Desmoo
I think Desmond ficcage has become a obsession of mine...
A/N: If you don’t ask why they’re hanging out together drinking wine, you’ll be a lot happier. And so will I because it means I won’t have to make up a reason. Also the slightly OOC Desmond… Shut up, he’s not OOC! He just hasn’t gotten laid for 200 years, that’s all!
Swirl, sniff, sip… Grimace.
She couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose at the taste of the wine. Two hundred years of age coupled with a hefty dose of radiation was, unsurprisingly, a bit too much for even the finest vintage. The 2070 château de goule which might once have been a deep burgundy was now an ugly rust red liquid that left a ton of sediment in her chipped glass and an odd taste in her mouth.
Her eyes stole across the table to watch as Desmond took a sip from his own glass. His face betrayed nothing of his thoughts and she was left guessing whether the wine appealed to him (she couldn’t begin to think why it would) or whether it made him lust for more scotch the same way it was making her. It occurred to her that it would have been wiser to open the wine first seeing as now she had nothing to wash her mouth out with.
Desmond’s eyes flicked up to meet hers for a moment and as usual, she looked away first. When they drank, he looked at her differently and hell if it didn’t make her more nervous than the bored, slightly irritated expression he usually gave her. If given a choice, she would have to pick apathy over über-interest when coming from Desmond Lockheart because apathy didn’t make him look like he wanted to eat her.
She wanted to tell him to quit with the soul-devouring look and then bring out the beat-up wine book she’d unearthed. She wanted to ask him why there only seemed to be red wine left in the world and what white wine was like. Or how something made from a grape could ever come to have the taste of tropical fruit, and what was tropical fruit anyway? Was that like Mutfruit or Punga fruit? Because she didn’t really like those very much…
She wanted to ask him all these things because maybe then he’d be too distracted to say-
“Come here, kid.”
God damn it…
Desmond always seemed to command rather than ask. And maybe that’s why she wordlessly arose from her seat and made her way on unsteady legs to where he sat. Or maybe it was all that scotch from earlier… Maybe it was the wine. She didn’t really know.
“What is it?” She asked quietly and Desmond stood up, so his body was almost touching hers. She didn’t move as he brought his hand up and his thumb brushed against her stained lips.
“You have wine on your mouth.’ He stated “It’s annoying.”
“Oh… Thanks.” She murmured. Desmond continued to touch her face, his hand moving from her mouth to her cheek before he leaned in close and whispered;
“Are you going to remove it or do I have to do it for you?”
Before she could even answer, Desmond had pulled her into a kiss, his tongue removing the last traces of wine from her lips before it slipped into her mouth. She tensed up, her hands clutching at him, as if decided whether to push him away or pull him closer. His hand tangling in her hair and bringing her even closer decided for her and she moaned as his hips pressed to hers.
Whenever Desmond touched her like that, she wondered how she managed to keep breathing. He made her feel like she was going to fucking die if he didn’t keep doing what he was doing. Every time he touched her, kissed her or screwed her just because he felt like it, it fucking killed. 101 knew she was suffocating because of this man, yet she wouldn’t say no… Or maybe couldn’t.
Oh, she loved him. She didn’t know how or why but she did. It was her fault for following him even though he’d made it pretty clear after Point Lookout that he never wanted to see her again. But 101 always had had a knack for convincing people to see things her way. Desmond had taken a lot longer than anyone else and she wasn’t sure he was one hundred percent convinced of her usefulness half the time, but he still let her tag along if not just to see how long she would survive.
Probably thinks I’m going to get eaten by a ‘Guai at some point… She thought bitterly but didn’t she didn’t say anything as Desmond pushed her against the table, his hands divesting her of her jacket.
Why did she love him? Maybe it was the way that every time she lost her footing on the rocky wasteland ground, he’d catch her and then reprimand her for being so clumsy. Maybe it was the way that when a Deathclaw was bearing down on her and all hope seemed lost, he’d take it out with a well-placed bullet between its eyes. Maybe it was the way that when she managed to do something right, he was sincere with his praise… It was hard to earn it; but every time he gave it, she felt as if she couldn’t be more elated, couldn’t be higher and couldn’t for the life of her be happier.
And when he touched her… She’d be so lost in the sensation though she always knew it couldn’t last. Desmond, like any other man, had physical needs and she was an outlet for that, she knew it. 101 knew he did not and never would care for her the same way she cared for him. It hurt to know she was just an outlet, an extra set of weapons and a vague annoyance but maybe that’s why she put up with it all; because she wanted to prove to him she was more than that. She knew that trying to gain Desmond Lockheart’s acceptance was like chasing the reflection of the sun, but still she tried because that’s all she really could do.
Desmond’s hands pinned hers against the table and his lips were on hers again. She found that she loved the way his moustache prickled her skin because to her it was so uniquely Desmond. Her legs wrapped around his waist, trying to draw him closer so she could feel him where she needed him the most right then. And the sounds that escaped his mouth made it feel like her chest was caving in; Jesus Christ, she wanted him so badly, almost too much…
It didn’t matter that the bottle of wine was knocked from the table. And she couldn’t care less about the blood-like pool that spread across the ground and seeped between the floorboards. She only cared that it was easier not to think about never earning his acceptance when he was on top of her like this. So much easier when all she could see were starbursts behind her eyes and red pulses. When all she could feel was his lips on her neck and his cock inside of her. She knew she needed this more than he ever could.
Sometimes it frightened her that Desmond was becoming her world. Sometimes she feared that a day would come where he could tell her to do anything and she would do it. But now wasn’t the time when she could think about that. When Desmond was with her like this, everything else melted away. 101 could close her eyes in that moment and cling to him and think he was the only thing that mattered.
Because when she could pretend that he needed her the same way she needed him, everything else was just so much spilled wine…
I dare say these are getting more disjointed and weird as they go along. Oh well. Any Desmond is for me better than no Desmond at all.
A/N: If you don’t ask why they’re hanging out together drinking wine, you’ll be a lot happier. And so will I because it means I won’t have to make up a reason. Also the slightly OOC Desmond… Shut up, he’s not OOC! He just hasn’t gotten laid for 200 years, that’s all!
Swirl, sniff, sip… Grimace.
She couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose at the taste of the wine. Two hundred years of age coupled with a hefty dose of radiation was, unsurprisingly, a bit too much for even the finest vintage. The 2070 château de goule which might once have been a deep burgundy was now an ugly rust red liquid that left a ton of sediment in her chipped glass and an odd taste in her mouth.
Her eyes stole across the table to watch as Desmond took a sip from his own glass. His face betrayed nothing of his thoughts and she was left guessing whether the wine appealed to him (she couldn’t begin to think why it would) or whether it made him lust for more scotch the same way it was making her. It occurred to her that it would have been wiser to open the wine first seeing as now she had nothing to wash her mouth out with.
Desmond’s eyes flicked up to meet hers for a moment and as usual, she looked away first. When they drank, he looked at her differently and hell if it didn’t make her more nervous than the bored, slightly irritated expression he usually gave her. If given a choice, she would have to pick apathy over über-interest when coming from Desmond Lockheart because apathy didn’t make him look like he wanted to eat her.
She wanted to tell him to quit with the soul-devouring look and then bring out the beat-up wine book she’d unearthed. She wanted to ask him why there only seemed to be red wine left in the world and what white wine was like. Or how something made from a grape could ever come to have the taste of tropical fruit, and what was tropical fruit anyway? Was that like Mutfruit or Punga fruit? Because she didn’t really like those very much…
She wanted to ask him all these things because maybe then he’d be too distracted to say-
“Come here, kid.”
God damn it…
Desmond always seemed to command rather than ask. And maybe that’s why she wordlessly arose from her seat and made her way on unsteady legs to where he sat. Or maybe it was all that scotch from earlier… Maybe it was the wine. She didn’t really know.
“What is it?” She asked quietly and Desmond stood up, so his body was almost touching hers. She didn’t move as he brought his hand up and his thumb brushed against her stained lips.
“You have wine on your mouth.’ He stated “It’s annoying.”
“Oh… Thanks.” She murmured. Desmond continued to touch her face, his hand moving from her mouth to her cheek before he leaned in close and whispered;
“Are you going to remove it or do I have to do it for you?”
Before she could even answer, Desmond had pulled her into a kiss, his tongue removing the last traces of wine from her lips before it slipped into her mouth. She tensed up, her hands clutching at him, as if decided whether to push him away or pull him closer. His hand tangling in her hair and bringing her even closer decided for her and she moaned as his hips pressed to hers.
Whenever Desmond touched her like that, she wondered how she managed to keep breathing. He made her feel like she was going to fucking die if he didn’t keep doing what he was doing. Every time he touched her, kissed her or screwed her just because he felt like it, it fucking killed. 101 knew she was suffocating because of this man, yet she wouldn’t say no… Or maybe couldn’t.
Oh, she loved him. She didn’t know how or why but she did. It was her fault for following him even though he’d made it pretty clear after Point Lookout that he never wanted to see her again. But 101 always had had a knack for convincing people to see things her way. Desmond had taken a lot longer than anyone else and she wasn’t sure he was one hundred percent convinced of her usefulness half the time, but he still let her tag along if not just to see how long she would survive.
Probably thinks I’m going to get eaten by a ‘Guai at some point… She thought bitterly but didn’t she didn’t say anything as Desmond pushed her against the table, his hands divesting her of her jacket.
Why did she love him? Maybe it was the way that every time she lost her footing on the rocky wasteland ground, he’d catch her and then reprimand her for being so clumsy. Maybe it was the way that when a Deathclaw was bearing down on her and all hope seemed lost, he’d take it out with a well-placed bullet between its eyes. Maybe it was the way that when she managed to do something right, he was sincere with his praise… It was hard to earn it; but every time he gave it, she felt as if she couldn’t be more elated, couldn’t be higher and couldn’t for the life of her be happier.
And when he touched her… She’d be so lost in the sensation though she always knew it couldn’t last. Desmond, like any other man, had physical needs and she was an outlet for that, she knew it. 101 knew he did not and never would care for her the same way she cared for him. It hurt to know she was just an outlet, an extra set of weapons and a vague annoyance but maybe that’s why she put up with it all; because she wanted to prove to him she was more than that. She knew that trying to gain Desmond Lockheart’s acceptance was like chasing the reflection of the sun, but still she tried because that’s all she really could do.
Desmond’s hands pinned hers against the table and his lips were on hers again. She found that she loved the way his moustache prickled her skin because to her it was so uniquely Desmond. Her legs wrapped around his waist, trying to draw him closer so she could feel him where she needed him the most right then. And the sounds that escaped his mouth made it feel like her chest was caving in; Jesus Christ, she wanted him so badly, almost too much…
It didn’t matter that the bottle of wine was knocked from the table. And she couldn’t care less about the blood-like pool that spread across the ground and seeped between the floorboards. She only cared that it was easier not to think about never earning his acceptance when he was on top of her like this. So much easier when all she could see were starbursts behind her eyes and red pulses. When all she could feel was his lips on her neck and his cock inside of her. She knew she needed this more than he ever could.
Sometimes it frightened her that Desmond was becoming her world. Sometimes she feared that a day would come where he could tell her to do anything and she would do it. But now wasn’t the time when she could think about that. When Desmond was with her like this, everything else melted away. 101 could close her eyes in that moment and cling to him and think he was the only thing that mattered.
Because when she could pretend that he needed her the same way she needed him, everything else was just so much spilled wine…
I dare say these are getting more disjointed and weird as they go along. Oh well. Any Desmond is for me better than no Desmond at all.