A/N: Written in response to a prompt on the Fright Night Kink Meme. Check it out if you haven't!
So, it's a bad idea.
Okay, so, it's a really bad idea.
Okay, so basically, if anyone found out about this ever he'd be so royally screwed it doesn't even fathom thinking.
And really, there are so many reasons for him not to be doing what he's doing right now that the fact he's still here, doing it, honestly doesn't make any sense at all. Not to mention the minor sexuality crisis that he doesn't even have time for.
But with that mouth on his throat he just doesn't even give a shit. A shudder shakes his whole body-all the way down his spine to his toes.
How was he supposed to know that he'd wind up here-pinned to his couch-when he went to open the door? How could he have known that those eyes would be so damned hard to resist?
How could he have forgotten every ounce of common sense he ever-
Oh. Oh.
Jerry-Jerry was his name, right? Jerry? The new neighbor with the want in his eyes?-grinds down against him and Charley doesn't know what to feel first. Waves of sensation snake across him-winding down from his throat where Jerry sucks bruises into his skin and how the fuckis he supposed to explain those to Amy; spreading out from the points on his chest where Jerry's fingers push against his ribs; all culminating at his groin where he's harder than he can ever remember being in his life. And more neglected.
He strains down to wedge his fingers under the hem of his jeans, only to have them yanked away. Jerry pulls back off his neck, so that their noses are almost touching.
"No," he says against Charley's mouth. "Not yet." He grinds them together in one swift movement that steals the air from Charley's lungs. "We're playing by my rules." His mouth dives for Charley's and they tangle together-hands and heat and want.
And, God, his mother could get home at any minute. And they're on the couch right in view of the door way and-
"Fucking hell, do that again." Charley throws his head back with a low moan while Jerry's fingers explore his thighs-creeping close, so close. God, not close enough.
And then Jerry's mouth is on his chest, and he can't even remember his shirt getting unbuttoned. He's trailing kisses down the panes of his torso to his stomach. His fingers make quick work of the button and zip to Charley's jeans. And then they're sliding up and off, right along with his boxers, and Charley hits open air.
He gasps and stops thinking all together.
He hears Jerry take a loud swallow of air only to chuckle, low, in the back of his throat.
"First time."
"I'm not-"
But it's not a question. And Jerry's fist covers his cock and he doesn't have the mental fortitude for talking.
He sighs. He groans. He screams.
Charley plays dumb when his mother "introduces" him; he objects when Ed accuses him; he scoffs when Amy approves of him.
He hates himself when he finds out the truth.