Lost Fiction, "Want" (Charlie/Claire)
Oct. 30th, 2004 07:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ciirceeJust to note (mainly to remind myself): I'll go through the other entries and change the subject lines to include the pairings or characters in the fics posted.
Disclaimer: ABC and the Lost Creators own Lost and all its rights. I’m just having fun.
Rating: Um. Hard R? NC-17? I don’t know. Porn. There. That’s my rating.
Dedication: Actually, to Misbegotten…simply because I enjoyed her smut and thought that there needed to be more porn on the internet.
Want
Oh, it was wrong. It was so wrong. Claire bit her lip, hesitating at the mouth of the caves. It was so much more than wrong. It was Charlie. She didn’t bother to look back to see if anybody was watching her leave; they’d think what they’d want and it probably wouldn’t be anywhere near the truth. She slipped out into the surrounding jungle, sighing in relief as she did so.
She knew where to find him. Instinct or subconscious, she could always find him. And find him she did, always. Whenever his cravings got to be too much she’d follow after him, find him, stay with him. Claire never told him. She always left before he did. Maybe one day she would tell him, maybe she’d be waiting when he turned to leave, but until then it was best if he didn’t know that he had an audience.
The sight of him made her stop in her tracks. The image he made, leaning hard into the sturdy trunk of a tree, one arm braced and pillowing his head, caught her breath and then took it away. She knew that they were well out of ear-shot of the encampment at the caves. Even if she screamed, or he did, the others probably wouldn’t hear; the thought sent a chill down her spine.
“Come on, Charlie,” she murmured, leaning against a tree of her own, well back from the clearing he occupied. “Lose the shirt.” She could see the sweat darkening the material and knew the heat and the humidity had to be getting to him. “Just this one time,” she pleaded; because it wasn’t the noon-day temperature or the muggy tropical air that was making him sweat, it was his own hand, already sliding down the zip of his jeans and sliding inside.
He didn’t take his shirt off and even though Claire had known that he wouldn’t, that he never did, she couldn’t help her faint moan of disappointment. She wanted to see his chest, see the way the sweat made it glisten and know if the dampness would make the hair there curl. Thinking about it made her shiver, made her hold back another moan. She wasn’t afraid that Charlie would hear her but she was afraid of missing the sounds he made on a day like today.
Charlie was usually vocal, and never seemed at all shy about it. But today he was biting into his bottom lip so hard that he was all but drawing blood. He was biting back her name and Claire knew it. She’d seen him fight himself before, knew every grimace of effort and every twist of his body as he tried to physically block whatever images pounded at him. She knew he’d lose. He always did. It was only a matter of time. She pressed her overheated cheek against the cool, smooth bark and waited.
She let her eyes trace the knotted swell of his bicep, followed the line of corded muscles flexing in his forearm and wanted to trace it with her tongue…all the way down to the quick snap of his wrist as he touched himself. There was sweat gleaming in the dapples of sunlight the canopy let through and she wanted to taste the salt of him so badly her mouth watered. Charlie wouldn’t taste of the brine-salt of the ocean, wouldn’t taste of hard work or hot weather. Charlie would taste like lust. Like sex and straining muscles. She could almost feel the sizzle of it, sharp on her tongue. It had been so long and Claire had always loved sex. And Charlie was so lovely hot.
“Fuck, please,” his voice broke the hush, eclipsing every sound of nearby nature. Claire’s lips parted in an involuntary gasp. Charlie’s cock was only visible in flashes, hidden by the triangle of open denim and his narrow, tapered fingers but those brief glimpses made her blood swoop dizzyingly.
Her head tipped back and for a moment she had to fight to keep her eyes open and on him. “Charlie,” she whispered, and wished yet again that reaching around the bulge of her stomach weren’t so awkward and painful.
In the clearing, Charlie shook his head, pressing harder into his arm. His head shook in denial even as he moaned in a forbidden pleasure. “Claire. Claire, fuck.”
Just the sound of her name, released in a panting whimper as his hand moved faster, worked harder, made her shudder. “Yeah, Charlie,” she sighed “please.”
“No, God, no, can’t,” he was groaning. His hand faltered and his speed failed. Claire’s eyes snapped open and she fixed her gaze on him. She didn’t want to miss this. “Fuck, think of Kate, you cunting prick.” He made her smile. Not the amused smile or the gentle smile or any other that he’d recognize. It felt predatory. “Kate,” and his hand was fumbling. “Shannon.” He tightened his grip, desperation was written into the gesture, onto his face. “Bloody christ…Sun.”
Claire arched her back, her breath coming faster. “Me, Charlie,” she ordered him, watching as he continued to shake his head no. “Think of me. You want to. You want me. You want me to do whatever you want.”
Almost as if he had heard her, he broke. “Oh, fucking help me,” he begged as his hand twisted savagely over the sensitive head of his cock. “Please, Claire, please, oh bloody hell, please.” His whole body jolted with it and Claire felt a rush of heat at her own power, her power over him. That she could overcome any defenses he was mounting stroked her in all the right places.
“I want to,” she moaned. Her lips felt kiss-swollen and sensitive and her breasts ached with tingles like the prickling of stubble. She slid her hand over her neck as he closed his eyes, dragging her fingers along the sensitive spot just under her ear and down along her collarbone. She trailed them lightly, teasingly, over her breasts flirting briefly with her nipples before clutching the tree that supported her with both hands. Charlie was almost finished. She had to leave soon and there wasn’t time enough for her to find any relief. Not that she was sure she wanted to let go of the delicious hunger that haunted her. Now wasn’t the time. Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.
Only a few feet away Charlie was still swearing and praying and saying her name. More than almost anything Claire wanted to go to him, to demand a filthy, rough voiced monologue of all the nasty, wonderful things he wanted to do to her. The things he wanted her to do to him. She wanted to demand a demonstration. She wanted to sink her nails into the strength of his shoulders and score a red trail down his back that wouldn’t fade until they’d done everything twice and she’d kissed her way back up it. She wanted him stroking into her as fast and as hard as he was stroking himself. She wanted him shaking with the force of having her and holding back. She wanted Charlie to break in her arms so that she could steal all his pieces.
Then he was coming, with only her name left to him, the helpless ecstasy painting him like agony. Claire felt the familiar mix of satisfaction and regret swirl in as she watched him trying to catch his breath. His face was turned toward her, his lashes fluttering darkly against his cheek. As she stepped back his eyes opened, still tumultuous with the passing storm.
Claire froze. She was in shadow, several sizable trees and vines were between them. He didn’t see her. He couldn’t. She held her breath, waiting, muscles going tight with anticipation. She became more aware than ever of her own wetness, the throb and clench of her body. “Come on,” she breathed. “Come on, Charlie, come on.”
Charlie looked away, pushed away from his tree and looked down at his hands. “I’m such a sodding mess,” he muttered, so lowly that she barely heard him.
Claire turned and fled, not staying to watch him tuck himself back into his jeans or wash his hands with his bottle of water. There would be another day when the cravings became more than they could stand.
Disclaimer: ABC and the Lost Creators own Lost and all its rights. I’m just having fun.
Rating: Um. Hard R? NC-17? I don’t know. Porn. There. That’s my rating.
Dedication: Actually, to Misbegotten…simply because I enjoyed her smut and thought that there needed to be more porn on the internet.
Want
Oh, it was wrong. It was so wrong. Claire bit her lip, hesitating at the mouth of the caves. It was so much more than wrong. It was Charlie. She didn’t bother to look back to see if anybody was watching her leave; they’d think what they’d want and it probably wouldn’t be anywhere near the truth. She slipped out into the surrounding jungle, sighing in relief as she did so.
She knew where to find him. Instinct or subconscious, she could always find him. And find him she did, always. Whenever his cravings got to be too much she’d follow after him, find him, stay with him. Claire never told him. She always left before he did. Maybe one day she would tell him, maybe she’d be waiting when he turned to leave, but until then it was best if he didn’t know that he had an audience.
The sight of him made her stop in her tracks. The image he made, leaning hard into the sturdy trunk of a tree, one arm braced and pillowing his head, caught her breath and then took it away. She knew that they were well out of ear-shot of the encampment at the caves. Even if she screamed, or he did, the others probably wouldn’t hear; the thought sent a chill down her spine.
“Come on, Charlie,” she murmured, leaning against a tree of her own, well back from the clearing he occupied. “Lose the shirt.” She could see the sweat darkening the material and knew the heat and the humidity had to be getting to him. “Just this one time,” she pleaded; because it wasn’t the noon-day temperature or the muggy tropical air that was making him sweat, it was his own hand, already sliding down the zip of his jeans and sliding inside.
He didn’t take his shirt off and even though Claire had known that he wouldn’t, that he never did, she couldn’t help her faint moan of disappointment. She wanted to see his chest, see the way the sweat made it glisten and know if the dampness would make the hair there curl. Thinking about it made her shiver, made her hold back another moan. She wasn’t afraid that Charlie would hear her but she was afraid of missing the sounds he made on a day like today.
Charlie was usually vocal, and never seemed at all shy about it. But today he was biting into his bottom lip so hard that he was all but drawing blood. He was biting back her name and Claire knew it. She’d seen him fight himself before, knew every grimace of effort and every twist of his body as he tried to physically block whatever images pounded at him. She knew he’d lose. He always did. It was only a matter of time. She pressed her overheated cheek against the cool, smooth bark and waited.
She let her eyes trace the knotted swell of his bicep, followed the line of corded muscles flexing in his forearm and wanted to trace it with her tongue…all the way down to the quick snap of his wrist as he touched himself. There was sweat gleaming in the dapples of sunlight the canopy let through and she wanted to taste the salt of him so badly her mouth watered. Charlie wouldn’t taste of the brine-salt of the ocean, wouldn’t taste of hard work or hot weather. Charlie would taste like lust. Like sex and straining muscles. She could almost feel the sizzle of it, sharp on her tongue. It had been so long and Claire had always loved sex. And Charlie was so lovely hot.
“Fuck, please,” his voice broke the hush, eclipsing every sound of nearby nature. Claire’s lips parted in an involuntary gasp. Charlie’s cock was only visible in flashes, hidden by the triangle of open denim and his narrow, tapered fingers but those brief glimpses made her blood swoop dizzyingly.
Her head tipped back and for a moment she had to fight to keep her eyes open and on him. “Charlie,” she whispered, and wished yet again that reaching around the bulge of her stomach weren’t so awkward and painful.
In the clearing, Charlie shook his head, pressing harder into his arm. His head shook in denial even as he moaned in a forbidden pleasure. “Claire. Claire, fuck.”
Just the sound of her name, released in a panting whimper as his hand moved faster, worked harder, made her shudder. “Yeah, Charlie,” she sighed “please.”
“No, God, no, can’t,” he was groaning. His hand faltered and his speed failed. Claire’s eyes snapped open and she fixed her gaze on him. She didn’t want to miss this. “Fuck, think of Kate, you cunting prick.” He made her smile. Not the amused smile or the gentle smile or any other that he’d recognize. It felt predatory. “Kate,” and his hand was fumbling. “Shannon.” He tightened his grip, desperation was written into the gesture, onto his face. “Bloody christ…Sun.”
Claire arched her back, her breath coming faster. “Me, Charlie,” she ordered him, watching as he continued to shake his head no. “Think of me. You want to. You want me. You want me to do whatever you want.”
Almost as if he had heard her, he broke. “Oh, fucking help me,” he begged as his hand twisted savagely over the sensitive head of his cock. “Please, Claire, please, oh bloody hell, please.” His whole body jolted with it and Claire felt a rush of heat at her own power, her power over him. That she could overcome any defenses he was mounting stroked her in all the right places.
“I want to,” she moaned. Her lips felt kiss-swollen and sensitive and her breasts ached with tingles like the prickling of stubble. She slid her hand over her neck as he closed his eyes, dragging her fingers along the sensitive spot just under her ear and down along her collarbone. She trailed them lightly, teasingly, over her breasts flirting briefly with her nipples before clutching the tree that supported her with both hands. Charlie was almost finished. She had to leave soon and there wasn’t time enough for her to find any relief. Not that she was sure she wanted to let go of the delicious hunger that haunted her. Now wasn’t the time. Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.
Only a few feet away Charlie was still swearing and praying and saying her name. More than almost anything Claire wanted to go to him, to demand a filthy, rough voiced monologue of all the nasty, wonderful things he wanted to do to her. The things he wanted her to do to him. She wanted to demand a demonstration. She wanted to sink her nails into the strength of his shoulders and score a red trail down his back that wouldn’t fade until they’d done everything twice and she’d kissed her way back up it. She wanted him stroking into her as fast and as hard as he was stroking himself. She wanted him shaking with the force of having her and holding back. She wanted Charlie to break in her arms so that she could steal all his pieces.
Then he was coming, with only her name left to him, the helpless ecstasy painting him like agony. Claire felt the familiar mix of satisfaction and regret swirl in as she watched him trying to catch his breath. His face was turned toward her, his lashes fluttering darkly against his cheek. As she stepped back his eyes opened, still tumultuous with the passing storm.
Claire froze. She was in shadow, several sizable trees and vines were between them. He didn’t see her. He couldn’t. She held her breath, waiting, muscles going tight with anticipation. She became more aware than ever of her own wetness, the throb and clench of her body. “Come on,” she breathed. “Come on, Charlie, come on.”
Charlie looked away, pushed away from his tree and looked down at his hands. “I’m such a sodding mess,” he muttered, so lowly that she barely heard him.
Claire turned and fled, not staying to watch him tuck himself back into his jeans or wash his hands with his bottle of water. There would be another day when the cravings became more than they could stand.
