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The good thing is, nothing’s really stressful after the King in Yellow’s had his say.
The bad thing is, when things are stressful, he’s got pretty much one arrow in his quiver, acquired after years of turning into a pliant little toy to save himself.
He figures it out pretty damn quick, which helps mitigate it once he’s on the force. The days right after he’s been freed are awful, his body wound so tight it creaks with pain, the wheels of his mind spinning uselessly. He keeps waking up in strangers’ beds - men, women, both, it doesn’t matter. One memorable night, he crawls his way into a bar and ends up in a circle of men, making pitiful sounds as he’s fucked over and over again, come painting him, his brain blissfully quiet as he’s utterly ruined.
At least he doesn’t have to figure out how to pay for motels.
When the stress comes on, he’s usually able to catch it early enough that he can slip into some dark joint. He feels like a drooling animal, begging to be touched, shacking up with whoever gets their paws on him first.
Key word: Usually.
Sometimes, though, when the case load is heavy and full of dead ends, he loses it in the station. If Jackson’s there to catch it, it’s not so bad. They sneak off to the evidence room or bathroom or supply closet, and Jackson lets Noel suck him dry, or pounds him ruthlessly until he’s wailing against Jackson’s palm. If Jackson’s not there - well. Let’s just say he’s earned himself two reputations. One: That he’s a damn good detective. The other: That he’s an indiscriminate whore. Nobody talks about the second one, not around him, thank God. It’s bad enough that it happens.
Whatever. Everyone’s got their vices.
Then, Arthur Lester arrives. They make a plan to take down the Order of the Fallen Star. Noel tells himself, over and over, that it’ll be fine. He’ll keep his head on straight. Nothing stresses him out, not after the King in Yellow.
Then, the King in Yellow unfurls from Larson’s body.
Stressed is an understatement.
He is immediately, painfully hard. The only thing that keeps him from getting on his knees and sucking Arthur’s cock then and there is - is - God only knows. He forgets how to think. He forgets the plan. The only space left in his mind is dedicated to the fact that everyone in the room is wearing a mask, and, therefore, no one need know who, exactly, is getting fucked stupid. Saliva collects in his mouth. He can’t help but grope his aching cock through his robes as the King in Yellow makes a man break his own face in.
Talk about sick.
He manages to follow Arthur, but that’s just because he would do anything Arthur asked of him. He stares, hypnotized, at Arthur’s ass as they hurry down the hall. Charlie can’t take it anymore. He is aware enough to recognize that he’ll be totally useless if he doesn’t get fucked. He stops and yanks on Arthur’s sleeve. He opens his mouth to explain.
What comes out is, “Touch me.”
Arthur freezes. “What?”
“Please,” Charlie says. “I need your cock inside of me.”
“What?”
“Right now,” Charlie says, dropping to his knees. He crawls forward and paws at Arthur’s robe. “I need you, need your cock, you don’t understand, right now, now, please, Arthur, doll, please - ”
Arthur takes several steps back. “Noel! Get ahold of yourself!” He sounds panicked and furious. Noel gets it. He does.
Still - Charlie fumbles with his robes and suit and yanks out his cock. “You don’t understand,” he moans. “Need you, need you, I can’t do this without you, make me come, Arthur, John, anyone, anyone - ”
He’s too far gone to feel ashamed of himself. That’ll come later. It always does.
He crawls after Arthur. This time, Arthur doesn’t pull back. “I don’t understand,” he says. He jolts as Charlie starts frantically pulling at his clothes. His left hand grabs him by the hair, and Charlie moans, loud, leaning into it. “Detective!”
“I know,” he says. “I know I’m a sick freak, I know, but you don’t understand, if you don’t fuck me, they will, and - and it’ll be worse, and - it’ll be over soon, I promise, just make me come, let me make you come, it’ll be good, I’ll be good, I’ll - ”
“Okay! Fine! Jesus Christ. What the fuck. What the fuck! We don’t have time for this!”
“I know,” Charlie groans. “I’m so sorry. Punish me, Arthur, put me in my place. I’ll do anything. Anything.”
“This isn’t happening. Fucking hell. He’s really - ? Oh, oh fuck,” breaking out in a low moan, because Charlie has managed to free his prick and sucked it right down.
He lost his gag reflex a long time ago.
It doesn’t take long, at least. He sucks Arthur until he’s hard as a rock, then scrambles to his feet, braces against a wall, and spreads his hole. Arthur ruts into him, cursing, breathing hard. Arthur comes first, and then his left hand, which has been working Charlie’s cock all the while, picks up the pace. He brings him off with his cock going soft inside of him.
The fog clears. The shame comes, right on cue. “I’m so sorry,” Noel says. “I’m so fucking sorry. We need to go.”
“What the hell,” Arthur pants, “was that?”
“I’ll explain later,” he says, hurriedly fastening his clothes. “Just…” He doesn’t know what to say. “Listen, kid. I mean it when I say this King is the real deal…”