Ficlet: Lit Up (Sawyer/Sayid)
Why am I posting this story? Because I'm going to choose to be oblivious of the fact that 1) I'm posting on Friday, when nobody reads fic and 2) I'm posting a pairing nobody (barring zelda_zee) writes or reads. Maybe I should post it to the comms, but I'm very doubtful about this particular story. All the more reason to post, right? *snorts*
Title: Lit Up
Pairing: Sawyer/Sayid (I’ve never really written this pairing before, surprisingly enough.)
Rating: Adults
Summary/Note: 1700 pr0ny words. Wrote it last week, before the great upheaval of the move and the boyfriend blah blah blah. Don’t ask me where this came from. I don’t know. Actually, I do: two beautiful bodies, two complicated men. Just a bit of lyricism because I was feeling bogged down in dialogue and plotted writing. Something to cleanse the writing palate, I guess.
It’s not about his body. It isn’t exactly not about his body either, but that’s just fine with Sawyer. To be wanted for something he’s chosen and not just what he’s been born with is intoxicating.
He arches his back, pulling his stomach up toward Sayid’s tongue, feeling it dip into his navel, hissing softly; hissing because this was what they did, what they were. Slow touches, building things to a ridiculous peak, both men pulled tight against themselves, taut like bow strings, always ready, always so close to letting it go. But slow, first. Tongues and breath and skin skimming skin: scraping it, teasing it, infusing it with some kind of low-burning fire, arousal like Sawyer couldn’t really remember. This-this is what he’d wanted to give, back in that other life: this patient, languid, glorious, all-consuming sort of want, one that the right touch could set off like sparks, like lightning. Except this wasn’t lightning but thunder. He thought that he’d been so good at this before, but it could only seem good to those women who hadn’t felt something like this that rumbles or seems to pull you under until you can’t breathe, only to caress you like the ocean did when it lapped over your feet, out of your control, always-of course you can’t stop it or decide where it goes, yet you walk along the shore anyway, seeking, inviting, waiting.
Instead of moving down, Sayid’s tongue traces upward, this hot trail blazed up his breastbone, tongue flattening and moving across his nipple, suddenly the tip of it circling, teasing, circling then sucking, slow and hot. Everything’s hot, every place where that brown body covers his. Sawyer’s hand slide up over Sayid’s ass, kneading it in admiration, so firm but substantial-human, skin, muscle, flesh; this is flesh he loves, even when it seems to burn him. Mostly, it’s a pleasant heat, and when they do this in his tent with the flaps open, the wind sweeping in like it is now, it’s all perfect. Sawyer didn’t think it could be that way, not with Sayid. He expected a battle, but there never was one, just this persistent moving together until they bumped like ships in the night, but they didn’t wreck each other. They were already wrecked, and there was a tacit agreement that this should only be about forgetting all that wreckage for a while. So they do. Sometimes, there are skirmishes, but nothing that means to wound. They have this power, so they use it, but not to fight each other: to feed themselves, somehow, pushing this thing along swiftly and making it something that never went away, never died, lust always there in the forefront of their minds so that a look across the camp, those brown eyes smooth like some old, polished wood, could send a shock through him, and he would taste his skin and feel the weight of it on top of him, skin and sinew under his hands; and he would feel it in his toes before it coursed through him to fill him, make him swell in anticipation, his body tense with need but content with feeling it. Sayid could practically make him purr, pleasantly warm and happy like a cat, or waiting patiently, always ready to growl, to pounce, rock his body into Sayid’s, take it from him, pull it out of him, suck out this lust slow and blindingly hard.
Sayid is stretched out over him now, looking at him seriously, a gaze he’s gotten used to dealing with. It looks through his skin to something, Sawyer’s not sure what. He’s convinced that whatever Sayid sees is something only he can see. Mostly strength, the solid kind, not the dangerous, wild kind-because Sayid seems to disapprove of his recklessness. Not that Sayid doesn’t find that aspect of his personality exciting-he does, and maybe more than he will admit; and not that Sayid doesn’t do dangerous things himself. But Sayid seems to temper them with control, knowing what to expect or at least being fully prepared for any consequences. Sawyer can do that too, of course. It’s not that he doesn’t bother to think about what’s going to happen, it’s that he doesn’t care, sometimes. Perhaps that is the only difference: when the cost is too great, Sayid often stops; Sawyer doesn’t. Sawyer can only assume that whatever this is that they do is something they’re both willing to risk: Sayid because it’s not too dangerous, Sawyer because it probably is.
But even though it feels like a risk, it’s also a strange and instant bond, this undercurrent of understanding that makes them know it isn’t going to all fall apart even when they don’t have a clue what’s behind each other’s gaze. Sawyer decided long ago that if it could be this good, he didn’t have to know everything going on in Sayid’s head. He knows enough: he knows this: he knows an enduring fire and a hand that circles his bicep. Strong. He is strong, in so many ways, ways that only Sayid has bothered to see. And he thinks it’s because Sayid doesn’t cloud everything with some false moral tint. He merely circles Sawyer’s arms and says strong, opens his legs and says strong, asks to be taken, filled full of it, held down by it, arching up into it just as Sawyer is now feeling his hips lift off the ground to slide into Sayid’s mouth. He doesn’t say anything, only sighing. They each let wordless exhalations and groans speak for them.
Sayid pulls off him long before Sawyer’s even close. He wants him inside. He always does. How could Sawyer have guessed that, that this man likes to be fucked, wants to take it, needs to feel himself pressed, pushed, driven into the ground with the force of it? Tight. Always tight. Sawyer wonders how a person could be that tightly wound. But he can unwind him, because he’s learned how to do it. It’s a combination of dominance and measured heat; tongue touching everything but his cock, hands roaming everywhere and with so much concentration that Sawyer can feel the soft down of hair on his stomach, the scars on the inside of one of his thighs. Even the bruises he left on the man’s neck the day before, quite visible because they have nothing to hide from anyone, become lovely places to torment with his tongue. Sayid merely writhes beneath him, bucking up with his hips, head back, occasionally hitting the ground in frustration, but it’s a welcome agitation.
Sawyer opens him carefully, finger after finger, a lot of lube, stroking himself as he does because Sayid likes to watch this. Sometimes he jerks off for Sayid, but today isn’t once of those days. Instead, he brushes the tip of his cock over his entrance and feels him react with a shudder, then he pushes in. And he waits, feeling that heat squeezing him tight, emptying his head of anything other than how good this feels. This is what they do: forget, escape, surrender to this because nothing else is safe to surrender to.
Today, Sayid wants it fast. He pulls at Sawyer’s hips, wanting him to give himself over to it. Sawyer grunts and growls, because this is good, so good. Sayid jerks beneath him; his cock is beautiful and bronze, slightly pink, and it’s leaving a pool on his stomach, but Sayid doesn’t touch himself. As Sawyer drives into him, he knows why Sayid isn’t trying to get off, and it makes him thrust harder, faster, knowing Sayid wants to be inside him too. It’s not often he gets to have that from Sayid, but when he does, it gives him an indescribable feeling of safety and power. Thinking about what Sayid is going to do, watching him writhe under him, hearing him grunt each time their bodies connect, makes him come, almost violently, like a beginning and an ending of something at the same time, only Sawyer’s not sure what.
Sayid turns him over onto his stomach. He likes his back, and this time he even says so, as he breathes over it and kisses it: You have a beautiful back, Sawyer. Strong. His hands roam the inside of Sawyer’s thighs for a moment, then one finger enters him, then two, and he crooks it to reach his prostate, probing it softly, because he’s still sensitive. When Sayid fucks him first, he makes it last. Careful and with wandering hands, he lights Sawyer up with it, pushing and pushing until he is desperate for it. But now that Sayid has been fucked, he’s less willing to take his time. Yet even though he’s moving swiftly, it feels fluid and even and Sawyer likes it this way. He likes it that he’s already come and he doesn’t have a hard-on to distract him. He can just accept and take and feel Sayid have his way.
Sayid often tells him that they are unlike the other people on the island. They understand things that the others don’t. Sawyer doesn’t quite to know what he means, but feeling Sayid’s thumbs slip lightly down his crack and spread him as he hovers, waiting to push inside, Sawyer often thinks he really ought to know. Because this makes sense, and it has to be because of something bigger than either of them. Why else hasn’t this all gone up in flames? Or maybe that’s what Sayid knows: why it hasn’t. So Sawyer doesn’t ask. He doesn’t say a word. He stretches out his arms flat against the floor of his tent and tells himself that he is strong.
Title: Lit Up
Pairing: Sawyer/Sayid (I’ve never really written this pairing before, surprisingly enough.)
Rating: Adults
Summary/Note: 1700 pr0ny words. Wrote it last week, before the great upheaval of the move and the boyfriend blah blah blah. Don’t ask me where this came from. I don’t know. Actually, I do: two beautiful bodies, two complicated men. Just a bit of lyricism because I was feeling bogged down in dialogue and plotted writing. Something to cleanse the writing palate, I guess.
It’s not about his body. It isn’t exactly not about his body either, but that’s just fine with Sawyer. To be wanted for something he’s chosen and not just what he’s been born with is intoxicating.
He arches his back, pulling his stomach up toward Sayid’s tongue, feeling it dip into his navel, hissing softly; hissing because this was what they did, what they were. Slow touches, building things to a ridiculous peak, both men pulled tight against themselves, taut like bow strings, always ready, always so close to letting it go. But slow, first. Tongues and breath and skin skimming skin: scraping it, teasing it, infusing it with some kind of low-burning fire, arousal like Sawyer couldn’t really remember. This-this is what he’d wanted to give, back in that other life: this patient, languid, glorious, all-consuming sort of want, one that the right touch could set off like sparks, like lightning. Except this wasn’t lightning but thunder. He thought that he’d been so good at this before, but it could only seem good to those women who hadn’t felt something like this that rumbles or seems to pull you under until you can’t breathe, only to caress you like the ocean did when it lapped over your feet, out of your control, always-of course you can’t stop it or decide where it goes, yet you walk along the shore anyway, seeking, inviting, waiting.
Instead of moving down, Sayid’s tongue traces upward, this hot trail blazed up his breastbone, tongue flattening and moving across his nipple, suddenly the tip of it circling, teasing, circling then sucking, slow and hot. Everything’s hot, every place where that brown body covers his. Sawyer’s hand slide up over Sayid’s ass, kneading it in admiration, so firm but substantial-human, skin, muscle, flesh; this is flesh he loves, even when it seems to burn him. Mostly, it’s a pleasant heat, and when they do this in his tent with the flaps open, the wind sweeping in like it is now, it’s all perfect. Sawyer didn’t think it could be that way, not with Sayid. He expected a battle, but there never was one, just this persistent moving together until they bumped like ships in the night, but they didn’t wreck each other. They were already wrecked, and there was a tacit agreement that this should only be about forgetting all that wreckage for a while. So they do. Sometimes, there are skirmishes, but nothing that means to wound. They have this power, so they use it, but not to fight each other: to feed themselves, somehow, pushing this thing along swiftly and making it something that never went away, never died, lust always there in the forefront of their minds so that a look across the camp, those brown eyes smooth like some old, polished wood, could send a shock through him, and he would taste his skin and feel the weight of it on top of him, skin and sinew under his hands; and he would feel it in his toes before it coursed through him to fill him, make him swell in anticipation, his body tense with need but content with feeling it. Sayid could practically make him purr, pleasantly warm and happy like a cat, or waiting patiently, always ready to growl, to pounce, rock his body into Sayid’s, take it from him, pull it out of him, suck out this lust slow and blindingly hard.
Sayid is stretched out over him now, looking at him seriously, a gaze he’s gotten used to dealing with. It looks through his skin to something, Sawyer’s not sure what. He’s convinced that whatever Sayid sees is something only he can see. Mostly strength, the solid kind, not the dangerous, wild kind-because Sayid seems to disapprove of his recklessness. Not that Sayid doesn’t find that aspect of his personality exciting-he does, and maybe more than he will admit; and not that Sayid doesn’t do dangerous things himself. But Sayid seems to temper them with control, knowing what to expect or at least being fully prepared for any consequences. Sawyer can do that too, of course. It’s not that he doesn’t bother to think about what’s going to happen, it’s that he doesn’t care, sometimes. Perhaps that is the only difference: when the cost is too great, Sayid often stops; Sawyer doesn’t. Sawyer can only assume that whatever this is that they do is something they’re both willing to risk: Sayid because it’s not too dangerous, Sawyer because it probably is.
But even though it feels like a risk, it’s also a strange and instant bond, this undercurrent of understanding that makes them know it isn’t going to all fall apart even when they don’t have a clue what’s behind each other’s gaze. Sawyer decided long ago that if it could be this good, he didn’t have to know everything going on in Sayid’s head. He knows enough: he knows this: he knows an enduring fire and a hand that circles his bicep. Strong. He is strong, in so many ways, ways that only Sayid has bothered to see. And he thinks it’s because Sayid doesn’t cloud everything with some false moral tint. He merely circles Sawyer’s arms and says strong, opens his legs and says strong, asks to be taken, filled full of it, held down by it, arching up into it just as Sawyer is now feeling his hips lift off the ground to slide into Sayid’s mouth. He doesn’t say anything, only sighing. They each let wordless exhalations and groans speak for them.
Sayid pulls off him long before Sawyer’s even close. He wants him inside. He always does. How could Sawyer have guessed that, that this man likes to be fucked, wants to take it, needs to feel himself pressed, pushed, driven into the ground with the force of it? Tight. Always tight. Sawyer wonders how a person could be that tightly wound. But he can unwind him, because he’s learned how to do it. It’s a combination of dominance and measured heat; tongue touching everything but his cock, hands roaming everywhere and with so much concentration that Sawyer can feel the soft down of hair on his stomach, the scars on the inside of one of his thighs. Even the bruises he left on the man’s neck the day before, quite visible because they have nothing to hide from anyone, become lovely places to torment with his tongue. Sayid merely writhes beneath him, bucking up with his hips, head back, occasionally hitting the ground in frustration, but it’s a welcome agitation.
Sawyer opens him carefully, finger after finger, a lot of lube, stroking himself as he does because Sayid likes to watch this. Sometimes he jerks off for Sayid, but today isn’t once of those days. Instead, he brushes the tip of his cock over his entrance and feels him react with a shudder, then he pushes in. And he waits, feeling that heat squeezing him tight, emptying his head of anything other than how good this feels. This is what they do: forget, escape, surrender to this because nothing else is safe to surrender to.
Today, Sayid wants it fast. He pulls at Sawyer’s hips, wanting him to give himself over to it. Sawyer grunts and growls, because this is good, so good. Sayid jerks beneath him; his cock is beautiful and bronze, slightly pink, and it’s leaving a pool on his stomach, but Sayid doesn’t touch himself. As Sawyer drives into him, he knows why Sayid isn’t trying to get off, and it makes him thrust harder, faster, knowing Sayid wants to be inside him too. It’s not often he gets to have that from Sayid, but when he does, it gives him an indescribable feeling of safety and power. Thinking about what Sayid is going to do, watching him writhe under him, hearing him grunt each time their bodies connect, makes him come, almost violently, like a beginning and an ending of something at the same time, only Sawyer’s not sure what.
Sayid turns him over onto his stomach. He likes his back, and this time he even says so, as he breathes over it and kisses it: You have a beautiful back, Sawyer. Strong. His hands roam the inside of Sawyer’s thighs for a moment, then one finger enters him, then two, and he crooks it to reach his prostate, probing it softly, because he’s still sensitive. When Sayid fucks him first, he makes it last. Careful and with wandering hands, he lights Sawyer up with it, pushing and pushing until he is desperate for it. But now that Sayid has been fucked, he’s less willing to take his time. Yet even though he’s moving swiftly, it feels fluid and even and Sawyer likes it this way. He likes it that he’s already come and he doesn’t have a hard-on to distract him. He can just accept and take and feel Sayid have his way.
Sayid often tells him that they are unlike the other people on the island. They understand things that the others don’t. Sawyer doesn’t quite to know what he means, but feeling Sayid’s thumbs slip lightly down his crack and spread him as he hovers, waiting to push inside, Sawyer often thinks he really ought to know. Because this makes sense, and it has to be because of something bigger than either of them. Why else hasn’t this all gone up in flames? Or maybe that’s what Sayid knows: why it hasn’t. So Sawyer doesn’t ask. He doesn’t say a word. He stretches out his arms flat against the floor of his tent and tells himself that he is strong.