fic, Lost: Dignity (is often an overrated concept) (Charlie/Desmond), NC17
Title: Dignity (Is Often An Overrated Concept)
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Desmond/Charlie
Words: 1840
Spoilers: er, AU that implies that they got together in S3, got safely rescued and shacked up together. Nothing really except for Desmond having visions.
Summary: There are times when Charlie really, really hates Desmond. This is definitely one. Damn, he thinks, this is a bloody blow to his dignity, that’s what it is. Because he’s not ever, ever, ever sharing a fucking pink tartan quilt even if the heating is broken and he’s seriously freezing.
Disclaimer: er, no, Lost is not mine. Charlie would be alive and etc. etc. etc. as usual.
A/N: for the most awesome Queen toestastegood who wished for Charlie and established relationships at lostsquee. And er, since ages ago she had asked me the same pairing in association with quilt for another meme, here I comply that other request too. ;) And er, since I have too much time on my hands and I had a precise pattern for the quilt in my head, have a look at this awesome tartan before reading so that you know what poor Charlie is dealing with. ;) Er, the title sucks but I couldn't come up with a more decent one. *hates titles*
“Oh, I can’t sodding believe this.”
“Sorry to say, but you really don’t have much of a choice. Unless you prefer freezin’ to death, of course. Your pick, brother.”
There are times when Charlie really, really hates Desmond. This is definitely one. Damn, he thinks, this is a bloody blow to his dignity, that’s what it is. Because he’s not ever, ever, ever sharing a fucking pink tartan quilt even if the heating is broken and he’s seriously freezing.
Because, clearly, when does the heating break? When it’s mid-December and a Saturday evening, of everything, which translates in no one coming to fix it for two days or something like that, and Charlie is so not fine with that. His teeth are shamefully chattering while Desmond rolls his eyes at him from beneath the hideous, hideous tartan quilt he has draped around his shoulders some half an hour ago after he stopped any attempt at fixing the bloody thing. Looks like it’s too serious and he doesn’t want to make any more mess than necessary, which Charlie can get, sure he can, but still, he has a dignity and he’s just not caving in. He wraps a blanket he had somewhere around his shoulders, which doesn’t exactly keep him warm since it isn’t really that heavy, or at least not as heavy as the blasted quilt.
Not that he’s glaring at Desmond, who doesn’t have any bloody right to look so amused.
“Come on, you’re bein’ just a stubborn idiot.”
“Nope. No, I beg to differ.”
“Aye, ‘course, and you can’t even finish that sentence. Y’know, I can hear your teeth.”
“Fuck you,” Charlie spits, “I am not, and I mean not using that thing. It’s fucking hideous. Where the bloody hell do you find an orange and pink tartan quilt anyway? Christ. Only you.”
“Well, surely you won’t get to do that if you stand there, aye?”
“What?”
“Fuck me, what else?”
“Don’t... just... don’t.”
Charlie is perfectly aware that he’s pacing way too quickly across the floor and perfectly aware that Desmond is rolling his eyes now, still looking perfectly comfortable as he wraps that sorry, hideous pink and orange mix-up around him, and damn, it’d be large enough for five fucking people and no, he is so definitely not caving in.
“I have a bloody dignity,” he hisses, more for himself than for Desmond.
“Aye, ‘course you do. And clearly your dignity allowed you to wear make-up last evening at that concert, and...”
“That was for the sake of art!”
“You know that punks wore tartan in the seventies, don’t you?”
“Don’t be smart with me, damn you! Yeah, I know, and I never was in a punk band anyway. And that was red tartan, not pink. I am not...”
“I bought it directly in Scotland, y’know? I can assure you that it’s definitely warm.”
“Sod-the-fuck-off.”
“Your loss, brother.”
Charlie just scowls and pulls his blanket tighter. Damn, he needs to buy himself some heavier ones. Right, since the rescue he has spent most of the winter in Australia so he never exactly needed heavy winter stuff, but still, one never can have enough. Damn, he thinks, cursing himself for getting an apartment in a nineteenth century house whose heat system is falling to pieces. True, the place was pretty much beautiful and in a good position and everything, but fuck. It’s cold and when your, er, let’s say partner, is calmly sitting on the sofa looking just as warm as one can get, wrapped in a stupid, Scottish orange and pink tartan quilt... you’ll admit it’s too fucking much.
He manages to stay silent for another two minutes. Maybe three. He doesn’t really check the clock, also because along with the heating there was a blackout in the whole household and in the next two and he only can see Desmond because of an emergency light shining from the hallway.
“At least sit.”
“Nope. I could get tempted.”
“... you know you’re... ah, whatever. Your loss, as I was sayin’ before.”
Smug bastard, Charlie thinks, but does-not-cave-the-fuck-in. This is a damned matter of principle, and if he’s shivering who cares. He has endured a lot worse, hey, I mean, there was the polar bear and that time with the dart and the bloody hanging, it won’t be a stupid heater forcing him to...
“You’re seriously a bloody stubborn idiot, but I’m not havin’ your death on my conscience. Also because this would the most sodding stupid way to die you could go for. And sorry but after all that mess back there, like hell I’m allowing you.”
“Hey, what the...”
Charlie doesn’t end the sentence; and it’s not like he couldn’t have held his own against Desmond, he bloody well could, but see, he’s freezing and his fingers are numb and the bastard was sneaky and took him by surprise, so it really isn’t his fault if he’s suddenly yanked behind on the sofa and covered by that hideous quilt.
Pink tartan, bloody fuck.
Which doesn’t change the fact that there’s some shock going on here; because hello, when you’re freezing and suddenly you find your back against a freaking human furnace and your front is covered by pink-and-orange tartan which actually you have to admit being almost as much as a furnace as the guy behind you, well, fuck, it’s a shock. Right? Right.
Right?
He shivers then, and his teeth are still chattering when they really shouldn’t, and there’s a hot hand trailing under his sweater and Charlie almost whimpers when two fingers rest over the zipper of his jeans.
“Hell, look what you make me do just to save you from hypothermia.”
“What? I’m not bloody dying here, if...”
“Aye, I’m sure you weren’t.”
And Charlie would really argue back because like hell he was, but Desmond is already kissing him and pushing him down on the sofa, the quilt draped over his shoulders and covering a good part of the floor, too (the thing is big, sure it is), his tongue insistent against Charlie’s lips; for a second Charlie tries to resist just out of spite, but it’s really not the moment or the time and he doesn’t have the necessary force of will anyway. And so he parts them and moans without much dignity at all as Desmond keeps on kissing him, his tongue plunging forward; Charlie just feels like there isn’t an inch of him that Desmond isn’t reaching. He moves his cold hands, the fingers shaking, up under Desmond’s sweater only to find scorching hot skin, or so it feels to him anyway, and the sensation is so sharp that he almost jerks out of the touch. But then Desmond’s arms are pinning his shoulders down to the cushions and the damn quilt is doing a fine good job of keeping them warm, damn it; he doesn’t exactly catch the moment when Desmond manages to take his sweater off without making it fall.
He doesn’t touch Charlie’s though, his hands only proceed to get rid of both of their jeans; Charlie barely distinguishes Desmond in the dim light coming from the emergency light, even if he sees enough to distinguish his profile and his eyes and his mouth. He doesn’t need light to trace the outline of Desmond’s hips though, and he finally starts to feel blood flowing normally through his veins after Desmond’s hands start to rub everywhere. On his shoulders, on his stomach, along his thighs, they just rub over cold skin which melts into warm after a short while and well, fuck, fine, he has to give it to Des, the sensation is definitely pretty fucking amazing. Oh, he mouths as Desmond’s hand which was on his knee starts trailing upwards, and there’s a moan that dies in his mouth when long, warm fingers get rid of his underwear.
There’s a moment when Desmond sort of crushes him as he adjusts the quilt, bringing it a bit more forward; Charlie barely has time to breathe before moaning without any sort of bloody dignity again when Desmond’s hand closes around his cock and oh, damn, he doesn’t even give him the time to actually adjust to the feeling before Desmond starts to jerk him off with slow, measured movements. Charlie suddenly feels everything but freezing; tiny droplets of sweat run down his neck, even, and as his hips thrust up to meet Desmond as he goes just a tiny bit faster he thinks he just might burst from the heat. Desmond’s skin is just so hot, scorching even, and Charlie is only sorry that he can barely see anything between the dark and the quilt covering most of his field of vision; he closes his eyes then, figuring it’s just as good as keeping them open, and fuck, that’s when Desmond starts going faster and every nerve of Charlie’s is tingling and he’s moaning loudly now. For a fleeting seconds he hopes the neighbors don’t hear anything, then wonders how the fuck can he think about the neighbors when Desmond’s hand is making him lose is bloody mind and his mouth is there on the hollow of his neck, his lips pressed over Charlie’s now-warm skin. Charlie can’t see anything but he’s sure that Desmond is half-smiling as his tongue slowly traces the outline of his collarbone and Charlie comes hard against his hand, without even realizing he had reached that point. Everything goes white beneath his eyelids as pleasure spasm make his whole body jerk upwards and right there into Desmond’s touch; he’s barely conscious of Desmond’s cock rubbing against his thigh before he comes too, his lips just above Charlie’s ear. The pleased, relieved sound Desmond emits is enough to make Charlie shiver and turn so that he can bloody kiss him, he really couldn’t not, and it’s messy because he can’t see zilch but when he does fine Desmond’s lips it just feels so good and if they’re both trembling as Desmond falls down on top of him as gracefully as the circumstances allow, it doesn’t really matter.
Charlie doesn’t really move from his position but when Desmond ends up behind him on the sofa and sneaks his arms around his waist Charlie surely doesn’t have a single thing to complain about. He’s warm, he’s not dying of hypothermia, he’s still high on their previous activity and everything would be just bloody perfect if only there was some electricity and the radio was turned on, but of course leave it to Desmond to ruin the afterglow.
“So, still so against my quilt?”
“Oh, bollocks, why do you have to ruin my perfectly fine state of mind bringing that up?”
“Well, I can always take it down.”
“Don’t you bloody dare,” he hisses while Desmond tugs him closer. Whatever. He might just forgive the bloody idiot, this once.
This once. Bloody pink tartan quilts, he thinks but doesn’t say. It’s not like, after all, he has a right. Damn. Not that he’ll tell Desmond, anyway.
End.
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Desmond/Charlie
Words: 1840
Spoilers: er, AU that implies that they got together in S3, got safely rescued and shacked up together. Nothing really except for Desmond having visions.
Summary: There are times when Charlie really, really hates Desmond. This is definitely one. Damn, he thinks, this is a bloody blow to his dignity, that’s what it is. Because he’s not ever, ever, ever sharing a fucking pink tartan quilt even if the heating is broken and he’s seriously freezing.
Disclaimer: er, no, Lost is not mine. Charlie would be alive and etc. etc. etc. as usual.
A/N: for the most awesome Queen toestastegood who wished for Charlie and established relationships at lostsquee. And er, since ages ago she had asked me the same pairing in association with quilt for another meme, here I comply that other request too. ;) And er, since I have too much time on my hands and I had a precise pattern for the quilt in my head, have a look at this awesome tartan before reading so that you know what poor Charlie is dealing with. ;) Er, the title sucks but I couldn't come up with a more decent one. *hates titles*
“Oh, I can’t sodding believe this.”
“Sorry to say, but you really don’t have much of a choice. Unless you prefer freezin’ to death, of course. Your pick, brother.”
There are times when Charlie really, really hates Desmond. This is definitely one. Damn, he thinks, this is a bloody blow to his dignity, that’s what it is. Because he’s not ever, ever, ever sharing a fucking pink tartan quilt even if the heating is broken and he’s seriously freezing.
Because, clearly, when does the heating break? When it’s mid-December and a Saturday evening, of everything, which translates in no one coming to fix it for two days or something like that, and Charlie is so not fine with that. His teeth are shamefully chattering while Desmond rolls his eyes at him from beneath the hideous, hideous tartan quilt he has draped around his shoulders some half an hour ago after he stopped any attempt at fixing the bloody thing. Looks like it’s too serious and he doesn’t want to make any more mess than necessary, which Charlie can get, sure he can, but still, he has a dignity and he’s just not caving in. He wraps a blanket he had somewhere around his shoulders, which doesn’t exactly keep him warm since it isn’t really that heavy, or at least not as heavy as the blasted quilt.
Not that he’s glaring at Desmond, who doesn’t have any bloody right to look so amused.
“Come on, you’re bein’ just a stubborn idiot.”
“Nope. No, I beg to differ.”
“Aye, ‘course, and you can’t even finish that sentence. Y’know, I can hear your teeth.”
“Fuck you,” Charlie spits, “I am not, and I mean not using that thing. It’s fucking hideous. Where the bloody hell do you find an orange and pink tartan quilt anyway? Christ. Only you.”
“Well, surely you won’t get to do that if you stand there, aye?”
“What?”
“Fuck me, what else?”
“Don’t... just... don’t.”
Charlie is perfectly aware that he’s pacing way too quickly across the floor and perfectly aware that Desmond is rolling his eyes now, still looking perfectly comfortable as he wraps that sorry, hideous pink and orange mix-up around him, and damn, it’d be large enough for five fucking people and no, he is so definitely not caving in.
“I have a bloody dignity,” he hisses, more for himself than for Desmond.
“Aye, ‘course you do. And clearly your dignity allowed you to wear make-up last evening at that concert, and...”
“That was for the sake of art!”
“You know that punks wore tartan in the seventies, don’t you?”
“Don’t be smart with me, damn you! Yeah, I know, and I never was in a punk band anyway. And that was red tartan, not pink. I am not...”
“I bought it directly in Scotland, y’know? I can assure you that it’s definitely warm.”
“Sod-the-fuck-off.”
“Your loss, brother.”
Charlie just scowls and pulls his blanket tighter. Damn, he needs to buy himself some heavier ones. Right, since the rescue he has spent most of the winter in Australia so he never exactly needed heavy winter stuff, but still, one never can have enough. Damn, he thinks, cursing himself for getting an apartment in a nineteenth century house whose heat system is falling to pieces. True, the place was pretty much beautiful and in a good position and everything, but fuck. It’s cold and when your, er, let’s say partner, is calmly sitting on the sofa looking just as warm as one can get, wrapped in a stupid, Scottish orange and pink tartan quilt... you’ll admit it’s too fucking much.
He manages to stay silent for another two minutes. Maybe three. He doesn’t really check the clock, also because along with the heating there was a blackout in the whole household and in the next two and he only can see Desmond because of an emergency light shining from the hallway.
“At least sit.”
“Nope. I could get tempted.”
“... you know you’re... ah, whatever. Your loss, as I was sayin’ before.”
Smug bastard, Charlie thinks, but does-not-cave-the-fuck-in. This is a damned matter of principle, and if he’s shivering who cares. He has endured a lot worse, hey, I mean, there was the polar bear and that time with the dart and the bloody hanging, it won’t be a stupid heater forcing him to...
“You’re seriously a bloody stubborn idiot, but I’m not havin’ your death on my conscience. Also because this would the most sodding stupid way to die you could go for. And sorry but after all that mess back there, like hell I’m allowing you.”
“Hey, what the...”
Charlie doesn’t end the sentence; and it’s not like he couldn’t have held his own against Desmond, he bloody well could, but see, he’s freezing and his fingers are numb and the bastard was sneaky and took him by surprise, so it really isn’t his fault if he’s suddenly yanked behind on the sofa and covered by that hideous quilt.
Pink tartan, bloody fuck.
Which doesn’t change the fact that there’s some shock going on here; because hello, when you’re freezing and suddenly you find your back against a freaking human furnace and your front is covered by pink-and-orange tartan which actually you have to admit being almost as much as a furnace as the guy behind you, well, fuck, it’s a shock. Right? Right.
Right?
He shivers then, and his teeth are still chattering when they really shouldn’t, and there’s a hot hand trailing under his sweater and Charlie almost whimpers when two fingers rest over the zipper of his jeans.
“Hell, look what you make me do just to save you from hypothermia.”
“What? I’m not bloody dying here, if...”
“Aye, I’m sure you weren’t.”
And Charlie would really argue back because like hell he was, but Desmond is already kissing him and pushing him down on the sofa, the quilt draped over his shoulders and covering a good part of the floor, too (the thing is big, sure it is), his tongue insistent against Charlie’s lips; for a second Charlie tries to resist just out of spite, but it’s really not the moment or the time and he doesn’t have the necessary force of will anyway. And so he parts them and moans without much dignity at all as Desmond keeps on kissing him, his tongue plunging forward; Charlie just feels like there isn’t an inch of him that Desmond isn’t reaching. He moves his cold hands, the fingers shaking, up under Desmond’s sweater only to find scorching hot skin, or so it feels to him anyway, and the sensation is so sharp that he almost jerks out of the touch. But then Desmond’s arms are pinning his shoulders down to the cushions and the damn quilt is doing a fine good job of keeping them warm, damn it; he doesn’t exactly catch the moment when Desmond manages to take his sweater off without making it fall.
He doesn’t touch Charlie’s though, his hands only proceed to get rid of both of their jeans; Charlie barely distinguishes Desmond in the dim light coming from the emergency light, even if he sees enough to distinguish his profile and his eyes and his mouth. He doesn’t need light to trace the outline of Desmond’s hips though, and he finally starts to feel blood flowing normally through his veins after Desmond’s hands start to rub everywhere. On his shoulders, on his stomach, along his thighs, they just rub over cold skin which melts into warm after a short while and well, fuck, fine, he has to give it to Des, the sensation is definitely pretty fucking amazing. Oh, he mouths as Desmond’s hand which was on his knee starts trailing upwards, and there’s a moan that dies in his mouth when long, warm fingers get rid of his underwear.
There’s a moment when Desmond sort of crushes him as he adjusts the quilt, bringing it a bit more forward; Charlie barely has time to breathe before moaning without any sort of bloody dignity again when Desmond’s hand closes around his cock and oh, damn, he doesn’t even give him the time to actually adjust to the feeling before Desmond starts to jerk him off with slow, measured movements. Charlie suddenly feels everything but freezing; tiny droplets of sweat run down his neck, even, and as his hips thrust up to meet Desmond as he goes just a tiny bit faster he thinks he just might burst from the heat. Desmond’s skin is just so hot, scorching even, and Charlie is only sorry that he can barely see anything between the dark and the quilt covering most of his field of vision; he closes his eyes then, figuring it’s just as good as keeping them open, and fuck, that’s when Desmond starts going faster and every nerve of Charlie’s is tingling and he’s moaning loudly now. For a fleeting seconds he hopes the neighbors don’t hear anything, then wonders how the fuck can he think about the neighbors when Desmond’s hand is making him lose is bloody mind and his mouth is there on the hollow of his neck, his lips pressed over Charlie’s now-warm skin. Charlie can’t see anything but he’s sure that Desmond is half-smiling as his tongue slowly traces the outline of his collarbone and Charlie comes hard against his hand, without even realizing he had reached that point. Everything goes white beneath his eyelids as pleasure spasm make his whole body jerk upwards and right there into Desmond’s touch; he’s barely conscious of Desmond’s cock rubbing against his thigh before he comes too, his lips just above Charlie’s ear. The pleased, relieved sound Desmond emits is enough to make Charlie shiver and turn so that he can bloody kiss him, he really couldn’t not, and it’s messy because he can’t see zilch but when he does fine Desmond’s lips it just feels so good and if they’re both trembling as Desmond falls down on top of him as gracefully as the circumstances allow, it doesn’t really matter.
Charlie doesn’t really move from his position but when Desmond ends up behind him on the sofa and sneaks his arms around his waist Charlie surely doesn’t have a single thing to complain about. He’s warm, he’s not dying of hypothermia, he’s still high on their previous activity and everything would be just bloody perfect if only there was some electricity and the radio was turned on, but of course leave it to Desmond to ruin the afterglow.
“So, still so against my quilt?”
“Oh, bollocks, why do you have to ruin my perfectly fine state of mind bringing that up?”
“Well, I can always take it down.”
“Don’t you bloody dare,” he hisses while Desmond tugs him closer. Whatever. He might just forgive the bloody idiot, this once.
This once. Bloody pink tartan quilts, he thinks but doesn’t say. It’s not like, after all, he has a right. Damn. Not that he’ll tell Desmond, anyway.
End.