Right Next to the One You Love - Lost - Charlie/Desmond
Title: Right Next to the One You Love
Pairing: Charlie/Desmond
Word Count: 4317
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: D/s, foot worship, voyeurism, established relationship
A/N: A sequel to Pick Me Back Up Again, but it's a PWP. AU from S3. Written using one of lostpicksix's prompts.
Summary: Charlie asks Desmond if they can experiment with dominance and submission again. Desmond always tries his best.
Top Gear is on but Desmond can't say that he's giving it too much attention. His thoughts, as ever, are with Charlie. This time they circle around Charlie's renewed request while Charlie leans against him on the couch. His arm is comfortable around Charlie's shoulders.
"I won't hurt you this time," Desmond says, even and level. "I don't want to."
He couldn't make himself even if he tried, even if Charlie begged for it. Last time had been hotter than he'd anticipated but, while gentle, it's not something he'll repeat. The universe has dealt enough pain to Charlie without Desmond lending a hand.
"Yeah," Charlie says. He's watching a car race around a track onscreen, eyes wide, but Desmond doesn't think he's paying it nearly as much attention as he is pretending to. "I know. You don't have to; I just liked…"
He shrugs as if he doesn't know the answer. The movement jostles Desmond's arm but it stays firmly in his spot around Charlie's shoulders. For all the exploits in their past, neither one of them is very adept at talking about this - or anything real. Desmond supposes that it's a miracle they've managed to survive this long together.
"So no pain?" he checks.
"No pain," Charlie confirms, and then glances up at him with a devilish spark in his eyes. "Sir."
Desmond chuckles, trying hard to suppress the ripple of lust that that one word is able to unlock. He kisses the top of Charlie's head, allowing his lips to linger as he thinks. "Give me a couple of days, brother," he says. "I need to do a little research."
"You're gonna Google it again, aren't you?"
"What?"
"Might want to try clearing out your browser history once in a while," Charlie says, smirking. "I found the most interesting stuff when I was looking for train times."
Desmond is sure his face might ignite soon; he's blushing so hard. It only gets worse when Charlie twists in order to kiss his cheek. "Don't be embarrassed, mate. It's good. Sweet. Lets me know I'm in good hands."
Charlie sinks against him again and Desmond's arm tightens around his shoulders.
"You know I'd never…"
Desmond doesn't finish the thought: Charlie knows he'd never let anything happen to him. He doesn't ask if Charlie trusts him because he knows the answer: Charlie trusts him far more than he should. He trusts him with his life - and that… That is one hell of a mind-shattering responsibility.
*
He's more nervous than last time. He hopes it doesn't show, but his heart is beating so loud in his ears that he's sure Charlie must be able to hear it on the other side of the room. This is what Charlie wants, he reminds himself.
And Desmond is nothing if not devoted.
He clears his throat and lounges comfortably on the couch, spread his left arm wide along the top of it to occupy as much space as he can. The collar of his white shirt feels constricting all of a sudden. He waves two impatient fingers at Charlie.
"Go on then," he says. "Strip."
He has to admit that the nervous way that Charlie swallows is more endearing than it is hot, but when Charlie's hands move to the bottom of his t-shirt -a black old thing with the logo of a band Desmond's never heard of emblazoned on the chest - and peels it over his head Desmond closes his mouth tightly. Charlie's chest is pale, his stomach flat. There are tan lines on his arms where the smooth paper-white gives way to a slightly more honeyed shade. Desmond watches hungrily. He's never seen a man who affects him in the way that Charlie does. It's not Charlie's body that draws him in - it's Charlie himself.
Desmond's eyes track them when Charlie's hands move to the button on his jeans. Charlie's hands are a part of him he's always had a fascination with. They're his life: each callus speaks of his music. On lazy Sunday mornings there is little that Desmond loves to do more than suck Charlie's fingers into his mouth one by one and tasting them, feeling them with the tip of his tongue. When he does it just right he can make Charlie laugh, a sound that is both sweet and rough.
Now those hands push Charlie's jeans down and remove his socks, leaving him in his underwear. His clothes are in a crumpled heap on the floor by his feet, but Desmond isn't looking at that. He's staring at the line of hair that leads beneath Charlie's briefs.
"And your pants, Charlie," he prompts. "I want you naked."
He can see the way that Charlie swallows when he says that; the way blood rushes to colour his cheeks; the way he has to fight back a smile. If he had a little more confidence, maybe he'd follow that up: talk dirty to him, tell him exactly what the sight of him like this does to him, but he can't.
Desmond still has boundaries he isn't able to cross.
Charlie's underwear is pulled down over his hips and he bends to remove the item from his ankles. His dick is already erect and red. Desmond's been with Charlie for long enough now to know exactly how to work him, exactly how to drive him mad, but that's not what he's going to do tonight.
"Good boy," he murmurs, eyes roaming over Charlie's body. Positive reinforcement - the websites had said that's important, and in Charlie's case that is especially true. There are days when Desmond thinks he could spend hours and hours telling Charlie how good he is, how brave and smart and talented, only to have Charlie laugh it off and choose to wallow in self-pity instead. Not tonight.
"Come over here," he tells him. "Crawling."
Charlie isn't smirking this time as he gets to his knees, nude and vulnerable. When he sits before him at Desmond's feet, Desmond can see the way he's trembling - just a little - in anticipation. It's empowering. He sits forward, resting one forearm against his leg, while his other hand reaches out to stroke Charlie's hair. He loves the way Charlie tilts into the touch, hungry for more. Looking down, he can see how hard Charlie is already.
"Do you want me to touch you?" he asks.
Charlie nods so desperate that it's as if his neck is boneless. "Yes. Yes, please."
"Yes, what?" Desmond asks, his hand tightening in Charlie's hair from gentle stroking to painful tension. "What do you call me?"
"Sir," Charlie corrects hurriedly. "Yes, sir."
Desmond smiles and his hand relaxes. That word takes him back to his failed army days, but it's bloody fantastic to be on this side of it. Desmond always has had difficulties obeying authority figures - Charlie, it appears, does not.
"Good. That's much better," Desmond murmurs self-consciously. Feels ridiculous to talk to Charlie, his Charlie, like this, but it causes red spikes of arousal to fire through him as well. "Up you come. Into my lap."
Charlie crawls ungracefully up until his legs straddle Desmond's lap. Desmond grips onto his hip with one hand, but with the other he strokes the tattoo on Charlie's bicep. It's something about him that he loves, something that is so essentially a part of Charlie that Desmond sometimes considers inking it, or similar, into his skin too. His fingers stroke back and forth over the words.
Living is easy with eyes closed.
When he looks at Charlie's face he finds him looking right back at him, eyes filled with trust and anticipation. "How badly do you want me to touch you, Charlie?" he asks with a smile after a glance down at his erection.
Charlie swallows and swipes his hand over his forehead, pushing his blond hair out of his eyes. It draws Desmond's attention to the scar that marks the skin there: a sign of his bravery and of all that he's survived. Desmond stares at it and longs to touch, but he forces himself to keep his hands where they are, one on Charlie's hip and one on his bicep.
"So bad, sir," Charlie says, his voice so quiet that it's practically timid.
"You know what I'd rather see?" Desmond asks. He lets his voice soften and feels his accent strengthen: the way Charlie's eyes drop closed tells him that it's having the desired effect. "What I really want to see you is you touching yourself. Can you do that for me? Right here in my lap?"
Charlie's gaze holds his. He hardly looks like Charlie at all, instead something different, something animal and primal. Desmond only looks away when he feels the shifting of Charlie's bicep beneath his hand as Charlie grasps himself.
"Nice and slow," Desmond instructs as he can tell that Charlie will rush if left to his own devices.
Following his instructions, the pace that Charlie sets for himself as his as his hand smoothes over his cock is agonising even to watch. Desmond can't take his eyes away. His hand grips Charlie's hip with far more force than is necessary. He'll leave marks there, and that thought makes him smile with a giddy sense of pride.
"Tell me what you're thinking," he instructs, following his loose plan for the evening. He'd written down on a sheet of paper that morning what he'd do, what he'd try - but he'd made sure to shred it long before Charlie saw. Desmond doesn't want his mind to go blank at the wrong moment. "Right now, Charlie - are you thinking about me fucking you?"
Charlie chokes a whimper in response. It's a sound that goes straight to Desmond's dick. His hand shifts from Charlie's arm behind him to his ass.
"That's what I'm thinking about," he says. His fingers slip between Charlie's cheeks and skim across Charlie's hole. In response, Charlie's hand between them speeds up, jacking himself faster. "Ah-ah," Desmond scolds. "Slowly, remember. Go slow, or maybe I won't let you come at all tonight. Do you understand?"
"Yes. Yes, sir," Charlie answers with a voice that shakes in such a tempting way. Desmond pulls him a little close, close enough that he can hide his face against Charlie's neck and breathe in deeply as he tries to keep control of himself as well. He wants to take Charlie now but it isn't time yet.
"You still haven't answered my question," he says once he's regained a little self-control. "What are you thinking about?"
"Nothing," Charlie pants. "How the blood hell could I be thinking of anything right now?"
Desmond's hand flashes, smacking down against Charlie's ass. It isn't hard but it makes a thwacking sound. He'd apologise - if he hadn't heard the needy way Charlie had whimpered in something that definitely wasn't pain.
"You will show me respect, Charlie," he says - that sounds like the right thing to say, doesn't it? "Is that clear?"
"Perfectly clear, sir."
"I want you to stop touching yourself now. You've been bad."
Reluctantly, and with a sad groan, Charlie pulls his hand from his dick and places it down on the couch instead.
"And get off of me. You can kneel at my feet, but that's all." He says it as if he's doing him a huge favour by allowing him to be near him, but instead of rolling his eyes at him Charlie hurries to comply. Desmond's heart is beating all too fast. At his feet, Charlie kneels comfortably, looking up at him with attentive blue eyes as he waits to find out what will happen next.
There are so many things that Desmond would like to do to Charlie now, so many ways that he'd like to indulge himself, but this - tonight - is not about him. It's about Charlie; it's for Charlie. He can't be selfish, not now.
It feels like he's punishing himself when he reaches over to the end table and, fumbling, picks up the book he'd carefully 'discarded' there earlier that evening. Dickens. Something that would hopefully help him to keep his mind off of this. He thumbs through his old copy until he finds the right page, but he's so aware of Charlie's gaze upon him, confused, that he can't focus on a single word. He leans back comfortably against the couch.
"Sir?" Charlie asks hesitantly. "Is everything alright?"
"Everything's fine, Charlie. You can take my shoes off for me. My feet ache."
His feet are absolutely fine, actually, but Charlie is careful as he loosens Desmond's laces and eases his shoes off. He places them neatly at the foot of the couch and, after a doubtful but silent pause, peels Desmond's black socks off as well.
Desmond wriggles his toes, then nudges Charlie's bare leg with his left foot. "C'mon, brother," he says. "Let's see you put those pretty hands of yours to good use."
He feels ridiculous saying that. He feels ridiculous doing any of this and he can only hope that it doesn't show: this needs to be good. Needs to be just right.
Charlie takes his foot in hand and Desmond sinks further against the couch. He can't restrain a contented moan as Charlie rubs away all kinds of tension that he hadn't known he had. First his left foot is worked on slowly, methodically. Desmond pretends to read his book with faux-casualness, like a master being served by a slave, but it's impossible to think that he could focus on anything but Charlie right now.
Charlie is wearing his adorably focused expression. It's the same way that he looks when he's song-writing, so it's an expression Desmond has come to know well. His talented boyfriend. It makes him frustrated when he thinks of how long it took the world - and it took him - to realise how special Charlie truly is.
On hands and knees, Charlie crawls to the other side of Desmond's legs and picks up his other foot. His clever fingers rub and massage but it's when he lowers his head and kisses the bridge of his foot that Desmond moans loudly and his foot arches. "That's good," Desmond says. He faintly remembers that he's supposed to be in charge right now. "You're so good, Charlie."
And it's true, it's always true, and it becomes even more true when Charlie flattens his tongue and licks the top of his foot, right to his ankle. It tickles but Desmond can't laugh. He can only stare, hungrily, with his book held loosely in his hands as Charlie's tongue laps at his skin.
"My toe," he says. The words rasp so he clears his throat. Dry. "Suck on it."
"Of course, sir," Charlie says, with a flicker of a grin ad what Desmond would swear is a wink before he lowers himself until he is level with Desmond's foot, bowing before him like a mortal before a god. His lips close over Desmond's big toe, his tongue tracing the bottom of it then the ridge of his nail. It's wet and messy and Desmond can only think of the way Charlie's mouth feels when it's working his cock like this. Makes him moan.
"Enough," he snaps, harsher than he means to - harsher than he ever means to talk to Charlie. "That's enough."
Charlie pulls away and sits back, kneeling naked on the ground before him - so exposed. Desmond sees the flickering hint of confusion on his face so he leans down to kiss the top of Charlie's head before whispering, "You have no idea what your mouth does to me."
It's enough to make Charlie smile and that's exactly what Desmond wanted. He leans back on the couch - his throne - and his hand reaches out to scramble on the end table for the other item he placed there earlier in preparation, a bottle lube, swapping it for his book. He had all of this planned out long before tonight's game started. Most of it, anyway. Charlie's eyes are watching his hands with wide, dark hunger, but he still fumbles in surprise when Desmond lightly chucks it to him. It hits his chest and then falls down into his hands.
"Get yourself ready for me, Charlie."
Charlie's still grinning, something of the performer in him surfacing as he squares his shoulders. "You want a show, sir?"
But Desmond shakes his head. Another time, maybe. "Do it like you would if I wasn't here. If I wanted you to show off, Charlie, I'd tell you to."
He sees the way that Charlie shivers in delight and knows that, somehow, he's managed to say the right thing. Makes him smile, but then Charlie is shifting how he sits on the floor, his legs spread and his knees bent, and Desmond finds himself rapt. He swallows, mouth dry, as Charlie pumps some of the clear, clinical lube onto his fingers, smoothing over them. Charlie doesn't look up at him as, sitting on the floor behind him, he reaches between his open legs, past his waiting cock to his entrance.
He does exactly as he's told, following directions with no snark for once in his life. There is no showmanship, no attempts to tease and delight as he breaches his entrance with two fingers. Efficiency and speed are key. It makes it all so much better, knowing that Charlie is focusing on himself for once, not anyone else.
"Make it feel good, Charlie," Desmond urges once he can control his voice again. "I want to see you feel good."
And he does, he does - Charlie's fingers crook and his forearm brushes against his hardened cock as he hits his prostate at the same time. He cries out, body jerking as his two fingers pump in and out of himself. Desmond could watch this all night, he thinks, just sit back and watch his boyfriend fuck himself without getting involved.
"You ready?" he asks, before he clears his throat when he realises how breathless and dreamlike he sounds.
Charlie withdraws his fingers and nods but doesn't speak aloud. Desmond's sure he ought to scold him for that - and he would like to hear Charlie call him 'sir' again - but he can't think so clearly. He gestures towards his trousers, unable to believe he's kept them on all this time, and Charlie responds, moving forward to undo them for him. Excess lube smears on the material and Charlie's fingers, slick, have a hard time with the zip. Desmond doesn't laugh, won't let himself, but he smiles and reaches to stroke his hand through Charlie's hair, petting him as Charlie pulls his trousers and underwear down and off.
Desmond nods and gestures. "Up into my lap again, Charlie," he instructs. His heart is beginning to pound so loud that he feels as if he's been running for miles and miles.
It doesn't get any better when Charlie fluidly complies, moving where he's told. His fingers cling onto the material of Desmond's shirt and Desmond can hear the whimpering whines that escape from him even though they're not doing anything, not yet. His hands rest upon Charlie's bare skin, one on his thigh, one on his hip. "You're going to ride me now, aren't you Charlie?" he says, letting his voice drop low because that's what Charlie likes and because he doesn't think he can handle anything louder right now. "Are you gonna make us both feel good now, brother?"
He nuzzles his lips against Charlie's neck and is able to feel the vibration of his voice when he whispers, "Yes, sir." The shaky timbre of his voice is enough to make Desmond's hands clench, pressing red, bruising marks onto his body. His lips suck another small mark onto his neck, though he usually wouldn't do it somewhere so readily apparent, where it might embarrass Charlie in the light of day.
"Okay," he pants. He's out of breath but he hasn't even done anything; the exertion, the anticipation, it's driving him mad or wild or both. "Okay, let's - go. Let's…"
He's losing it, but it's nothing compared to how he feels when Charlie grasps him. They'd decided to stop using protection a few months ago and now Desmond is so glad for that; he doubts if he'd manage to withstand the torture of waiting even another second longer. Charlie grasps him and guides him to his entrance where Desmond longs to push home violently; he could do it. He has control here, and he could so easily roll them over and gain relief that way.
"Take your time," he says, eyes closed. "You can - take all the time you need, Charlie."
Doesn't want to rush him, really he doesn't, but he's going to be the one whimpering soon if Charlie doesn't hurry up and -
God, yes. Charlie pushes down and the tip of Desmond's cock pushes inside him. Slick and ready, Desmond feels like he could slide in further already, but Charlie pauses to breathe calmly.
"That's it, Charlie, c'mon. C'mon." Desmond's hands stroke Charlie's legs, his thighs. He can feels Charlie's muscles beneath his hands, bunched tight and taut. "Further. Further."
He'll be begging soon if he isn't careful and that would truly ruin any remaining illusion that he's actually in control right now. The pretence shatters more when Charlie finally slides down, engulfing him, and Desmond can do little more than cry out. His hips buck, trying to push deeper, but Charlie's ass is already flush against him. Charlie is everywhere and Desmond's arms encircle his waist, feeling each movement as Charlie begins to rise and fall, begins to rock. Desmond's hips are moving without conscious thought from him, meeting Charlie and going deeper - faster - where he can.
He searches for and finds Charlie's mouth and their clumsy, desperate kiss swallows his moans for now. He invades Charlie's mouth and tastes him, claiming what feels like it is rightfully his. Charlie's moving faster now, more erratic, and Desmond breaks the contact between their lips so that he can focus enough to reach between them and take Charlie's cock in hand. "I want you to come," he says. "Want to feel it. You."
Fuck, he can hardly focus enough to speak but he thinks Charlie gets the message from the way he moans, low and perfect, and his head falls back as Desmond palms him in time with the way Charlie rides him. Desmond can see his red mark on Charlie's neck, there for all the world to see, and it makes a glow of satisfaction settle in his bell and mingle with the all-encompassing arousal.
A tight twitch of his hand, a twist, and Charlie cries out, clenching around him. Hot spurts of come splatter onto Desmond's shirt and he even feels a little hit his jaw, his chin. Charlie begins to sag against him, boneless, and his eyes are hazy, but Desmond reaches to grab him by the upper arms. He's stopped moving and it's so frustrating that it's almost painful.
"You're not done yet," he says pointedly. Normally he'd never do this, never insist like this, but the way Charlie's eyes widen - still come-drunk and dazed - tell him that it's the right choice. "Are you?"
"No, sir. Yes, sir. Um…" Charlie frowns, confused about the correct answer, but it only takes a kiss to wash that confusion away. As Desmond places a hand on the back of his neck, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, Charlie begins to move once more.
It doesn't take much at all to make him come and he clings tightly to Charlie's body when he does, muffling worshipful praise against his neck as he does so. He pulses; it's intense enough that his hands would be shaking if they weren't gripping onto Charlie hard enough to leave more bruises.
Charlie sits as Desmond softens within him, and Desmond strokes his hand down his bare back, tracing every vertebrae with his fingers. "Are you okay?" he asks.
"Yes, sir," Charlie answers. He sounds sleepy, and the sound of his voice like that always makes Desmond want to sink into bed and spoon against him for eternity.
"Are we done now?" He doesn't know what he'll do if Charlie says no; he's out of ideas and energy. Perhaps he could order Charlie to watch him nap.
"Yeah," Charlie says. "We're done."
They sit entwined together for a few moments longer, before Charlie moves out of his lap. His movements are slow and stiff and Desmond smiles in anticipation of the way Charlie will complain tomorrow once the burn really sets in.
Charlie lies down on the couch and tugs Desmond's hand so that he slumps to the side. He rests his head on Charlie's stomach; they need a shower, both of them. Their fingers are entangled, but with his free hand Charlie's pings Desmond's forehead. "I can't believe you managed to do all that without moving from the sofa once, you lazy git," he says affectionately. Maybe he's supposed to sound stern; it comes out delighted.
"Why would I move when I can get you to do it all for me, brother?" Desmond asks. He liked it, he thinks; taking charge every once in a while is something he could definitely get used to. He lets his eyes fall closed. "Was it okay?" he checks.
"It was bloody perfect," Charlie says with a laugh that rumbles through his stomach, shaking Desmond's head. The peaceful contentment in Charlie's voice is enough to tell Desmond that this has been a night well-spent.
Pairing: Charlie/Desmond
Word Count: 4317
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: D/s, foot worship, voyeurism, established relationship
A/N: A sequel to Pick Me Back Up Again, but it's a PWP. AU from S3. Written using one of lostpicksix's prompts.
Summary: Charlie asks Desmond if they can experiment with dominance and submission again. Desmond always tries his best.
Top Gear is on but Desmond can't say that he's giving it too much attention. His thoughts, as ever, are with Charlie. This time they circle around Charlie's renewed request while Charlie leans against him on the couch. His arm is comfortable around Charlie's shoulders.
"I won't hurt you this time," Desmond says, even and level. "I don't want to."
He couldn't make himself even if he tried, even if Charlie begged for it. Last time had been hotter than he'd anticipated but, while gentle, it's not something he'll repeat. The universe has dealt enough pain to Charlie without Desmond lending a hand.
"Yeah," Charlie says. He's watching a car race around a track onscreen, eyes wide, but Desmond doesn't think he's paying it nearly as much attention as he is pretending to. "I know. You don't have to; I just liked…"
He shrugs as if he doesn't know the answer. The movement jostles Desmond's arm but it stays firmly in his spot around Charlie's shoulders. For all the exploits in their past, neither one of them is very adept at talking about this - or anything real. Desmond supposes that it's a miracle they've managed to survive this long together.
"So no pain?" he checks.
"No pain," Charlie confirms, and then glances up at him with a devilish spark in his eyes. "Sir."
Desmond chuckles, trying hard to suppress the ripple of lust that that one word is able to unlock. He kisses the top of Charlie's head, allowing his lips to linger as he thinks. "Give me a couple of days, brother," he says. "I need to do a little research."
"You're gonna Google it again, aren't you?"
"What?"
"Might want to try clearing out your browser history once in a while," Charlie says, smirking. "I found the most interesting stuff when I was looking for train times."
Desmond is sure his face might ignite soon; he's blushing so hard. It only gets worse when Charlie twists in order to kiss his cheek. "Don't be embarrassed, mate. It's good. Sweet. Lets me know I'm in good hands."
Charlie sinks against him again and Desmond's arm tightens around his shoulders.
"You know I'd never…"
Desmond doesn't finish the thought: Charlie knows he'd never let anything happen to him. He doesn't ask if Charlie trusts him because he knows the answer: Charlie trusts him far more than he should. He trusts him with his life - and that… That is one hell of a mind-shattering responsibility.
*
He's more nervous than last time. He hopes it doesn't show, but his heart is beating so loud in his ears that he's sure Charlie must be able to hear it on the other side of the room. This is what Charlie wants, he reminds himself.
And Desmond is nothing if not devoted.
He clears his throat and lounges comfortably on the couch, spread his left arm wide along the top of it to occupy as much space as he can. The collar of his white shirt feels constricting all of a sudden. He waves two impatient fingers at Charlie.
"Go on then," he says. "Strip."
He has to admit that the nervous way that Charlie swallows is more endearing than it is hot, but when Charlie's hands move to the bottom of his t-shirt -a black old thing with the logo of a band Desmond's never heard of emblazoned on the chest - and peels it over his head Desmond closes his mouth tightly. Charlie's chest is pale, his stomach flat. There are tan lines on his arms where the smooth paper-white gives way to a slightly more honeyed shade. Desmond watches hungrily. He's never seen a man who affects him in the way that Charlie does. It's not Charlie's body that draws him in - it's Charlie himself.
Desmond's eyes track them when Charlie's hands move to the button on his jeans. Charlie's hands are a part of him he's always had a fascination with. They're his life: each callus speaks of his music. On lazy Sunday mornings there is little that Desmond loves to do more than suck Charlie's fingers into his mouth one by one and tasting them, feeling them with the tip of his tongue. When he does it just right he can make Charlie laugh, a sound that is both sweet and rough.
Now those hands push Charlie's jeans down and remove his socks, leaving him in his underwear. His clothes are in a crumpled heap on the floor by his feet, but Desmond isn't looking at that. He's staring at the line of hair that leads beneath Charlie's briefs.
"And your pants, Charlie," he prompts. "I want you naked."
He can see the way that Charlie swallows when he says that; the way blood rushes to colour his cheeks; the way he has to fight back a smile. If he had a little more confidence, maybe he'd follow that up: talk dirty to him, tell him exactly what the sight of him like this does to him, but he can't.
Desmond still has boundaries he isn't able to cross.
Charlie's underwear is pulled down over his hips and he bends to remove the item from his ankles. His dick is already erect and red. Desmond's been with Charlie for long enough now to know exactly how to work him, exactly how to drive him mad, but that's not what he's going to do tonight.
"Good boy," he murmurs, eyes roaming over Charlie's body. Positive reinforcement - the websites had said that's important, and in Charlie's case that is especially true. There are days when Desmond thinks he could spend hours and hours telling Charlie how good he is, how brave and smart and talented, only to have Charlie laugh it off and choose to wallow in self-pity instead. Not tonight.
"Come over here," he tells him. "Crawling."
Charlie isn't smirking this time as he gets to his knees, nude and vulnerable. When he sits before him at Desmond's feet, Desmond can see the way he's trembling - just a little - in anticipation. It's empowering. He sits forward, resting one forearm against his leg, while his other hand reaches out to stroke Charlie's hair. He loves the way Charlie tilts into the touch, hungry for more. Looking down, he can see how hard Charlie is already.
"Do you want me to touch you?" he asks.
Charlie nods so desperate that it's as if his neck is boneless. "Yes. Yes, please."
"Yes, what?" Desmond asks, his hand tightening in Charlie's hair from gentle stroking to painful tension. "What do you call me?"
"Sir," Charlie corrects hurriedly. "Yes, sir."
Desmond smiles and his hand relaxes. That word takes him back to his failed army days, but it's bloody fantastic to be on this side of it. Desmond always has had difficulties obeying authority figures - Charlie, it appears, does not.
"Good. That's much better," Desmond murmurs self-consciously. Feels ridiculous to talk to Charlie, his Charlie, like this, but it causes red spikes of arousal to fire through him as well. "Up you come. Into my lap."
Charlie crawls ungracefully up until his legs straddle Desmond's lap. Desmond grips onto his hip with one hand, but with the other he strokes the tattoo on Charlie's bicep. It's something about him that he loves, something that is so essentially a part of Charlie that Desmond sometimes considers inking it, or similar, into his skin too. His fingers stroke back and forth over the words.
Living is easy with eyes closed.
When he looks at Charlie's face he finds him looking right back at him, eyes filled with trust and anticipation. "How badly do you want me to touch you, Charlie?" he asks with a smile after a glance down at his erection.
Charlie swallows and swipes his hand over his forehead, pushing his blond hair out of his eyes. It draws Desmond's attention to the scar that marks the skin there: a sign of his bravery and of all that he's survived. Desmond stares at it and longs to touch, but he forces himself to keep his hands where they are, one on Charlie's hip and one on his bicep.
"So bad, sir," Charlie says, his voice so quiet that it's practically timid.
"You know what I'd rather see?" Desmond asks. He lets his voice soften and feels his accent strengthen: the way Charlie's eyes drop closed tells him that it's having the desired effect. "What I really want to see you is you touching yourself. Can you do that for me? Right here in my lap?"
Charlie's gaze holds his. He hardly looks like Charlie at all, instead something different, something animal and primal. Desmond only looks away when he feels the shifting of Charlie's bicep beneath his hand as Charlie grasps himself.
"Nice and slow," Desmond instructs as he can tell that Charlie will rush if left to his own devices.
Following his instructions, the pace that Charlie sets for himself as his as his hand smoothes over his cock is agonising even to watch. Desmond can't take his eyes away. His hand grips Charlie's hip with far more force than is necessary. He'll leave marks there, and that thought makes him smile with a giddy sense of pride.
"Tell me what you're thinking," he instructs, following his loose plan for the evening. He'd written down on a sheet of paper that morning what he'd do, what he'd try - but he'd made sure to shred it long before Charlie saw. Desmond doesn't want his mind to go blank at the wrong moment. "Right now, Charlie - are you thinking about me fucking you?"
Charlie chokes a whimper in response. It's a sound that goes straight to Desmond's dick. His hand shifts from Charlie's arm behind him to his ass.
"That's what I'm thinking about," he says. His fingers slip between Charlie's cheeks and skim across Charlie's hole. In response, Charlie's hand between them speeds up, jacking himself faster. "Ah-ah," Desmond scolds. "Slowly, remember. Go slow, or maybe I won't let you come at all tonight. Do you understand?"
"Yes. Yes, sir," Charlie answers with a voice that shakes in such a tempting way. Desmond pulls him a little close, close enough that he can hide his face against Charlie's neck and breathe in deeply as he tries to keep control of himself as well. He wants to take Charlie now but it isn't time yet.
"You still haven't answered my question," he says once he's regained a little self-control. "What are you thinking about?"
"Nothing," Charlie pants. "How the blood hell could I be thinking of anything right now?"
Desmond's hand flashes, smacking down against Charlie's ass. It isn't hard but it makes a thwacking sound. He'd apologise - if he hadn't heard the needy way Charlie had whimpered in something that definitely wasn't pain.
"You will show me respect, Charlie," he says - that sounds like the right thing to say, doesn't it? "Is that clear?"
"Perfectly clear, sir."
"I want you to stop touching yourself now. You've been bad."
Reluctantly, and with a sad groan, Charlie pulls his hand from his dick and places it down on the couch instead.
"And get off of me. You can kneel at my feet, but that's all." He says it as if he's doing him a huge favour by allowing him to be near him, but instead of rolling his eyes at him Charlie hurries to comply. Desmond's heart is beating all too fast. At his feet, Charlie kneels comfortably, looking up at him with attentive blue eyes as he waits to find out what will happen next.
There are so many things that Desmond would like to do to Charlie now, so many ways that he'd like to indulge himself, but this - tonight - is not about him. It's about Charlie; it's for Charlie. He can't be selfish, not now.
It feels like he's punishing himself when he reaches over to the end table and, fumbling, picks up the book he'd carefully 'discarded' there earlier that evening. Dickens. Something that would hopefully help him to keep his mind off of this. He thumbs through his old copy until he finds the right page, but he's so aware of Charlie's gaze upon him, confused, that he can't focus on a single word. He leans back comfortably against the couch.
"Sir?" Charlie asks hesitantly. "Is everything alright?"
"Everything's fine, Charlie. You can take my shoes off for me. My feet ache."
His feet are absolutely fine, actually, but Charlie is careful as he loosens Desmond's laces and eases his shoes off. He places them neatly at the foot of the couch and, after a doubtful but silent pause, peels Desmond's black socks off as well.
Desmond wriggles his toes, then nudges Charlie's bare leg with his left foot. "C'mon, brother," he says. "Let's see you put those pretty hands of yours to good use."
He feels ridiculous saying that. He feels ridiculous doing any of this and he can only hope that it doesn't show: this needs to be good. Needs to be just right.
Charlie takes his foot in hand and Desmond sinks further against the couch. He can't restrain a contented moan as Charlie rubs away all kinds of tension that he hadn't known he had. First his left foot is worked on slowly, methodically. Desmond pretends to read his book with faux-casualness, like a master being served by a slave, but it's impossible to think that he could focus on anything but Charlie right now.
Charlie is wearing his adorably focused expression. It's the same way that he looks when he's song-writing, so it's an expression Desmond has come to know well. His talented boyfriend. It makes him frustrated when he thinks of how long it took the world - and it took him - to realise how special Charlie truly is.
On hands and knees, Charlie crawls to the other side of Desmond's legs and picks up his other foot. His clever fingers rub and massage but it's when he lowers his head and kisses the bridge of his foot that Desmond moans loudly and his foot arches. "That's good," Desmond says. He faintly remembers that he's supposed to be in charge right now. "You're so good, Charlie."
And it's true, it's always true, and it becomes even more true when Charlie flattens his tongue and licks the top of his foot, right to his ankle. It tickles but Desmond can't laugh. He can only stare, hungrily, with his book held loosely in his hands as Charlie's tongue laps at his skin.
"My toe," he says. The words rasp so he clears his throat. Dry. "Suck on it."
"Of course, sir," Charlie says, with a flicker of a grin ad what Desmond would swear is a wink before he lowers himself until he is level with Desmond's foot, bowing before him like a mortal before a god. His lips close over Desmond's big toe, his tongue tracing the bottom of it then the ridge of his nail. It's wet and messy and Desmond can only think of the way Charlie's mouth feels when it's working his cock like this. Makes him moan.
"Enough," he snaps, harsher than he means to - harsher than he ever means to talk to Charlie. "That's enough."
Charlie pulls away and sits back, kneeling naked on the ground before him - so exposed. Desmond sees the flickering hint of confusion on his face so he leans down to kiss the top of Charlie's head before whispering, "You have no idea what your mouth does to me."
It's enough to make Charlie smile and that's exactly what Desmond wanted. He leans back on the couch - his throne - and his hand reaches out to scramble on the end table for the other item he placed there earlier in preparation, a bottle lube, swapping it for his book. He had all of this planned out long before tonight's game started. Most of it, anyway. Charlie's eyes are watching his hands with wide, dark hunger, but he still fumbles in surprise when Desmond lightly chucks it to him. It hits his chest and then falls down into his hands.
"Get yourself ready for me, Charlie."
Charlie's still grinning, something of the performer in him surfacing as he squares his shoulders. "You want a show, sir?"
But Desmond shakes his head. Another time, maybe. "Do it like you would if I wasn't here. If I wanted you to show off, Charlie, I'd tell you to."
He sees the way that Charlie shivers in delight and knows that, somehow, he's managed to say the right thing. Makes him smile, but then Charlie is shifting how he sits on the floor, his legs spread and his knees bent, and Desmond finds himself rapt. He swallows, mouth dry, as Charlie pumps some of the clear, clinical lube onto his fingers, smoothing over them. Charlie doesn't look up at him as, sitting on the floor behind him, he reaches between his open legs, past his waiting cock to his entrance.
He does exactly as he's told, following directions with no snark for once in his life. There is no showmanship, no attempts to tease and delight as he breaches his entrance with two fingers. Efficiency and speed are key. It makes it all so much better, knowing that Charlie is focusing on himself for once, not anyone else.
"Make it feel good, Charlie," Desmond urges once he can control his voice again. "I want to see you feel good."
And he does, he does - Charlie's fingers crook and his forearm brushes against his hardened cock as he hits his prostate at the same time. He cries out, body jerking as his two fingers pump in and out of himself. Desmond could watch this all night, he thinks, just sit back and watch his boyfriend fuck himself without getting involved.
"You ready?" he asks, before he clears his throat when he realises how breathless and dreamlike he sounds.
Charlie withdraws his fingers and nods but doesn't speak aloud. Desmond's sure he ought to scold him for that - and he would like to hear Charlie call him 'sir' again - but he can't think so clearly. He gestures towards his trousers, unable to believe he's kept them on all this time, and Charlie responds, moving forward to undo them for him. Excess lube smears on the material and Charlie's fingers, slick, have a hard time with the zip. Desmond doesn't laugh, won't let himself, but he smiles and reaches to stroke his hand through Charlie's hair, petting him as Charlie pulls his trousers and underwear down and off.
Desmond nods and gestures. "Up into my lap again, Charlie," he instructs. His heart is beginning to pound so loud that he feels as if he's been running for miles and miles.
It doesn't get any better when Charlie fluidly complies, moving where he's told. His fingers cling onto the material of Desmond's shirt and Desmond can hear the whimpering whines that escape from him even though they're not doing anything, not yet. His hands rest upon Charlie's bare skin, one on his thigh, one on his hip. "You're going to ride me now, aren't you Charlie?" he says, letting his voice drop low because that's what Charlie likes and because he doesn't think he can handle anything louder right now. "Are you gonna make us both feel good now, brother?"
He nuzzles his lips against Charlie's neck and is able to feel the vibration of his voice when he whispers, "Yes, sir." The shaky timbre of his voice is enough to make Desmond's hands clench, pressing red, bruising marks onto his body. His lips suck another small mark onto his neck, though he usually wouldn't do it somewhere so readily apparent, where it might embarrass Charlie in the light of day.
"Okay," he pants. He's out of breath but he hasn't even done anything; the exertion, the anticipation, it's driving him mad or wild or both. "Okay, let's - go. Let's…"
He's losing it, but it's nothing compared to how he feels when Charlie grasps him. They'd decided to stop using protection a few months ago and now Desmond is so glad for that; he doubts if he'd manage to withstand the torture of waiting even another second longer. Charlie grasps him and guides him to his entrance where Desmond longs to push home violently; he could do it. He has control here, and he could so easily roll them over and gain relief that way.
"Take your time," he says, eyes closed. "You can - take all the time you need, Charlie."
Doesn't want to rush him, really he doesn't, but he's going to be the one whimpering soon if Charlie doesn't hurry up and -
God, yes. Charlie pushes down and the tip of Desmond's cock pushes inside him. Slick and ready, Desmond feels like he could slide in further already, but Charlie pauses to breathe calmly.
"That's it, Charlie, c'mon. C'mon." Desmond's hands stroke Charlie's legs, his thighs. He can feels Charlie's muscles beneath his hands, bunched tight and taut. "Further. Further."
He'll be begging soon if he isn't careful and that would truly ruin any remaining illusion that he's actually in control right now. The pretence shatters more when Charlie finally slides down, engulfing him, and Desmond can do little more than cry out. His hips buck, trying to push deeper, but Charlie's ass is already flush against him. Charlie is everywhere and Desmond's arms encircle his waist, feeling each movement as Charlie begins to rise and fall, begins to rock. Desmond's hips are moving without conscious thought from him, meeting Charlie and going deeper - faster - where he can.
He searches for and finds Charlie's mouth and their clumsy, desperate kiss swallows his moans for now. He invades Charlie's mouth and tastes him, claiming what feels like it is rightfully his. Charlie's moving faster now, more erratic, and Desmond breaks the contact between their lips so that he can focus enough to reach between them and take Charlie's cock in hand. "I want you to come," he says. "Want to feel it. You."
Fuck, he can hardly focus enough to speak but he thinks Charlie gets the message from the way he moans, low and perfect, and his head falls back as Desmond palms him in time with the way Charlie rides him. Desmond can see his red mark on Charlie's neck, there for all the world to see, and it makes a glow of satisfaction settle in his bell and mingle with the all-encompassing arousal.
A tight twitch of his hand, a twist, and Charlie cries out, clenching around him. Hot spurts of come splatter onto Desmond's shirt and he even feels a little hit his jaw, his chin. Charlie begins to sag against him, boneless, and his eyes are hazy, but Desmond reaches to grab him by the upper arms. He's stopped moving and it's so frustrating that it's almost painful.
"You're not done yet," he says pointedly. Normally he'd never do this, never insist like this, but the way Charlie's eyes widen - still come-drunk and dazed - tell him that it's the right choice. "Are you?"
"No, sir. Yes, sir. Um…" Charlie frowns, confused about the correct answer, but it only takes a kiss to wash that confusion away. As Desmond places a hand on the back of his neck, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, Charlie begins to move once more.
It doesn't take much at all to make him come and he clings tightly to Charlie's body when he does, muffling worshipful praise against his neck as he does so. He pulses; it's intense enough that his hands would be shaking if they weren't gripping onto Charlie hard enough to leave more bruises.
Charlie sits as Desmond softens within him, and Desmond strokes his hand down his bare back, tracing every vertebrae with his fingers. "Are you okay?" he asks.
"Yes, sir," Charlie answers. He sounds sleepy, and the sound of his voice like that always makes Desmond want to sink into bed and spoon against him for eternity.
"Are we done now?" He doesn't know what he'll do if Charlie says no; he's out of ideas and energy. Perhaps he could order Charlie to watch him nap.
"Yeah," Charlie says. "We're done."
They sit entwined together for a few moments longer, before Charlie moves out of his lap. His movements are slow and stiff and Desmond smiles in anticipation of the way Charlie will complain tomorrow once the burn really sets in.
Charlie lies down on the couch and tugs Desmond's hand so that he slumps to the side. He rests his head on Charlie's stomach; they need a shower, both of them. Their fingers are entangled, but with his free hand Charlie's pings Desmond's forehead. "I can't believe you managed to do all that without moving from the sofa once, you lazy git," he says affectionately. Maybe he's supposed to sound stern; it comes out delighted.
"Why would I move when I can get you to do it all for me, brother?" Desmond asks. He liked it, he thinks; taking charge every once in a while is something he could definitely get used to. He lets his eyes fall closed. "Was it okay?" he checks.
"It was bloody perfect," Charlie says with a laugh that rumbles through his stomach, shaking Desmond's head. The peaceful contentment in Charlie's voice is enough to tell Desmond that this has been a night well-spent.