how 'bout some rather chaste Boone/Charlie on a Saturday? 0_o
One of my good friends is a gay male, and he thinks my writing slash is amusing and absurd. He's only seen season one of Lost (up to the finale), and you know what his first question about my Lost fic was?
Have you written any Boone/Charlie?
wtf?
This is what his ideal pairing would be, the one he thinks makes the most sense. This should not shock me. We have radically different taste in men. Of all the slash I've written, I've never tackled this pairing. So here's a ficlet…that my friend is never going to see, lol.
For Lost Riffs at lostsquee, day 3, prompts: blush and gray.
It took him two weeks to realize it was flirting. It was just that Charlie had this habit of buzzing around everybody, asking questions or simply rattling on about something unimpeded. You began to ignore him, or at least tune him out until he was simple a warm friendly presence. It didn't matter so much what he said but that he was with you.
Charlie didn't seem all that different with him than he did anyone else, so Boone didn't listen that closely to his chatter. By the time he did, Charlie was saying things about backstage experimentation and never fitting in as a kid and boys who wear eyeliner. Boone was startled one day to find that Charlie's voice did this thing, this purposefully seductive thing, when they were alone. Once he noticed, he didn't know how he could've not.
Boone had been seducer and seduced enough times to know how the game was played. Once he realized Charlie wanted to play it, he had to decide whether he wanted to engage. He found himself grinning like an idiot that night as he lay in his tent. Of course he wanted to play. He was maybe more fond of the guy than he'd realized. Charlie was cute, in a weird and goofy sort of way, except when he was brooding, and even that was oddly attractive. Of course, Boone didn't really notice that periodic brooding until he began to really notice the man, the things he did and the words he said instead of the white noise of his presence.
Even though Boone was all too used to this game, he played it quite differently from Charlie, with his barely-concealed innuendo and hovering. He was more apt to be calm and hopefully subtle about things, unless he had reason not to be. One day, when he looked up to catch Charlie staring at him like he sometimes did, watching his lips, eyes skating soft over his skin but burning hard with desire, he let his eyes lock with Charlie's and just smiled at him, no longer like he was simply putting up with him or being amused by him, but like he definitely wanted him-and only him-there. Charlie's eyes seemed to widen, just a fraction maybe. He never stopped the flow of his words, but his cheeks went pink, as pink as Boone's always were. Boone turned away again, focusing back on his work, and as he listened to Charlie chatter, he felt his own face grow hot.
This strange flirting thing they had seemed to work pretty well, Charlie still making random comments about men, perhaps now more boldly than before, as if inviting Boone into a conversation about it; and Boone continuing to stare and quietly work him up, as though a man as jumpy as Charlie even required winding. It worked well, but it wasn't getting them anywhere. As assertive as Charlie was on one level, he was not an initiator. Boone could be, but the pattern had set in so firmly he had no idea how to break them out of it. In some ways, maybe he didn't want to break them out of it, because he was beginning to see that this wasn't going to be a simple game, not in this place where everything was serious and no one could run away and pretend it hadn't happened. In his heart of hearts, too, he didn't particularly want the way they related to each other to change.
But it did, not long after a day when Charlie didn't appear outside his tent, not in the morning and not in the afternoon. The day had been gray anyway, cloudy and chill, but without Charlie's company, it seemed to stretch out interminably. Long about sunset, Boone was walking down the beach away from the camp and he found him sitting and staring forlornly out over the water. He sat down beside him without even thinking about why.
All he could get out of him was that he wasn't fine, he wasn't okay, and Boone thought he knew why. It hit them all eventually, and they dealt with it in different ways, but every one of them encountered that moment of despair of being stranded and helpless and alone. The best thing Boone knew for it was company, so he didn't get up, not even as the sun sank into the water and the camp quieted behind them.
He thought they might've sat there in silence for half and hour or more before it occurred to Boone to talk. So he did. Nothing serious; he wasn't all that good at deep discussion, especially not about something still so raw for him, too. But as he began to make small talk, first about his job and then about his family, he realized that he had more stories than he ever knew, and it was nice to tell them. It made him feel human. It didn't even matter that Charlie wasn't listening closely. At least he was listening at all. And at least Boone was there for him.
Eventually, Boone got hungry; he offered to bring Charlie some food, and he just shook his head. But as he got up to go, Charlie caught him by the hand. He held it for a moment as he seemed to work out what he wanted to say. All that came out was simply: thanks, mate.
The next day, Charlie stayed away, and Boone let him be. It felt like the thing to do. The day after that, though, sometime after lunch Charlie found him in the jungle where he was picking fruit. For a while, he fell into easy step beside him, watching as he climbed the trees and holding the bag to collect the fruit. When they had stopped in one of the makeshift paths that ran parallel to the beach, so that Boone could take a drink of water, as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, Charlie suddenly stepped toward him, took his head in his hands, and kissed him full on the lips.
Boone felt his cheeks heat with surprise and arousal as he kissed him back, letting Charlie keep control. Charlie stepped even closer to him until his belt buckle scraped across the waistband of him jeans. It was like he was still hovering, just in a different way now, close enough to be felt but not as close as he could be, wanted to be: his thighs rested against Boone's, his hands smoothed over his neck so lightly, and his breath played against his face. But it wasn't hesitancy, not at all-just something slow and measured and perfect. Charlie's lips took and took, and his tongue dipped and twisted and toyed with his own, not teasing but persistently drawing him in deeper and deeper, pushing and asking and needing.
That first kiss didn't last long. It was the middle of the day and they were still close enough to the tree line to hear the waves and the sound of people on the beach. Nothing happened until later that night, after Charlie came by his tent at sundown, chattering at him about the rest of his day, no different than he'd ever been-except for a certain look in his eyes. He said he'd go for a walk, maybe down the beach and around the bend.
It wasn't flirting this time. It was a blatant invitation, and it took Boone less than two seconds to feel the blood creep up into his cheeks and the warmth begin to settle into his gut. He would've known it even without paying attention to the words Charlie used-although now, of course, he found that he always did.
~
Have you written any Boone/Charlie?
wtf?
This is what his ideal pairing would be, the one he thinks makes the most sense. This should not shock me. We have radically different taste in men. Of all the slash I've written, I've never tackled this pairing. So here's a ficlet…that my friend is never going to see, lol.
For Lost Riffs at lostsquee, day 3, prompts: blush and gray.
It took him two weeks to realize it was flirting. It was just that Charlie had this habit of buzzing around everybody, asking questions or simply rattling on about something unimpeded. You began to ignore him, or at least tune him out until he was simple a warm friendly presence. It didn't matter so much what he said but that he was with you.
Charlie didn't seem all that different with him than he did anyone else, so Boone didn't listen that closely to his chatter. By the time he did, Charlie was saying things about backstage experimentation and never fitting in as a kid and boys who wear eyeliner. Boone was startled one day to find that Charlie's voice did this thing, this purposefully seductive thing, when they were alone. Once he noticed, he didn't know how he could've not.
Boone had been seducer and seduced enough times to know how the game was played. Once he realized Charlie wanted to play it, he had to decide whether he wanted to engage. He found himself grinning like an idiot that night as he lay in his tent. Of course he wanted to play. He was maybe more fond of the guy than he'd realized. Charlie was cute, in a weird and goofy sort of way, except when he was brooding, and even that was oddly attractive. Of course, Boone didn't really notice that periodic brooding until he began to really notice the man, the things he did and the words he said instead of the white noise of his presence.
Even though Boone was all too used to this game, he played it quite differently from Charlie, with his barely-concealed innuendo and hovering. He was more apt to be calm and hopefully subtle about things, unless he had reason not to be. One day, when he looked up to catch Charlie staring at him like he sometimes did, watching his lips, eyes skating soft over his skin but burning hard with desire, he let his eyes lock with Charlie's and just smiled at him, no longer like he was simply putting up with him or being amused by him, but like he definitely wanted him-and only him-there. Charlie's eyes seemed to widen, just a fraction maybe. He never stopped the flow of his words, but his cheeks went pink, as pink as Boone's always were. Boone turned away again, focusing back on his work, and as he listened to Charlie chatter, he felt his own face grow hot.
This strange flirting thing they had seemed to work pretty well, Charlie still making random comments about men, perhaps now more boldly than before, as if inviting Boone into a conversation about it; and Boone continuing to stare and quietly work him up, as though a man as jumpy as Charlie even required winding. It worked well, but it wasn't getting them anywhere. As assertive as Charlie was on one level, he was not an initiator. Boone could be, but the pattern had set in so firmly he had no idea how to break them out of it. In some ways, maybe he didn't want to break them out of it, because he was beginning to see that this wasn't going to be a simple game, not in this place where everything was serious and no one could run away and pretend it hadn't happened. In his heart of hearts, too, he didn't particularly want the way they related to each other to change.
But it did, not long after a day when Charlie didn't appear outside his tent, not in the morning and not in the afternoon. The day had been gray anyway, cloudy and chill, but without Charlie's company, it seemed to stretch out interminably. Long about sunset, Boone was walking down the beach away from the camp and he found him sitting and staring forlornly out over the water. He sat down beside him without even thinking about why.
All he could get out of him was that he wasn't fine, he wasn't okay, and Boone thought he knew why. It hit them all eventually, and they dealt with it in different ways, but every one of them encountered that moment of despair of being stranded and helpless and alone. The best thing Boone knew for it was company, so he didn't get up, not even as the sun sank into the water and the camp quieted behind them.
He thought they might've sat there in silence for half and hour or more before it occurred to Boone to talk. So he did. Nothing serious; he wasn't all that good at deep discussion, especially not about something still so raw for him, too. But as he began to make small talk, first about his job and then about his family, he realized that he had more stories than he ever knew, and it was nice to tell them. It made him feel human. It didn't even matter that Charlie wasn't listening closely. At least he was listening at all. And at least Boone was there for him.
Eventually, Boone got hungry; he offered to bring Charlie some food, and he just shook his head. But as he got up to go, Charlie caught him by the hand. He held it for a moment as he seemed to work out what he wanted to say. All that came out was simply: thanks, mate.
The next day, Charlie stayed away, and Boone let him be. It felt like the thing to do. The day after that, though, sometime after lunch Charlie found him in the jungle where he was picking fruit. For a while, he fell into easy step beside him, watching as he climbed the trees and holding the bag to collect the fruit. When they had stopped in one of the makeshift paths that ran parallel to the beach, so that Boone could take a drink of water, as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, Charlie suddenly stepped toward him, took his head in his hands, and kissed him full on the lips.
Boone felt his cheeks heat with surprise and arousal as he kissed him back, letting Charlie keep control. Charlie stepped even closer to him until his belt buckle scraped across the waistband of him jeans. It was like he was still hovering, just in a different way now, close enough to be felt but not as close as he could be, wanted to be: his thighs rested against Boone's, his hands smoothed over his neck so lightly, and his breath played against his face. But it wasn't hesitancy, not at all-just something slow and measured and perfect. Charlie's lips took and took, and his tongue dipped and twisted and toyed with his own, not teasing but persistently drawing him in deeper and deeper, pushing and asking and needing.
That first kiss didn't last long. It was the middle of the day and they were still close enough to the tree line to hear the waves and the sound of people on the beach. Nothing happened until later that night, after Charlie came by his tent at sundown, chattering at him about the rest of his day, no different than he'd ever been-except for a certain look in his eyes. He said he'd go for a walk, maybe down the beach and around the bend.
It wasn't flirting this time. It was a blatant invitation, and it took Boone less than two seconds to feel the blood creep up into his cheeks and the warmth begin to settle into his gut. He would've known it even without paying attention to the words Charlie used-although now, of course, he found that he always did.
~