’t play fair.

There’s not the usual burst of violet fire or the subtle chorus of cat’s meows. A sleek, dark figure rushes from the shadows, and Charles has to admit he’s caught totally off guard. If someone had been trying to hurt him, he’d have been utterly screwed.

As it is, the glancing scrape of cat’s claws against his back is so light it’s nearly ticklish rather than painful. Just enough to make him aware of the other’s presence. He braces himself, turns and settles into a fighting stance, hands up. He doesn’t have his cricket bat, of course, because this isn’t really a fight.

That doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous, though.

Hands are on him before he can think, the weight of a body bearing him down to the ground. He strikes out without thinking, and hears a husky chuckle in return as calloused hands block his strikes, pin him to the ground. He can see the gleam of golden eyes, the faintest flash of a fanged smile. “Not good enough, ghostie.”

It makes a flash of heat roll through Charles, makes him lash out in earnest. He gets one good strike to center mass, earning a rough grunt from the Cat King, but he catches the other, harshly pinning the offending hand against the soil. The hiss that rises on his lips is more animal than human as his other hand wraps around Charles’ fist, with pressure tight enough to hurt if he wanted to. It’s a warning, a threat.

And yeah; usually, he would fight back until his last undying breath. But with these hands on him, these claws pricking at his flesh, he folds, giving in with a slow exhale, tilting his chin up to expose his throat.

A familiar face floats above his own, but there is something foreign in those golden eyes, a distant, wild note that he has never seen before. It sends an honest shiver down his spine, and he sees the Cat King grin at the reaction from his trapped prey. He’s never felt so vulnerable before, not even a few steps away from Death herself. He feels raw and exposed, every inch of his flesh suddenly so fragile.

Thomas bends his head, sharp teeth scraping over the delicate skin of his neck, and Charles whimpers.

He’s prey, he realizes. He’s a mouse in a trap, at best. Because the Cat King has him, well and truly, and he won’t let him go.

And fuck if that doesn’t send a spike of unexpected arousal through him.

A clawed hand traces down his chest, shredding fabric in its wake, and he can’t do anything but shudder at the delicate brush as those claws touch skin. His trousers are shredded in like fashion, and he’s shaking as a sharp point traces oh-so-delicately down his length. He wants to pull away, and at the same time, he wants more.

Even when he looks up, that familiar face is a mask of animal need, of lust and rage and cruelty. The Cat King is showing the basest elements of what he is, and Charles can either run from it, or embrace it.

He meets those cold, glazed golden eyes and flashes a cocky smirk. He’ll never back down, ever - and he’ll also never hold what Thomas is against him. He can take it.

The Cat King snarls, and a hot mouth presses over his own, body pinning him to the ground. A hand snakes between his legs, and Charles muffles a whine into Thomas’ mouth as two fingers push into him, no hesitation, no preparation. He can handle it, though, trying in vain to catch his breath when the other is intent on stealing it.

Magic flickers along his nerves as slick lube presses into him as an afterthought, but he can’t focus on that when Thomas is biting his way down the line of his throat, leaving harsh red marks against his skin. The Cat King’s hands are surprisingly rough as they roll Charles over, push him onto hands and knees.

There’s no teasing or drawing things out, as Thomas usually enjoys. Just a hot body plastered against his back, cock pressing against his hole, shallow thrusts driving him inside. Charles bites back another whine, and the Cat King just buries himself deeper, making the ghost see stars. His hands are grasping almost desperately at the earth and dead leaves beneath them, wanting something to hang onto. He hears a low hiss pressed against the back of his neck, but it sounds somehow pleased, and he can’t help the tiny little moan that escapes him in return.

It’s enough encouragement, apparently. Hips snap harshly against his ass, and the shock of pain-pleasure makes him moan, automatically arching for more.

He can’t help himself when it comes to making his partners feel good.

The Cat King is ruthless, pounding into him, sharp teeth leaving their marks along his neck and shoulders. Claws dig into his hips to keep him still, and Charles whimpers but endures. He’s hard as a fucking rock, too damn close coming untouched, but his whole focus is on Thomas. Whatever he needs, fuck it, he’ll give.

A snarl is buried against the nape of his neck when the feline finally comes, and Charles can smell the blood where claws prick into his skin. He doesn’t so much as ask for a breath - he’s pressing himself back for more, offering himself like a sacrifice beneath the other’s predatory need.

Charles usually doesn't enjoy being robbed of his senses. It's dangerous, for one thing, means anything could sneak up on him, get the drop on him. But he's not on the case right now - not anywhere close, in fact. There's nothing likely to sneak up on him here in the cannery in Port Townsend.

Except, of course, for the man he's here visiting.

He's never quite sure what to expect of the Cat King, as he's discovered he's a man of quite... varied tastes. Which technically he knew from observation alone. Experiencing those tastes, though... it's something very different. Charles is learning more than he bargained for, perhaps. Doesn't mean he doesn't enjoy it.

Trust wasn't exactly second nature between the two of them, not the way it is with him and Edwin, or even him and Monty. It's grown over time, though, and Charles is definitely willing to trust the other enough now.

Enough to let him bind his hands and tie a strip of black silk over his eyes, anyway. He's sprawled out on the other's bed (he swears it's more massive than it was the first time, leaving space for more bodies just in case), trying to focus on sound alone to indicate where the hell the other is. He's a dab hand at moving silently, though, so Charles is completely surprised when a hot tongue drags up his stomach, seemingly out of nowhere. The Cat King laughs, low and taunting, as the ghost jolts away from the contact before arching into it.

Okay, maybe this is more interesting than Charles had thought it would be.

Thomas toys with him for... fuck, he doesn't actually even know how long, draws away and leaves him straining to guess where or when the next touch will come from. A hand trailing ever so lightly up his inner thigh, or sharp teeth nipping at his collarbone; a brush of hot breath over his cock, or a teasing flick of fingertips against his cheek, as if just to drive the point home that Charles is absolutely terrible at guessing where he'll touch next. It's maddening in the best of ways, but it won't break him.

Mostly because by the time he's really drawn out the teasing, Charles has wormed his way out of the knots binding his wrists. The next time the Cat King touches him, he's on him in an instant, pulling the other close, rolling to pin him against the mattress. He tugs off the blindfold with a grin, leans down to kiss the so-frustrating and so-fascinating feline, nipping at his lower lip, grinding against him with an insistent need.

Ghosts don’t sleep. It can be kind of a hassle, sometimes, being constantly awake and aware. There’s other ways to rest and let the mind recover, of course, but sometimes Charles misses the opportunity to just conk out for a couple of hours, let his brain and body both reset themselves.

At the moment, though, he’s actually glad he doesn’t have to sleep. He has something far more interesting to pay attention to.

It’s not often that he shares a bed with the Cat King, especially not without the added company of Edwin or Monty or both of them. They hadn’t actually intended to end up here tonight, but the last case kicked the absolute shit out of all of them, and Thomas had ended up crashing at the office. Monty’s on concussion watch in the girls’ room, Edwin getting a few metaphysical injuries tended to by the Night Nurse, but neither are hurt enough to warrant their partners hovering. Besides, since Thomas stepped up to the plate in a big way by actually fighting the supernatural nasty that was causing trouble, he’s utterly exhausted himself.

He’s not sure why it was Charles’ room rather than Edwin’s that the other ended up stumbling into in search of an actual bed (he’s bitched about the couch being too small more than once, and is apparently too tired to shift into his cat form), but it doesn’t matter.

Charles is pretty drained himself, but not enough not to notice that despite his exhaustion, the Cat King seems to be having… pleasant dreams.

By now he’s used to the haze of arousal that lingers near-constantly around the man; he’s a creature of desire, and while he can be serious, it still only ever takes a matter of moments for that desire to come rising back to the surface. Apparently that happens even when he’s unconscious. The way the shapeshifter is sprawled out across the sheets makes his erection obvious, and every so often a pleased little murmur or purr will escape his lips. The expression on his face is slack and peaceful, and Charles finds himself studying it for a long moment before his attention slips lower once again.

The Cat King did sort of save their asses today; maybe he deserves a thank-you of some sort. And it’s a hell of a lot easier to give him that when he’s not awake and arrogantly snarking about how amazing he is.

The thought tickles Charles’ sense of humor, and he’s moving before he considers it too much, lips tracing a slow line down the other’s bare chest. He doesn’t bother to linger or tease, quickly settles himself between Thomas’ legs, lips sliding around his cock. The familiar weight settles against his tongue, and Charles lets his own pleased little hum vibrate against the sensitive flesh before he starts to suck him in earnest.

It’s slow and easy so as not to wake him, and he savors those content little sounds from the sleeping man, guessing the real physical sensation has wound itself into whatever dreams had him excited in the first place. Charles has all the time in the world, and he doesn’t pull back until he’s worked the other to orgasm. Even without the benefit of the Cat King’s extra bit of magic to make him experience sensation, he can faintly taste the other on the back of his tongue as he swallows.