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ciirceeAs you can see from the subject line, this is NOT what I meant to write. I was aiming to write a Charlie-POV companion piece to 'Want'. I got stuck and decided to try and brainstorm ideas.
Charlie Pace, however, decided to go on a cracked-out, lust-addled, rambling spree of the first magnitude.
Um. Oops?
Not the Smut it Was Supposed to Be
Claire’s hands are cool against his too-warm skin, but they’re not cooling him off in the slightest. They leave trails of heat in their wake, incendiary paths that mega-multiply with every new burst of sensation and every second of ceased contact. Simply put, Claire makes Charlie writhe and burn and choke on his own bitten-back sobs of wanting whether or not she’s even touching him.
Of course, he feels like a worm. He tries (god, does he ever) to keep Claire out of his fantasies and even though he’s lived the past few years as a hedonistic sinner, Charlie would like to believe that he does still have a shred or two of decency left to his name. He blames the island for what Claire does to him, for all the times that he’s come with Claire touching him and whispering a litany of filthy, heady encouragement in his ear. Then she bites it and Charlie just shudders with the sensation. He feels like even more of a worm when he loses his train of thought and hops aboard the good, old, lust-bus and when he thinks of that, he has to stop himself from wondering if Claire would want to do him on a bus. Just for thrills. He’d do her on a bus without a second thought. Of course, they’d get kicked off and have to hire a cab to get to wherever it is that they were going. Hopefully it was home or a hotel or someplace with a bed. Or a couch. Or a really comfy floor. Charlie’s not that particular and the Claire who lets him do her on the bus isn’t either.
Locke told him that the island gives you what you want, once you give it what it wants. Charlie didn’t know that the island wanted heroin so badly that it’d give him both the guitar and the girl, but there you go. He’s dead certain the island is the reason he sees Claire every, single, bloody time he wanders out to have a wank. It’s not just that he wants her (god, does he ever) it’s that he can’t keep her away. At his age, he should be able to pick a woman and stick to her instead of lapsing into perverted daydreams about a pregnant girl.
And just what does it say about him that he finds that so sexy? That’s a baby in there, making her both pregnant and somebody’s mother. He knows this and it still doesn’t make him any less hard. He figures it’s the way that her breasts swell lushly right above that voluptuous looking curve and he thinks ‘ripe’ and that makes him think of all sorts of fruit and, hey, he’s always been a big fan of fruit. Luscious, sweet, mouth-watering, chin-dripping fruit. And then he starts to wonder if there are any peaches on this bloody island and if the heroin was enough to provide him with one or two. And if Claire likes peaches. He wonders that a lot, too.
He shouldn’t. Shouldn’t wonder, shouldn’t want so bad, shouldn’t close his eyes and see her, shouldn’t touch himself and hear her moans echo his. But, again, there you go. He can’t help it. He’s got an addictive personality: music, drugs, the Holy Roman Catholic Church, Claire’s sweet, innocent looking mouth torturing his cock in slow, delicious increments. Not that he’s ever had that last. The not having actually makes him worry a bit. He’s afraid that one day, instead of handing it over, he’ll upend Claire’s bottle of water and spill it all over her shirt so that he can watch the way it clings to her. Then she’ll take her top off right in front of him and demand he take care of the whole water problem he’s caused. He licks it up, which doesn’t make her any drier but does, indeed, get rid of the water.
Charlie’s a bit of a worrier because those thoughts just keep happening, even though he’s out having a wank every single day now and sometimes twice a day if Claire’s touched him. Anywhere. He has a lot of twofer days. He fights with himself, tries to get her out of his head, but he sees her. He sees her. She’s always there, standing just outside his clearing and watching him. She watches him touch himself and moan. She watches him fight with himself and says and does all sorts of things that make him lose those fights. God, he dies in those moments. He wants her to be real. He wants her to step out, step up to him. He wants her hands on him for real. Wants to put his hands all over her. He wants to feel her lick a path from the crook of his elbow to the tender skin on his inner wrist and he wants to feel her moan against him as she does it. He wants to override her half-hearted protests and lift her legs over his shoulder and spend a few hours with the slick, hot folds of her against his mouth…because there really aren’t any peaches to be had. And he’s really greedy. This he admits freely.
She’s not exactly living the life of voluntary sexual simplicity either, however. Claire’s been making him squirm and crawl and beg for what feels like months. She’s really good at it and it has very little to do with the fact that Charlie is basically a slavering, gibbering idiot bent to her will anyway. She’s got that wicked mouth, and she asks him to do such sweet, wicked things to her. Tie him up, hold him down, in exchange for even one of those requests? Yeah, Charlie’s already got the rope ready and waiting. Well, if he had any rope and if she’d ask, that is. Tighter, thanks.
The ‘er’ words. Charlie’s fallen in love with them. His next song is going to be dedicated to Claire and made up of nothing but the ‘er’ words. Tighter. Harder. Faster. Higher. Slower. Lower. Deeper. Hotter. Louder. More. Which is not technically an ‘er’ word, but has all the right parts and that makes it ironic. Or what poets call a failed rhyme. Something. Plus, it’s part of the chorus which consists of nothing but the words ‘more’ and ‘fuck’…not necessarily in that order. Possibly there will be a lot of background moaning. Some screaming, maybe. If he plays with his cards right, possibly hers. Her. That’s an ‘er’ word. Maybe it can be part of the bridge. He’ll have to see about it when he can think.
But he’s probably not going to be able to think until one or both sets of hands find their way back outside the fly of his denims. Stroking off always makes him a bit delirious, but lately it’s getting pretty hard to tell how many hands are in his pants. This is partly because Charlie’s always been very good with his hands and, when he has himself in hand, it occasionally feels like he has an extra hand in some really nice place. Claire seems to have more than her fair share as well. One of them is usually in a place that Charlie has either couldn’t reach, forgot to reach, or didn’t know he wanted to reach in the first place. His Claire is one smart girl.
Right now he’s got to get his rhetorical hands out of his metaphorical pants before he does something embarrassing like throwing himself at Claire’s feet, or, you know, having a massive orgasm right in front of everybody at the island’s dinner table.
“Charlie? Are you okay?” That’s Jack. Staring at him.
“Fine!” Charlie has a nice, bland smile that he can occasionally paste on in a pinch. Well. It’s not that bland. It’s actually pretty hyper. And he sort of looks like he’s about to have a break with reality and run naked through the nearest K-Mart. But it’s the best one he’s got for banking friendly concern.
“Are you…sure?” Kate is staring too.
“Yep! Mmm. I love mashed potatoes!” Not that there are mashed potatoes. Or any potatoes. The potato has gone the way of the peach.
“Charlie? You look feverish.” Claire says and without any preamble at all (unless you can count the ‘you look feverish’ bit and Charlie doesn’t) lays her hand against his cheek and then against the back of his neck.
“Nhrgg!” He means to be reassuring and upbeat. He’s not quite sure he’s managed it.
“Would you like me to take you to lie down?” Funny. Up close ‘concern’ looks a lot like ‘rampant lust’ mixed with ‘take the bloody hint you gigantic dingbat’. And there’s an actual, real, not-his-hand hand in his lap pressing against the hey-wow-Claire’s-hot bulge in his jeans. She doesn’t wait more than two minutes for him to try to answer her, either, which is something Charlie’s always loved about her. “I’m taking him back to the caves to lie down,” she tells everybody.
Charlie lets her lead him off toward the jungle where, he’s certain, he’s going to get backed into the nearest tree and climbed. He’s got handholds aplenty and he’s always loved exploring. And helping. Mustn’t forget the helping others thing that he’s always loved. Yup. Of course, it’s dark here in the trees, with it being night an all. He’d better hold on to Claire as she goes about having her way with…climbing. Wouldn’t want her to get hurt and oh! Her hands are cool. Cool touch on his cheek, cool touch on his skin as his zipper goes the way of the potatoes. He’d never thought her hands would be cool, despite how often he thought it. Catches her fingers and finds…well, now. Fingers generally aren’t round and covered in fuzz and smell vaguely peachy when you lift them and take a nibble. And they should taste like skin. Of this, Charlie is certain.
“Where’d you get the peach?”
“Found it the same day I lost my bra. Like it?”
Mm…sure is sticky. And tasty. And, gosh, just as messy as can be. Charlie is such a fan of fruit.
“Just how do you feel about buses?”
Charlie Pace, however, decided to go on a cracked-out, lust-addled, rambling spree of the first magnitude.
Um. Oops?
Not the Smut it Was Supposed to Be
Claire’s hands are cool against his too-warm skin, but they’re not cooling him off in the slightest. They leave trails of heat in their wake, incendiary paths that mega-multiply with every new burst of sensation and every second of ceased contact. Simply put, Claire makes Charlie writhe and burn and choke on his own bitten-back sobs of wanting whether or not she’s even touching him.
Of course, he feels like a worm. He tries (god, does he ever) to keep Claire out of his fantasies and even though he’s lived the past few years as a hedonistic sinner, Charlie would like to believe that he does still have a shred or two of decency left to his name. He blames the island for what Claire does to him, for all the times that he’s come with Claire touching him and whispering a litany of filthy, heady encouragement in his ear. Then she bites it and Charlie just shudders with the sensation. He feels like even more of a worm when he loses his train of thought and hops aboard the good, old, lust-bus and when he thinks of that, he has to stop himself from wondering if Claire would want to do him on a bus. Just for thrills. He’d do her on a bus without a second thought. Of course, they’d get kicked off and have to hire a cab to get to wherever it is that they were going. Hopefully it was home or a hotel or someplace with a bed. Or a couch. Or a really comfy floor. Charlie’s not that particular and the Claire who lets him do her on the bus isn’t either.
Locke told him that the island gives you what you want, once you give it what it wants. Charlie didn’t know that the island wanted heroin so badly that it’d give him both the guitar and the girl, but there you go. He’s dead certain the island is the reason he sees Claire every, single, bloody time he wanders out to have a wank. It’s not just that he wants her (god, does he ever) it’s that he can’t keep her away. At his age, he should be able to pick a woman and stick to her instead of lapsing into perverted daydreams about a pregnant girl.
And just what does it say about him that he finds that so sexy? That’s a baby in there, making her both pregnant and somebody’s mother. He knows this and it still doesn’t make him any less hard. He figures it’s the way that her breasts swell lushly right above that voluptuous looking curve and he thinks ‘ripe’ and that makes him think of all sorts of fruit and, hey, he’s always been a big fan of fruit. Luscious, sweet, mouth-watering, chin-dripping fruit. And then he starts to wonder if there are any peaches on this bloody island and if the heroin was enough to provide him with one or two. And if Claire likes peaches. He wonders that a lot, too.
He shouldn’t. Shouldn’t wonder, shouldn’t want so bad, shouldn’t close his eyes and see her, shouldn’t touch himself and hear her moans echo his. But, again, there you go. He can’t help it. He’s got an addictive personality: music, drugs, the Holy Roman Catholic Church, Claire’s sweet, innocent looking mouth torturing his cock in slow, delicious increments. Not that he’s ever had that last. The not having actually makes him worry a bit. He’s afraid that one day, instead of handing it over, he’ll upend Claire’s bottle of water and spill it all over her shirt so that he can watch the way it clings to her. Then she’ll take her top off right in front of him and demand he take care of the whole water problem he’s caused. He licks it up, which doesn’t make her any drier but does, indeed, get rid of the water.
Charlie’s a bit of a worrier because those thoughts just keep happening, even though he’s out having a wank every single day now and sometimes twice a day if Claire’s touched him. Anywhere. He has a lot of twofer days. He fights with himself, tries to get her out of his head, but he sees her. He sees her. She’s always there, standing just outside his clearing and watching him. She watches him touch himself and moan. She watches him fight with himself and says and does all sorts of things that make him lose those fights. God, he dies in those moments. He wants her to be real. He wants her to step out, step up to him. He wants her hands on him for real. Wants to put his hands all over her. He wants to feel her lick a path from the crook of his elbow to the tender skin on his inner wrist and he wants to feel her moan against him as she does it. He wants to override her half-hearted protests and lift her legs over his shoulder and spend a few hours with the slick, hot folds of her against his mouth…because there really aren’t any peaches to be had. And he’s really greedy. This he admits freely.
She’s not exactly living the life of voluntary sexual simplicity either, however. Claire’s been making him squirm and crawl and beg for what feels like months. She’s really good at it and it has very little to do with the fact that Charlie is basically a slavering, gibbering idiot bent to her will anyway. She’s got that wicked mouth, and she asks him to do such sweet, wicked things to her. Tie him up, hold him down, in exchange for even one of those requests? Yeah, Charlie’s already got the rope ready and waiting. Well, if he had any rope and if she’d ask, that is. Tighter, thanks.
The ‘er’ words. Charlie’s fallen in love with them. His next song is going to be dedicated to Claire and made up of nothing but the ‘er’ words. Tighter. Harder. Faster. Higher. Slower. Lower. Deeper. Hotter. Louder. More. Which is not technically an ‘er’ word, but has all the right parts and that makes it ironic. Or what poets call a failed rhyme. Something. Plus, it’s part of the chorus which consists of nothing but the words ‘more’ and ‘fuck’…not necessarily in that order. Possibly there will be a lot of background moaning. Some screaming, maybe. If he plays with his cards right, possibly hers. Her. That’s an ‘er’ word. Maybe it can be part of the bridge. He’ll have to see about it when he can think.
But he’s probably not going to be able to think until one or both sets of hands find their way back outside the fly of his denims. Stroking off always makes him a bit delirious, but lately it’s getting pretty hard to tell how many hands are in his pants. This is partly because Charlie’s always been very good with his hands and, when he has himself in hand, it occasionally feels like he has an extra hand in some really nice place. Claire seems to have more than her fair share as well. One of them is usually in a place that Charlie has either couldn’t reach, forgot to reach, or didn’t know he wanted to reach in the first place. His Claire is one smart girl.
Right now he’s got to get his rhetorical hands out of his metaphorical pants before he does something embarrassing like throwing himself at Claire’s feet, or, you know, having a massive orgasm right in front of everybody at the island’s dinner table.
“Charlie? Are you okay?” That’s Jack. Staring at him.
“Fine!” Charlie has a nice, bland smile that he can occasionally paste on in a pinch. Well. It’s not that bland. It’s actually pretty hyper. And he sort of looks like he’s about to have a break with reality and run naked through the nearest K-Mart. But it’s the best one he’s got for banking friendly concern.
“Are you…sure?” Kate is staring too.
“Yep! Mmm. I love mashed potatoes!” Not that there are mashed potatoes. Or any potatoes. The potato has gone the way of the peach.
“Charlie? You look feverish.” Claire says and without any preamble at all (unless you can count the ‘you look feverish’ bit and Charlie doesn’t) lays her hand against his cheek and then against the back of his neck.
“Nhrgg!” He means to be reassuring and upbeat. He’s not quite sure he’s managed it.
“Would you like me to take you to lie down?” Funny. Up close ‘concern’ looks a lot like ‘rampant lust’ mixed with ‘take the bloody hint you gigantic dingbat’. And there’s an actual, real, not-his-hand hand in his lap pressing against the hey-wow-Claire’s-hot bulge in his jeans. She doesn’t wait more than two minutes for him to try to answer her, either, which is something Charlie’s always loved about her. “I’m taking him back to the caves to lie down,” she tells everybody.
Charlie lets her lead him off toward the jungle where, he’s certain, he’s going to get backed into the nearest tree and climbed. He’s got handholds aplenty and he’s always loved exploring. And helping. Mustn’t forget the helping others thing that he’s always loved. Yup. Of course, it’s dark here in the trees, with it being night an all. He’d better hold on to Claire as she goes about having her way with…climbing. Wouldn’t want her to get hurt and oh! Her hands are cool. Cool touch on his cheek, cool touch on his skin as his zipper goes the way of the potatoes. He’d never thought her hands would be cool, despite how often he thought it. Catches her fingers and finds…well, now. Fingers generally aren’t round and covered in fuzz and smell vaguely peachy when you lift them and take a nibble. And they should taste like skin. Of this, Charlie is certain.
“Where’d you get the peach?”
“Found it the same day I lost my bra. Like it?”
Mm…sure is sticky. And tasty. And, gosh, just as messy as can be. Charlie is such a fan of fruit.
“Just how do you feel about buses?”
