#connfidencegame

[bigblue]

It was hard for Charlie to remember the last time someone told him he had done good - and meant those words. Not a victim of a con believing his lies, not his mother repeating platitudes when illness had her too far gone; but a genuine compliment that suggested that, deep down, the grifter had some hidden goodness in his soul.

He didn't - it was wasted on a guy like him, surely. But when Clark said it, it felt like Charlie was the one falling for some cosmic scam. It was impossible (it had to be) but slowly, he started to take these words to heart; and before long, Clark had him feeling things.

Good things - beyond the self-loathing the the cynicism.

Deep down, the conman blamed it all on Clark's biology - surely those from Krypton could manipulate his thoughts or emotions; Charlie was willing to believe almost anything about aliens at that point in his life, after feeling like the Earth's greatest fool for not realizing who Clark Kent truly was; but now that the secrets were no more, he struggled to understand the nervousness that seemed to be controlling Kal at that moment.

"What is it, Kal?" Charlie frowned at him, leaning backwards in the bed - he was only half-dressed after shower and Kal's looks had suggested that putting on anything would be a waste of time, a need Charlie was just too happy to oblige after so long dancing around each other's presence, "What is wrong?"

— from @connfidencegame, unprompted.

The day had gone so well that it felt... well, natural to get here, at the risk of sounding like a big cheese. Over the past few weeks, following the arrest of Claudia Manchester, he'd taken Charlie to dinners, two movies, and even a space museum, and after the last date ended in a passionate kiss that left Kal breathless in front of Charlie's door, it had taken every ounce of self-control he had not to muscle into his apartment and shove him against the nearest solid surface. Charlie hadn't invited him up, and so Kal would respect him for it.

Today, though, it was Kal who invited Charlie in. And it was Kal who kissed Charlie as he guided him into his home, only tangentially remembering to lock the door behind him until minutes were spent against the counter of his kitchen.

"I want more," he'd whispered then, hands carefully squeezing Charlie's waist. And then Charlie said yes, and Kal's heart jumped into his throat.

He didn't argue Charlie's need for a shower, certain that that was a thing people did before sleeping together. He'd even sat with his back to the bathroom to make sure he didn't accidentally peer at him with his X-ray vision. Then when Charlie came out, and they kissed some more, and Kal's heart fluttered because oh, he smells like my shampoo, the man found his way on his bed with such ease it was like a tornado went through his room.

Kal's shirt came off easily. Then his belt was undone, his pants unfastened, and as he crawled into bed and thought about the feel of Charlie's naked skin against his own...

Frankly, he didn't realise he'd frozen until Charlie spoke up.

Kal blinked. His hand was on Charlie's cheek, and the other was resting on his waist. "Oh.

"No, I... nothing's wrong." The word felt too negative, especially when his blood was still pumping warm in his veins. Kal chuckled sheepishly, shaking his head. "Definitely, absolutely, certainly nothing wrong, I just thought... I realised..."

He licked his lips, meeting Charlie's eyes with a sheepish little twinkle in his own.

"No-one's seen me down there. Not until you. And I'm not nervous, I'm excited, but I also never told you..." Kal sat back, and in an attempt to stay connected kept his hands atop both of Charlie's thighs. "I'm not, uh, completely human-shaped. Down there."

[dicktingle]

@connfidencegame, plotted starter.

Despite the project he had due tomorrow, Zeke dropped everything as soon as Charlie called.

She's gone, he said. And just because they'd been waiting for it to happen didn't mean it was any easier to deal with.

The drive to Charlie's place took a little over two hours. When Zeke finally parked his (beat up) truck, he stepped outside in flip flops, a tank top, and baggy shorts with so many holes in their pockets it was a miracle his keys didn't fall out. He ran all the way to the front door, sticking the copy of the key Charlie had given him in, and swallowed thickly against the nerves building inside him.

Entering his home, you wouldn't think that someone just died in it. But then again, what did death even feel like when you weren't the one experiencing it? Zeke almost expected it to be obvious-- like Madeline would be dead on the floor or the couch, or the house would smell weird, or that he might find Charlie sobbing uncontrollably-- but all he got was quiet. If not for Charlie's phone call earlier, and for his own promise that he was on his way, all right? I'm comin', sweetheart, Zeke might believe that things were normal.

But nothing would be normal for Charlie again.

"Charlie?" he called, walking through the house in a well-intentioned attempt to find him. Zeke's fingers traced the walls as he went, and he shuddered at the thought Madeline would never walk through these halls again. She wasn't his mother, but what moments he was allowed with her in her sickness had always been kind. Part of Zeke had hoped she'd be there when he asked Charlie to marry him-- South Carolina was bound to join the other states soon, he knew it-- and it twisted his stomach to know that that would never be.

"Charlie, baby? I'm here."

God, where was he? Ever since Zeke heard him over the phone all he wanted to do was hold him. The thought of Charlie having to be alone through any of this made him utterly sick to his stomach.

"Hey..."

And so it was that the moment Charlie showed up in his vision, holding him was exactly what Zeke was going to do.

[mirrorfangs]

"I can't say how much I appreciate you taking the time to come here," Charlie said with a smile that could light up the entire room - something about the boyish charm that paired well with the twin pools of intense blue and made him so damn disarming. No one would look at him and suspect of foul play - at least not initially; and surely not Anton Shepard, the talented artist who had been more than eager to talk about his work and go out for dinners since they had met at a vernissage.

(Well, perhaps 'dinner' was not the best term to describe what happened when they met - Anton didn't seem very hungry for much but Charlie, what was not at all a problem.)

The basement of the house Charlie was renting out had been fitted to look like something more proper for art storage - racks, cabinets and all sort of boxes were there, piled following rigid rules to prevent artwork for bending or getting exposed to the wrong conditions. Even the room itself had the temperature under control - from the outside, it did look like the home to an art dealer and who specialized in sourcing rare items... As well as introducing new artists to prospective buyers and collectors.

Anton was his last mark - someone with the financial means to acquire a lost Caravaggio. The artist was brought over to Charlie's residence under the excuse of taking a look at the painting to help authenticate it, but the gamble wasn't even selling it for an astronomical price to the other man - that was just a nice plus.

He had already scammed Anton out of so much using false deals with anonymous collectors that did not exist; if he bought the sophisticated forgery prepared as a last trap, that would be the final bonus.

"I never brought anyone here before - I'm kind of nervous," Charlie said at the bottom of the stairs, flickering the lights on and looking at his guest who was still at the last steps of the way and towering over the other male. Gods - Anton was pretty; impossibly pretty, like a renaissance angel. It almost made something deep inside Charles twist uncomfortably knowing that he would cause that face to cry.

— from @connfidencegame, unprompted.

To Anton, the whole thing still felt like a faerie tale, even if all signs pointed to the reality that it wasn't. He'd been blessed with a multifaceted education in the arts, art history, and preservation (his father, despite all his social failings, was the most supportive parent anyone could ask for), and he knew ever since the first piece he purchased that he was buying forgeries. But in Anton's mind, Charlie sold these things for a reason, and if he was helping the man pay his rent, or any of his debts, or anything related to the trials and tribulations of being a grown-up in the city, then these purchases were worth every thousand dollars spent.

Besides, Anton was sure all these sales made Charlie happy. And if he was lucky, really lucky, then maybe even he made Charlie happy-- not only in the smiles that Charlie wore around him (Christ, Anton had to stop himself from kissing him each time he saw them), but in the way that lingered so deep under your skin it almost felt like an infection. In the wake of their many trysts, Anton always felt a euphoria so deep in his bones it almost terrified him-- that this was right, that Charlie was everything, that he'd give his false, undead heart if that meant Charlie would never want for anything again-- but Charlie was just that special, wasn't he? And Anton was blessed to be the man that gave him whatever he needed.

As he met Charlie down the steps, the hand that curved over the other man's hip came unbidden. It wasn't enough to fully restrain him, not when this was Charlie's space, but the mix of comfort and affection was clear.

"You're great at what you do, Charlie," he reassured him, dipping his head to press a kiss to his shoulder. "You've never failed me before."

And even if Anton was speaking more to Charlie's talents in art instead of appraisal, the sentiment was sincere. He'd decorated his studio workshop with every single painting Charlie had sold him-- the epic crescendo of hours upon hours of work, and gallons and gallons of paint and coffee, and all the other little things forgers used to make their work more authentic. Sometimes Anton looked at them and imagined Charlie hard at work, meticulously examining every detail to make sure everything was perfect, and just the thought of that made him fall more and more in love.

He made these with his beautiful hands, and they're all mine now.

It took an awful lot of self-control not to hold said hands as Charlie led him deeper into his basement, but the soft wow that left his lips at the sight of the offered painting was genuine.

"Tell me how you got a hold of this one, again?" Hands in his pockets, Anton leaned in to admire every brush stroke on the canvas, and his dead heart fluttered at the thought of Charlie working so damn hard to get it right. "Any painting from his exile period couldn't have been easy to find, I'm sure."

[dicktingle]

“ i never really cared about impressing anyone until i met you . ”

— from @connfidencegame, meme.

Zeke blinked, looking down at where Charlie still laid on his chest. By now he was comfortable enough to just thread his fingers through his hair, absentminded and blissful; the thought of having to talk about anything real made him furrow his brows.

"You always do," he said, his touch drifting over the nape of Charlie's neck and back up again. The way Zeke spoke, it was like he couldn't believe Charlie would even say such a thing.

"You know so much about the world. Bet'cha could go on Jeopardy and win us so much money we could both go to college."

Shifting slightly, Zeke's free hand moved to touch Charlie's hip. These last few weeks of summer vacation before he moved two hours away were terribly bittersweet.

"...you're amazin', Charlie." His lips tugged up into a crooked smile. "Maybe a li'l moody sometimes, but god damn amazing all the same. And you always will be to me."

[hyperstimuli]

@connfidencegame // semi-plotted starter.

Staring at himself in the full length mirror, Chandra's expression was less than impressed. Typically he was better at reeling these reactions in, but without Rohan around he felt less inclined to appear agreeable. Especially since Charlie had fitted him in something so--

"This makes me look like I'm going to an uncle's wedding." Chandra's nose crinkled, fingers absently tugging at the collar fabric against his neck. "And that he's flamboyantly gay. There isn't even gay marriage in India."

--gods, the only word that was coming to mind was "tacky".

Chandra had been hesitant about wearing a sherwani, but now he was certain he looked a damn fool. These were wedding clothes, not fancy dinner clothes, and the shine of the threads used to make the floral patterns on the long coat made him stick out more than he ever had since leaving home. Straightening his hands over the material, Chandra shivered; the softness of it, no doubt a luxury, made him feel like a bride, even if the purples and golds evoked some sense of majesty.

"You know rich Indians wear western suits these days, right? It's the 2010's..." He turned, caught sight of the turban, sash, and miscellaneous jewellery waiting on the table, and then let his gaze flick in Charlie's direction to state: "I am not putting those on.

"You're just gonna have to teach me how to act better."

[mirrorfangs]

@connfidencegame, plotted starter.

Looking over the body curled up in its cage, Dajian realised he'd forgotten how disgusting humans got when they weren't cared for. When they first pulled this one off the street, he'd looked so damn smart-- not only in his attire, but in the wavy style of his hair, too.

Now his clothes were dirty, and they reeked of the sweat that they were stained with. His hair was greasy, his facial hair unkempt, and with the lack of nutrition and the definite dehydration, even his blood was beginning to reek. The Wei Coven's captive was now a far cry from the tempting meal they dragged here only a week before, and in a way it was almost depressing to look at.

But not depressing enough to keep Dajian from kicking the cage hard enough to rattle.

"Wake up, mongrel!" he called, knocking the rings on his fingers against the metal bars to make as much noise as possible. "Remember when I said I'd bring you a surprise at sunset?"

The night before, after four days of his men failing to extract any answers from this Charlie (the first two days were spent making him physically weak-- Charlie hadn't been allowed to sleep or eat, and was only given enough water to sip every six hours until the 48-hour period ended), Dajian elected to take over the work himself. Yesterday had been the first time he laid a violent hand on Charlie's body, even if it might be more accurate to say a violent "foot" instead with his preference for kicking. Dajian imagined the man was curled up because of stomach pain; he could only hope it made him suffer, considering that was where he kicked the most for every non-answer.

After Dajian finished beating him the night before, he had one of their meat stores brought to him and made a show of having his dinner-- a pretty, middle-aged woman that sobbed and pleaded for mercy-- in front of him. He could remember Charlie's horror when he ripped into her throat, and how acrid his blood had scented in his fear. Dajian even revelled in it when he allowed his men to feast at the same time, draining their human pig until it was a pale husk of flesh and bone. The corpse was left behind for Charlie to look at, and was only removed when he fell asleep.

"This is your last chance to tell me everything you know about Gavin and his Queen, concubine," he growled, rings tapping one-by-one on the bars. "Or else you're finding out what we look like when we're starving."

If Charlie strained to listen, he'd hear the muffled growling in the shadows of the room, even if it was drowned by the rattling of chains accompanying it.