pairing: meyer/charlie
rating: explicit
A/N: i warned you all it was coming and here it is. hopefully none of you disown me at the end of this month, is all i’m saying. kinktober 2017 day one: aphrodisiacs, for a given value of “aphrodisiacs,” anyway. contains discussion of canon-typical violence. also on ao3.
If Meyer were a more poetic person he’d think he can feel the gunpowder streak across his skin every time Charlie touches him. As it is, there’s a dead man in a warehouse on Long Island, they’ve dropped the trucks off at the garage, and Meyer’s backed up against the bedroom wall with Charlie pressed against him, grinding down against Charlie’s thigh as he tears at Meyer’s waistcoat buttons. The circumstances are not unrelated.
“This what it takes, little Meyer?” Charlie grins, sharp and dangerous, against Meyer’s lips as Meyer tangles fingers in his hair. The retaliatory bite to his lip makes Charlie gasp, but he doesn’t pull away, which is good enough for Meyer. Instead he finally shoves Meyer’s vest down off his shoulders to get his hands beneath fabric and clutch at Meyer’s hips, fingers edging beneath his waistband.
“I can’t enjoy the satisfaction of a job well done?” he pants against Charlie’s lips. The adrenaline—the power—of what they’ve pulled off tonight burns through him, and he doesn’t even feel greedy for wanting more. Meyer rocks his hips against Charlie’s and can’t stop a satisfied sound from escaping when Charlie shudders against him. “You’d prefer I head home, get some sleep alone?”
“Fuck no,” Charlie responds immediately, tilting his head to nip at Meyer’s jaw. “I’ll take point on the next thirty shipments if it means I get you like this after.” Meyer shudders, unexpectedly, thinks of the two of them cutting a swathe through Waxey’s men, or Joe’s, ruthless and precise and perfect, and bites down on a groan. “Any way I can have you, Mey,” spoken into the skin of his throat pressed against Charlie’s lips, pulls him out of the thought, and Meyer swallows hard, tilts his head back and gasps as Charlie bites down, hard enough that there’ll be a mark in the morning. It’s good, it’s almost unbearably good, the way it always is with Charlie, but the thrill is still coursing up and down Meyer’s spine, and he wants more.
Before he loses his nerve, he tugs at Charlie’s curls—"Want you to fuck me,“ he murmurs, and he feels Charlie’s grip on his waist tighten, before Charlie pulls back and stares. It hasn’t stopped being scorching, whenever Charlie fixes the full weight of his attention on Meyer. He’s not sure it’ll ever stop.
Meyer presses his lips together, not used to being so direct, but doesn’t squirm under the scrutiny, doesn’t look away, and Charlie’s hands against his jaw, Charlie’s lips against his, is answer enough in the affirmative. Charlie’s lips are soft against his, unexpectedly tentative, and he doesn’t take the bait when Meyer bites at his bottom lip. He keeps the kisses slow even when Meyer growls, frustrated, but that’s not saying much when his fingers are digging bruises into Meyer’s hips.
“Gonna make it good,” he murmurs against Meyer’s lips, his voice gone gravelly and deep, “Promise.” And Meyer knows he should be rolling his eyes—he doesn’t need to be sweet-talked into it like some broad just because they haven’t done this before—but there’s something raw and earnest in Charlie’s voice that’s enough to make him swallow hard. Charlie edges even closer, presses his thigh up against Meyer even tighter, and Meyer bites his lip against another gasp.
Then Charlie’s tugging him to bed, pulling him down and kissing him hard before pushing up on his elbows so he can lean to the side and rummage through his nightstand. Meyer huffs at the loss of contact and pulls Charlie’s suspenders off his shoulders to start in on his shirt buttons.
“Are you gonna fuck me sometime tonight or not?” he bites out, arching up against Charlie to get some kind of friction, something to distract him from the fact that this is new territory.
Charlie scowls down at him, but there’s no heat in it—or at least no annoyance. There’s plenty of heat. “Fuckin’ relax, huh? Unless you wanna be sore tomorrow,” he says with a less-than-gentle swat to Meyer’s hip. Meyer huffs, but finishes unbuttoning both their shirts and leans up to press his face against Charlie’s neck. He breathes in deep, catches the scent of gunpowder still clinging to Charlie’s skin, and can’t stop the low moan that escapes him.
It’s not like it’s new, it’s hardly like they’ve never killed someone before, but it’s different. This was their deal, their shipment, their decision. They were the ones in control.
It’s intoxicating.
Charlie slams the drawer shut, dropping a tube of slick on the bed next to them and shrugging out of the shirt just hanging off his shoulders now. He rocks back on his knees and Meyer leans off to toss his shirt over the edge of the bed as well, and then Charlie’s fingers are at his fly and his mouth is on Meyer’s as his hand slides between fabric to wrap around Meyer’s cock. Meyer’s hips twitch into his grip, and he groans against Charlie’s lips. Charlie hums, pleased with himself, and strokes Meyer once, twice, as he bites at his lip, before pulling his hand back and hastily getting rid of both their pants as well.
Then it’s all just heated skin and the lingering smell of cordite on Charlie’s hands against Meyer’s jaw, an inescapable reminder of what they’ve done. Charlie groans as Meyer bites at his lip, but pulls back to grab for the slick.
“Oughta make you wait. Drag it out, see how you like it,” he smirks, but he pops the cap and slathers the stuff on his fingertips anyway.
Meyer’s brow furrows, but he pushes up on his elbows as Charlie drops the tube back to the sheets. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
Charlie snorts, undignified, and shuffles forward with a palm on Meyer’s hip. “Christ, you’re pushy.” He leans forward and kisses Meyer again before he can reply, licking at the seam of Meyer’s lips til he lets his tongue in, and then it’s deeper and wetter and not nearly enough to distract him from Charlie’s wet fingertips brushing over his entrance.
He shudders at the sensation—it’s unfamiliar but not entirely unpleasant—and his breath escapes in a hiss when Charlie pushes in. Charlie doesn’t stop, but he leans back an inch or two, brows just barely furrowed. “Alright?”
“You think you wouldn’t know if it wasn’t?” Meyer snipes back, and Charlie’s mouth twists, amused. His fingers press out and back in again, deeper each time, and it’s… weird. Meyer makes himself keep breathing evenly, eyes mostly squeezed shut, until Charlie presses in and up and something has Meyer’s hips twitching and his thighs falling open even wider around Charlie’s hips.
He manages to swallow most of the noise that threatens to spill out, but it’s enough that Charlie’s grin sharpens, his expression changing to the same look so many neighborhood girls must have been on the receiving end of before—before. “Good?” And Meyer is going to punch him right in his stupid smug face except he does it again, pressing harder and tearing another gasp out of Meyer’s throat. Charlie laughs, slow and heated, and Meyer winds a hand through Charlie’s curls and tugs, just too hard for Charlie to get any satisfaction out of it.
“Shut up,” he manages to bite out, and for once Charlie obliges, tipping forward to kiss Meyer again, fingers curling inside him as he works a third one in and thankfully not pointing out the noises Meyer can’t help but make.
“Fuck, you look good like this, Meyer,” Charlie blurts out, fingers curling up hard and ducking his head down to bite along Meyer’s throat. All Meyer can do is pant in response, each breath catching the edge of a moan, and Charlie pushes up on his elbows, pressing his lips hard against Meyer’s, before he says, “Can I—?”
Meyer nods, but slides his hands up to Charlie’s jaw and tugs him down for another deep kiss, before Charlie rocks back on his heels and spreads the slick on his cock, then leans forward to kiss Meyer again. He presses against Meyer’s entrance, and it’s already more than his fingers were, but he pushes forward anyway—slow, but steady. He makes a noise like the air’s being squeezed out of him, halfway between a groan and a gasp. Meyer presses his face to Charlie’s shoulder, eyes squeezed shut and breathing through his teeth as the pressure builds.
It’s so much, and there’s an edge of pain to it, but more than that it’s overwhelming, and Charlie hasn’t even done anything. He’s stopped moving, face tucked to Meyer’s shoulder like Meyer’s is pressed to his, and Meyer can feel the pants of Charlie’s breath against his skin. He rolls his hips, once, and Meyer hisses, falling back against the sheets as Charlie picks his head up to look at his face. His stupid fucking pretty curls are everywhere, falling down into his face and Meyer has to swallow hard at the look on his face, pupils blown and lips kiss-swollen, and the knowledge that he put that look there sends a bolt of heat down his spine. Charlie licks his lips, another involuntary shift of his hips making his eyelashes flutter, but his brows furrow when he meets Meyer’s eyes. “Alright?”
He waits for Meyer to nod, and as he leans down to press their lips together he thrusts, tentative. Whatever he hit before, he hits it now, and pleasure sparks up Meyer’s spine like a live wire. Meyer gasps, fingers clenching against the skin of Charlie’s shoulder as he arches against him.
Charlie makes an inarticulate noise, and Meyer’s too overwhelmed to try and decode it, but he pulls back, and—the way his thighs tighten around Charlie’s hips would be too needy any other time, but he needs more. “Keep going,” he says against Charlie’s mouth, and Charlie moans, hips rolling like he’s been told. The sensation shifts from uncomfortable fullness to sparks of pleasure rolling up and down Meyer’s spine with each thrust. More embarrassing noises spill out of him as the pleasure builds, and Charlie breaks their kiss to bite along Meyer’s jaw until his lips are pressed against his ear.
“I’d’ve taken out every kid on the block way before now if I’d known it’d get you this hot,” he murmurs into Meyer’s skin, biting at the hinge of Meyer’s jaw. The thought sends a thrill through Meyer he’d be hard pressed to own up to, but he shakes his head.
“It’s not—just that,” he bites out, arching against Charlie’s chest as his thrusts get sharper. “We’re going to win, it’ll be us in charge, no bosses, no— fuck—no one holding us down,” he gasps, focus splintering as Charlie slides a palm down his chest to wrap around his cock and stroke him in time with the movement of Charlie’s hips.
“Yeah, wanna hear it,” Charlie growls, and Meyer doesn’t know if he means the words or the noises Meyer can’t hold in with every thrust. “Just you’n me, Mey, fuck,” he says, and his fingers tighten around Meyer’s cock and drag another moan out of him. He sets his teeth to Charlie’s shoulder and bites—it’s mostly to hide the sounds spilling out of him, but Charlie bucks forward, a moan torn from his chest as well. “Fuck, Meyer, we’re gonna put ‘em in the ground,” he slurs out, driving hard and fast into Meyer as he shudders against him. All Meyer can do is moan his approval, the pleasure building and cresting, and his eyes squeeze shut as he spills between them, fingers clenched tight to Charlie’s shoulder blades.
It pulls a groan out of Charlie, and it’s only two, three more rolls of his hips until he’s following Meyer over the edge, face tucked against Meyer’s as they shudder against each other. Meyer presses his face to Charlie’s skin, aftershocks shuddering through him. The city’s noises filter dimly through the window, but it’s faint over the sound of their panting. Nothing else is worth Meyer’s focus except Charlie’s skin against his, and if the world didn’t already feel like it was theirs for the taking, it certainly does now.
I kind of love that my pre-semester weekend of rereading madness has turned into an asynchronous multi-day event of literary analysis and suffering.
Anyway, I make this post to solicit ideas about who Christian is, and how to understand his place in the story. We get less of his interiority than we do for the other two principals -- and this makes sense, as he is canonically bad at articulating things. But I find that I struggle to decide what I really think about him as a character.
I suppose this makes sense, to a degree; there are obviously a lot of interpretative options for the other two principals. Christian just seems more of a blank slate, and the options seem to drive him (at least potentially) in dramatically different directions.
I think the most boring and the saddest option, in a way, is if he's basically just a pretty face: good-hearted, but too dull to understand what he's stumbled into or across in finding Roxane and Cyrano. He's genuinely attracted to Roxane, of course, but we might question how enduring that attachment might prove to be. Unfortunately, I feel that the Christian of the Ferrer film falls into this category.
His personality is blond.
Then there's Christian as having the personality and impossible-to-resist eyes of a particularly winsome puppy, all youthful enthusiasm and helpless affection. I'd put the '25 Christian in this category.
Bless. But I do see in both of these an interpretative tendency to make Christian less perceptive -- more of a himbo, if you will -- than he is. I think the text forestalls that option, though:
CHRISTIAN:
Las ! je suis sot à m'en tuer de honte !
CYRANO:
Mais non, tu ne l'es pas, puisque tu t'en rends compte.
But I don't really know what to do with that. Is Christian's fundamental tragedy that he's not quite perceptive enough? To what extent does he come to experience the collaboration with Cyrano, so welcome at the beginning, as "having a rival within himself"? Do we read that as something that has been bothering him (profoundly? intermittently? as a persistent niggle?), or as an expression of frustration in a particularly fraught moment? One of the things that torments me about that scene is, predictably, the canon law. Within minutes of finding out that Cyrano has been writing twice a day and that Roxane loves the soul of the man who has been writing to her, he's saying, "Well, the marriage was clandestine and without witnesses; it could be annulled!" Christian's not dumb! He's just... not on Cyrano and Roxane's level.
Since I've mentioned several other film Christians, I feel I owe it to Vincent Perez to say that I feel I have a very clear idea of what his Christian's experiences and relationships and emotions are; I just still don't feel that I know him as a person. In conclusion: who is this guy? Opinions? Thoughts?
