*cough* *clears throat* I hope that title means you did want smut. Ahem. Abracadabra-verse, just for you. ♥
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The shift in his dreams was so slow and subtle that he barely noticed it. The chaotic imagery of the subconscious mind turned, condensed, and like pouring sugar into cream he felt it solidify, reform into something familiar and sweet, something desired. Another sifting, another push and he knew unthinking that he was making love, strangely still, dark hair gleaming against the pillows beneath them and white thighs locked around his waist, everything in slow motion except the low and desperate sounds of a familiar voice, rising in pleasure.
Then he felt real warmth and he was suddenly awake, shaken with unexpected ecstasy, and the voice was familiar because it was his own, and not Wonka’s. Wonka was incapable of speech just now, because his head was buried between Charlie’s legs.
“Oh fucking Christ,” Charlie breathed, astonished, entirely unguarded.
The obscenity was enough to distract Wonka from his purpose, lifting his head to regard his erstwhile protégée with smoky but reproachful eyes and beautifully swollen lips. “Charlie,” he said, stern, but closing his eyes for a moment as he rubbed one smooth, smooth cheek against the rigid length of Charlie’s erection.
“Oh God,” Charlie pleaded, his own eyes closing, his back arching up in silent supplication. “Don’t stop!”
Always a tease, Wonka brushed against him with his lips, tonguing just below the head until Charlie cried out again, wordless but wanting. “I wouldn’t,” he promised then, and drew in a breath before sliding Charlie deep into his mouth once more, into the warmth of his throat.
Shaking, Charlie arched back against the sheets, fingers tangling into the silk and toes helplessly curling. “You might,” he gasped, barely audible. “But I would forgive you for that, too.”
Re: smut???
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The shift in his dreams was so slow and subtle that he barely noticed it. The chaotic imagery of the subconscious mind turned, condensed, and like pouring sugar into cream he felt it solidify, reform into something familiar and sweet, something desired. Another sifting, another push and he knew unthinking that he was making love, strangely still, dark hair gleaming against the pillows beneath them and white thighs locked around his waist, everything in slow motion except the low and desperate sounds of a familiar voice, rising in pleasure.
Then he felt real warmth and he was suddenly awake, shaken with unexpected ecstasy, and the voice was familiar because it was his own, and not Wonka’s. Wonka was incapable of speech just now, because his head was buried between Charlie’s legs.
“Oh fucking Christ,” Charlie breathed, astonished, entirely unguarded.
The obscenity was enough to distract Wonka from his purpose, lifting his head to regard his erstwhile protégée with smoky but reproachful eyes and beautifully swollen lips. “Charlie,” he said, stern, but closing his eyes for a moment as he rubbed one smooth, smooth cheek against the rigid length of Charlie’s erection.
“Oh God,” Charlie pleaded, his own eyes closing, his back arching up in silent supplication. “Don’t stop!”
Always a tease, Wonka brushed against him with his lips, tonguing just below the head until Charlie cried out again, wordless but wanting. “I wouldn’t,” he promised then, and drew in a breath before sliding Charlie deep into his mouth once more, into the warmth of his throat.
Shaking, Charlie arched back against the sheets, fingers tangling into the silk and toes helplessly curling. “You might,” he gasped, barely audible. “But I would forgive you for that, too.”