Get Closer - Lost - Charlie/Desmond
Title: Get Closer
Pairing: Charlie/Desmond
Word Count: 349
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Written for the porn battle.
Summary: Desmond finds himself on his back on the jungle's floor with tree roots and scattered stones making it an uncomfortable place to be - but it's impossible to even notice.
Desmond finds himself on his back on the jungle's floor with tree roots and scattered stones making it an uncomfortable place to be - but it's impossible to even notice. Charlie weighs him down, straddled over his waist and moving, rocking, moaning. His hard-on rubs against Desmond's through their jeans. He wants to reach down, unzip them, get closer, but moving his hands from their settled position on Charlie's hips is an impossibility.
"Charlie," he pants. Red spots of colour flush his cheeks. "God, Charlie."
Charlie hushes him - a bust of frustrated air through gritted teeth - then silences him with rough lips slammed to his. Desmond can't do anything but react. His hand finds the back of Charlie's neck and holds him there, hair tickling against him as they clash open-mouthed. Using his tight hold - on his neck, on his hip - he rolls them over until he's on top, the back of his blue shirt covered in fine dirt and dry leaves from the jungle's ground.
His hips thrust down desperately. No reasoning, no pattern, no purpose other than clawing his way closer to the climax he can feel gathering. His mouth falls from Charlie's and he pants against his stubbled chin.
"Charlie," he gasps again, like saying his name might keep him there, keep him safe, might hold fate at bay a little while longer. "Charlie-"
And his teeth close on the soft dip of skin to the side of Charlie's neck and his hands clench and he comes, hot and stick inside his trousers - a wet patch spreads gradually as he yanks Charlie's jeans open and plunges his hand into his underwear. He grasps the shaft and jerk him off fast, rough, hurried. Charlie mutters curses barely muffled against Desmond's neck. Fuck, Des, fuck, oh god - oh fuck.
Desmond's lips press, slow and thoughtful, to the bite mark on Charlie's neck as he feels him draw closer. He hears him, feels him, as he peaks - C'mon, Charlie," he murmurs, "God." Like this - together and closer and joined - like this… Maybe they can beat whatever will come next.
Pairing: Charlie/Desmond
Word Count: 349
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Written for the porn battle.
Summary: Desmond finds himself on his back on the jungle's floor with tree roots and scattered stones making it an uncomfortable place to be - but it's impossible to even notice.
Desmond finds himself on his back on the jungle's floor with tree roots and scattered stones making it an uncomfortable place to be - but it's impossible to even notice. Charlie weighs him down, straddled over his waist and moving, rocking, moaning. His hard-on rubs against Desmond's through their jeans. He wants to reach down, unzip them, get closer, but moving his hands from their settled position on Charlie's hips is an impossibility.
"Charlie," he pants. Red spots of colour flush his cheeks. "God, Charlie."
Charlie hushes him - a bust of frustrated air through gritted teeth - then silences him with rough lips slammed to his. Desmond can't do anything but react. His hand finds the back of Charlie's neck and holds him there, hair tickling against him as they clash open-mouthed. Using his tight hold - on his neck, on his hip - he rolls them over until he's on top, the back of his blue shirt covered in fine dirt and dry leaves from the jungle's ground.
His hips thrust down desperately. No reasoning, no pattern, no purpose other than clawing his way closer to the climax he can feel gathering. His mouth falls from Charlie's and he pants against his stubbled chin.
"Charlie," he gasps again, like saying his name might keep him there, keep him safe, might hold fate at bay a little while longer. "Charlie-"
And his teeth close on the soft dip of skin to the side of Charlie's neck and his hands clench and he comes, hot and stick inside his trousers - a wet patch spreads gradually as he yanks Charlie's jeans open and plunges his hand into his underwear. He grasps the shaft and jerk him off fast, rough, hurried. Charlie mutters curses barely muffled against Desmond's neck. Fuck, Des, fuck, oh god - oh fuck.
Desmond's lips press, slow and thoughtful, to the bite mark on Charlie's neck as he feels him draw closer. He hears him, feels him, as he peaks - C'mon, Charlie," he murmurs, "God." Like this - together and closer and joined - like this… Maybe they can beat whatever will come next.