(no subject)
Chrysalis
fandom: Lost
pairing: Charlie-centric (w/ elements of Charlie/Liam, allusions to Charlie/Locke)
rating: R - for incest, drugs, dark themes in general
Beta ♥ : raynemaiden
I wrote this a month ago, but it seemed appropriate to wait until “The Moth” re-aired to share it.
I was a bit unsatisfied with the treatment of Charlie’s withdrawal in the show. (Of course, it’s network, primetime, therefore limited.) This came as a result of that--sorta. Blame the irresistible lure of Pacecest, as well.
Disclaimer: Fiction dolloped on top of fiction. Mmm, extra-fictiony.
Feedback: Please, ma’am, sir, yes!
Chrysalis
Heroin offered no release. As a memory, how could it do anything but mock him? The desire slithered under his skin, blistered at his pores, spiked each hair, twitching at the root. Cilia under water, he thought. But there was nothing fluid about this physical pang. His heart beat blunt pressure into his throat, erratic and rough. He wondered when, not if, it would finally give out.
He tallied the alternatives. Cigarettes, booze, painkillers and sleeping aids. He remembered the little plastic bottle of anxiety medication rattling in his hands. Jack had that now. Charlie only had shaking hands, empty, cupping air.
Sex. Nice try, really, but the only bird who even showed a glimmer of interest was sporting a belly the size of a bass drum with at least one little baby Claire kicking around inside like it could break through the taut skin instead of coming out the usual way. It reminded him exactly why he’d pulled more boys backstage than girls. “If you forget the rubber, at least they won’t come at you nine months later,” Liam had told him. And Charlie’d thought, “Yeah, why not. Can’t be much different than wanking the boys at school.” And, on the average, he discovered, guy groupies gave better head.
Boys then? Here, he didn’t have the advantage of flashing lights in a dark hall and Zap’s endless supply of bottles. He did have a guitar to stroke and slide and grip under his fingers. No one paid attention. Locke even pulled him away from it, strung him along for bait. Between the hunter and the hunted, he dangled, narrowly missing the head-on collision of blade and tusk.
Any need for his services revealed itself to be temporary. Disposable.
Charlie was always being used. The first time he asked Locke to give him his drugs, he half expected the man to grin at him, head bending at the neck so he could glare at Charlie below the furrows of his eyelids. Perhaps the scene would have unfolded the way it always had in the past: a hand trailing down to cup at the crotch, fingers tripping back up the hip to hesitate just briefly over the button or buckle or-hell, just push everything down and get to work.
He remembered that last night in Dresden. He’d woken to a harsh whistling. Two girls, pink and disheveled, had slept in each other’s arms by his side on the hotel bed. He’d pulled his face from the armpit of the brunette and sat up quickly, nearly falling back down, the sheets twisted around his ankles. Looking around with bleary eyes in dim light, he’d honed in on the sound of soft laughter. Liam had smiled at him from a chair by the window, naked, legs splayed open, playing with the head of his cock. He’d swiped one more ring around and under the wrinkled foreskin and said, “My turn, little brother.” He’d cupped his balls against his cock. In his other hand, he’d pinched a plastic bag between his fingers, swaying it back and forth. Charlie had sniffed involuntarily, unwinding. The ticking in his ears matched the pendlum shift of the bag. He’d lurched forward, crawling down the bed. Liam had lowered his head and grinned wide.
“C’mere, kitten. Purr for me.”
The routine left a stale taste in his mouth. He would scrub it away with fingers dusted in golden brown. Burning on his gums and tongue reminded him he was alive. Grit and saliva licked around his mouth. His tongue, someone else’s; it didn’t matter. What mattered was skin and sweat, the rush of blood, and the sense of hurtling through the sky. Until he crashed.
Once it was a phone call, Liam leaving. Then it was a plane. But that was nothing-he doesn’t remember that at all, only the aftermath.
The next time he crashed might be the last. A dose-two if he stretched it-tossed into fire. It felt good at first. He watched the moth fly away like a tiny avatar and felt a phantom high tingle at the base of his spine: the faintest rapture. He lost sight of the moth and looked down. Blackened plastic bubbled and sputtered in the flames. At the time, he smiled. Five hours later, he imagined he saw it again, in a different fire. A damp, deep chill shook him from his bones outward, and he thought, “Jump. Just jump.” Locke held him down the first time he tried. Then Jack, then Hurley, and, after that, he lost count.
The hallucination faded quickly and Charlie knew he’d never get what he wanted. Maybe if he had taken the initiative, gotten on his knees in front of Locke. Maybe it had been Locke’s first time. Or maybe he required begging. Charlie could beg. He did it well; Liam told him.
Now, all he could do was whisper, “Please.”
He shoved the back of his hand against his mouth. His dry tongue licked the dirt on his flesh as he murmured into it. “Please.” He scraped with his teeth. “Please.” He sucked in one finger, then pushed in the others, humming around them. They waved along the walls of his mouth, hit the back of his throat, and he choked. On his hands and knees, he heaved water. Tears stung his eyes and his head throbbed.
The only release he had now was the purging of an empty stomach. He gripped himself around the middle and crumpled to the ground. Curling into himself, he slept.
He awoke to low singing and a hand in his hair, stroking him like a cat.
fandom: Lost
pairing: Charlie-centric (w/ elements of Charlie/Liam, allusions to Charlie/Locke)
rating: R - for incest, drugs, dark themes in general
Beta ♥ : raynemaiden
I wrote this a month ago, but it seemed appropriate to wait until “The Moth” re-aired to share it.
I was a bit unsatisfied with the treatment of Charlie’s withdrawal in the show. (Of course, it’s network, primetime, therefore limited.) This came as a result of that--sorta. Blame the irresistible lure of Pacecest, as well.
Disclaimer: Fiction dolloped on top of fiction. Mmm, extra-fictiony.
Feedback: Please, ma’am, sir, yes!
Chrysalis
Heroin offered no release. As a memory, how could it do anything but mock him? The desire slithered under his skin, blistered at his pores, spiked each hair, twitching at the root. Cilia under water, he thought. But there was nothing fluid about this physical pang. His heart beat blunt pressure into his throat, erratic and rough. He wondered when, not if, it would finally give out.
He tallied the alternatives. Cigarettes, booze, painkillers and sleeping aids. He remembered the little plastic bottle of anxiety medication rattling in his hands. Jack had that now. Charlie only had shaking hands, empty, cupping air.
Sex. Nice try, really, but the only bird who even showed a glimmer of interest was sporting a belly the size of a bass drum with at least one little baby Claire kicking around inside like it could break through the taut skin instead of coming out the usual way. It reminded him exactly why he’d pulled more boys backstage than girls. “If you forget the rubber, at least they won’t come at you nine months later,” Liam had told him. And Charlie’d thought, “Yeah, why not. Can’t be much different than wanking the boys at school.” And, on the average, he discovered, guy groupies gave better head.
Boys then? Here, he didn’t have the advantage of flashing lights in a dark hall and Zap’s endless supply of bottles. He did have a guitar to stroke and slide and grip under his fingers. No one paid attention. Locke even pulled him away from it, strung him along for bait. Between the hunter and the hunted, he dangled, narrowly missing the head-on collision of blade and tusk.
Any need for his services revealed itself to be temporary. Disposable.
Charlie was always being used. The first time he asked Locke to give him his drugs, he half expected the man to grin at him, head bending at the neck so he could glare at Charlie below the furrows of his eyelids. Perhaps the scene would have unfolded the way it always had in the past: a hand trailing down to cup at the crotch, fingers tripping back up the hip to hesitate just briefly over the button or buckle or-hell, just push everything down and get to work.
He remembered that last night in Dresden. He’d woken to a harsh whistling. Two girls, pink and disheveled, had slept in each other’s arms by his side on the hotel bed. He’d pulled his face from the armpit of the brunette and sat up quickly, nearly falling back down, the sheets twisted around his ankles. Looking around with bleary eyes in dim light, he’d honed in on the sound of soft laughter. Liam had smiled at him from a chair by the window, naked, legs splayed open, playing with the head of his cock. He’d swiped one more ring around and under the wrinkled foreskin and said, “My turn, little brother.” He’d cupped his balls against his cock. In his other hand, he’d pinched a plastic bag between his fingers, swaying it back and forth. Charlie had sniffed involuntarily, unwinding. The ticking in his ears matched the pendlum shift of the bag. He’d lurched forward, crawling down the bed. Liam had lowered his head and grinned wide.
“C’mere, kitten. Purr for me.”
The routine left a stale taste in his mouth. He would scrub it away with fingers dusted in golden brown. Burning on his gums and tongue reminded him he was alive. Grit and saliva licked around his mouth. His tongue, someone else’s; it didn’t matter. What mattered was skin and sweat, the rush of blood, and the sense of hurtling through the sky. Until he crashed.
Once it was a phone call, Liam leaving. Then it was a plane. But that was nothing-he doesn’t remember that at all, only the aftermath.
The next time he crashed might be the last. A dose-two if he stretched it-tossed into fire. It felt good at first. He watched the moth fly away like a tiny avatar and felt a phantom high tingle at the base of his spine: the faintest rapture. He lost sight of the moth and looked down. Blackened plastic bubbled and sputtered in the flames. At the time, he smiled. Five hours later, he imagined he saw it again, in a different fire. A damp, deep chill shook him from his bones outward, and he thought, “Jump. Just jump.” Locke held him down the first time he tried. Then Jack, then Hurley, and, after that, he lost count.
The hallucination faded quickly and Charlie knew he’d never get what he wanted. Maybe if he had taken the initiative, gotten on his knees in front of Locke. Maybe it had been Locke’s first time. Or maybe he required begging. Charlie could beg. He did it well; Liam told him.
Now, all he could do was whisper, “Please.”
He shoved the back of his hand against his mouth. His dry tongue licked the dirt on his flesh as he murmured into it. “Please.” He scraped with his teeth. “Please.” He sucked in one finger, then pushed in the others, humming around them. They waved along the walls of his mouth, hit the back of his throat, and he choked. On his hands and knees, he heaved water. Tears stung his eyes and his head throbbed.
The only release he had now was the purging of an empty stomach. He gripped himself around the middle and crumpled to the ground. Curling into himself, he slept.
He awoke to low singing and a hand in his hair, stroking him like a cat.