Lost fic: Vieux Carre * Part VIII [Jack/Sawyer, NC17]
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine.
Summary: Anytime and anywhere, they are who they are. Historical AU.
This part: 1600 words, NC17
previous parts
Vieux Carre
by eponine119
Chapter 8
Sawyer could feel the urgency between them. They had to get out of the ballroom. He grasped Jack's hand in his, aware that it was warm and dry, in contrast to his own moist skin that betrayed his anxiousness. He led Jack easily and unnoticed through the crowd, whose attention was focused on the masked dancers in their beautiful costumes.
Kate stepped in front of them, blocking their way. "Leaving so soon?" she asked, and Sawyer could feel the heat of her gaze resting on their interlocked hands. Jack didn't try to pull away, and Sawyer didn't drop his hand. The constant pressure did something to him, deep inside. It reassured him and unnerved him.
Kate smiled, but not at Sawyer. He glanced back at Jack, seeing the faint color rise in his face and the heat in his eyes. The bitter taste of jealousy rose at the back of Sawyer's throat. Anger tempted him to slide his arm along the delicate bones above Kate's waist, crushing her against him. But Jack's strong hand resting so easily against his stopped him.
She murmured something so low that Sawyer's ears couldn't process it until they got outside, into the cold silence of the street. "Bonne chance," she'd said, good luck. She knew.
She knew, and she approved somehow.
Up in Sawyer's rooms, he didn't reach for the light. They fumbled against each other in the darkness. Sawyer's hands pulled urgently at Jack's costume. Jack's lips grazed against his, an awkward bump at first, then more purposeful. He could feel Jack's accelerated breath against his skin.
"You fucked her," Sawyer accused, the words harsher than he'd meant.
"So did you." Jack pushed him into the rough brick wall and pinned him there.
"'s different." Sawyer didn't fight Jack so much as grind against him. His heat, his weight. The contrast with the cool, hard bricks scratching his skin.
"I need you," Jack said softly, and the words were so filled with desire that for a moment Sawyer couldn't breathe. His chest expanded emptily. Jack was the one who'd chosen to walk away. Sawyer was the one who'd pursued him, if putting himself into Jack's path could be considered pursuit. The words didn't make any sense to Sawyer. He kissed Jack blindly in the dark, because that was all he could do. One protest and Jack would come to his senses again and leave him.
Sawyer became the aggressor. He punished with his lips and his teeth and his tongue, nipping at Jack's neck to leave marks that would be visible in the morning. Jack made a sound in the back of his throat that Sawyer could feel burn all the way down to his cock. Sawyer soothed the pain away with his tongue and then scraped Jack's skin with his teeth again, tasting him.
Jack's hand tangled in Sawyer's hair and pulled him away. It hurt vaguely, in a way that Sawyer liked. Jack held his head still, staring into his eyes, while with the other hand he worked Sawyer's trousers down, first skimming one hip and then the other, a teasing dance that made Sawyer's muscles tighten with anticipation. Still one-handed, Jack pulled off his own trousers. Sawyer didn't help, and he held Jack's gaze.
Bodies bare, they tussled on the bed. Fighting for dominance. Jack tried to pin Sawyer's wrists, but Sawyer's legs scissored and bucked, rolling them over so that he was on top. He smiled, but Jack didn't give in so easily. Their bodies slid against each other, breath harsh and fast.
"Let me," Jack said into his ear, and Sawyer let his body fall still. Looking to Jack with trusting eyes. Remembering the gentle ways he'd touched him when Sawyer was ill. Curious to see what Jack might do. Sawyer felt himself shake, quivering from anticipation but also the fear that always accompanied his trust.
Jack's fingers encircled his cock and Sawyer closed his eyes. The one hand stroked in a familiar way while Jack's other hand moved, over his balls and then back. He slipped a finger inside, confidently but not rough. Sawyer focused on breathing, on the hot pleasure from Jack's hand, which intensified when Jack moved that finger inside him. His body went involuntarily rigid and the stars behind his eyes changed from red to white. He was gasping now, straining. He wanted fast and rough and hard, but Jack persisted with gentleness and patience that Sawyer could not bear.
When he came, his entire body convulsed and it seemed to go on and on. He wanted it to stop, but he wanted it to go on forever. It left him weak and shuddering at even the barest hint of a touch. He opened his eyes and saw the heavy darkness lingering in Jack's gaze. Sawyer's hand shook as he raised it, to touch Jack the way he'd been touched.
Jack put his hand over Sawyer's, strong fingers guiding ones left weak and boneless. His thumb pressed Sawyer's against the ridge, working it over the swollen head of his cock. It didn't take much. Jack was already halfway just from watching, from making Sawyer come. Moments later, when it was done, he lay down beside Sawyer.
"I don't -- " Sawyer started to say.
"I know," Jack said. Sawyer thought that was the end of it, as Jack moved to lie closer against him. But then he whispered, "In the morning we'll do it your way." With the promise that Jack wouldn't leave him, Sawyer was able to sleep.
…
Sunlight filtered in through the window. Out in the street a bell was tolling and far away were the sounds of people and music and revelry. Mardi Gras.
Jack heard none of it, sleeping so peacefully that Sawyer wanted to touch him. To deepen the peace. To disturb it.
Instead, he watched. Thinking about the night before. The places they'd been, and where they were going. Jack's eyes opened, pale in the reflection of the sunlight. He smiled, and one hand reached for Sawyer.
Sawyer caught that hand and folded his fingers down. Then he lay back against the mattress, face to face with Jack. Jack raised an eyebrow. "Not now," Sawyer whispered. "I'm saving it."
Jack seemed to understand, and let his eyes fall closed again. He drifted back into sleep, and Sawyer sat up, watching him, still keeping close possession of his dreams.
…
Jack's mother treated him silently when he finally made his way home. Waves of cold anger radiated through the room, from her pursed, closed lips to Jack's ringing ears. The boy in him wanted to make excuses, to apologize, to do what he'd always done and make things be all right. The man had lived long enough to stand there waiting, equally silent.
"Sabrina Rutherford came to call," his mother said. "She's sending Shannon away to France, unless you have some objection."
Jack shook his head mildly. "No objection." He thought of Shannon with some regret, but she would enjoy Paris and the freedom she would find there. "I've rented a cottage in the French Quarter."
"You're exactly like your father," his mother snarled at him, eyes turning amber. "Wasting your life, cavorting in secret with your whores."
"No," Jack said, his voice cool and even. "I'm not like him. I'm not married." The words designed to hurt her, to throw in her face all the years of pain and lying. And it was the truth. Jack might have found himself weak, but he would not do to someone else what his father had done. He would not marry again.
The words struck her like a blow, like a hard smack across the cheek, and she turned her face away. "Get out."
Jack said nothing. Just did as he'd been ordered. He'd only come back because he refused to leave without a goodbye. He would not do what his father had done. Jack leaned in to kiss her on the cheek, and she let him.
He carried his dark leather bag as he walked down St. Charles. The streetcar passed by him, but Jack wanted to walk. To bridge the space between one life and another. He might not be a stronger man than his father, but at least he would not lie about it.
"You can't stay here forever," Sawyer had said. He lay comfortably naked in the bright sunlight that spilled onto the bed.
"Then come home with me," Jack said, and watched Sawyer's eyes turn dark, like a thunderstorm rolling in to electrify the sky. Sawyer had left him alone once before in the house with the oaks. He'd never shared his reasons with Jack. Maybe he never would. Jack rose to dress, feeling Sawyer's eyes following as he buttoned his shirt and pulled on his trousers.
"Stay," Sawyer said. The request roughened his voice, echoing the rumble of thunder. They both knew that if Jack had said the word to Sawyer, those months ago, it wouldn't have made a difference.
Jack had gone that day and rented a cottage mere blocks from Sawyer's flat. It was four simple rooms, a divided square, with living rooms in the front and bedchambers in the back. Four shuttered openings faced the street, two windows and two doors, with the same mirrored on the back of the house to invite in the springtime breeze.
It couldn't have been more different from his rural house, and Jack found he loved the simplicity. There was enough room for the two of them, but it was small enough to keep them close. Sawyer didn't move in, but he lived there.
End of chapter 8
I find myself rather nervous about this part. I'm also feeling reluctant to write lately, because we're coming close to the end, and I'm not sure I want it to. There's only one -- maybe two -- parts left. Eeek. Thanks for reading, and for your patience.
Summary: Anytime and anywhere, they are who they are. Historical AU.
This part: 1600 words, NC17
previous parts
Vieux Carre
by eponine119
Chapter 8
Sawyer could feel the urgency between them. They had to get out of the ballroom. He grasped Jack's hand in his, aware that it was warm and dry, in contrast to his own moist skin that betrayed his anxiousness. He led Jack easily and unnoticed through the crowd, whose attention was focused on the masked dancers in their beautiful costumes.
Kate stepped in front of them, blocking their way. "Leaving so soon?" she asked, and Sawyer could feel the heat of her gaze resting on their interlocked hands. Jack didn't try to pull away, and Sawyer didn't drop his hand. The constant pressure did something to him, deep inside. It reassured him and unnerved him.
Kate smiled, but not at Sawyer. He glanced back at Jack, seeing the faint color rise in his face and the heat in his eyes. The bitter taste of jealousy rose at the back of Sawyer's throat. Anger tempted him to slide his arm along the delicate bones above Kate's waist, crushing her against him. But Jack's strong hand resting so easily against his stopped him.
She murmured something so low that Sawyer's ears couldn't process it until they got outside, into the cold silence of the street. "Bonne chance," she'd said, good luck. She knew.
She knew, and she approved somehow.
Up in Sawyer's rooms, he didn't reach for the light. They fumbled against each other in the darkness. Sawyer's hands pulled urgently at Jack's costume. Jack's lips grazed against his, an awkward bump at first, then more purposeful. He could feel Jack's accelerated breath against his skin.
"You fucked her," Sawyer accused, the words harsher than he'd meant.
"So did you." Jack pushed him into the rough brick wall and pinned him there.
"'s different." Sawyer didn't fight Jack so much as grind against him. His heat, his weight. The contrast with the cool, hard bricks scratching his skin.
"I need you," Jack said softly, and the words were so filled with desire that for a moment Sawyer couldn't breathe. His chest expanded emptily. Jack was the one who'd chosen to walk away. Sawyer was the one who'd pursued him, if putting himself into Jack's path could be considered pursuit. The words didn't make any sense to Sawyer. He kissed Jack blindly in the dark, because that was all he could do. One protest and Jack would come to his senses again and leave him.
Sawyer became the aggressor. He punished with his lips and his teeth and his tongue, nipping at Jack's neck to leave marks that would be visible in the morning. Jack made a sound in the back of his throat that Sawyer could feel burn all the way down to his cock. Sawyer soothed the pain away with his tongue and then scraped Jack's skin with his teeth again, tasting him.
Jack's hand tangled in Sawyer's hair and pulled him away. It hurt vaguely, in a way that Sawyer liked. Jack held his head still, staring into his eyes, while with the other hand he worked Sawyer's trousers down, first skimming one hip and then the other, a teasing dance that made Sawyer's muscles tighten with anticipation. Still one-handed, Jack pulled off his own trousers. Sawyer didn't help, and he held Jack's gaze.
Bodies bare, they tussled on the bed. Fighting for dominance. Jack tried to pin Sawyer's wrists, but Sawyer's legs scissored and bucked, rolling them over so that he was on top. He smiled, but Jack didn't give in so easily. Their bodies slid against each other, breath harsh and fast.
"Let me," Jack said into his ear, and Sawyer let his body fall still. Looking to Jack with trusting eyes. Remembering the gentle ways he'd touched him when Sawyer was ill. Curious to see what Jack might do. Sawyer felt himself shake, quivering from anticipation but also the fear that always accompanied his trust.
Jack's fingers encircled his cock and Sawyer closed his eyes. The one hand stroked in a familiar way while Jack's other hand moved, over his balls and then back. He slipped a finger inside, confidently but not rough. Sawyer focused on breathing, on the hot pleasure from Jack's hand, which intensified when Jack moved that finger inside him. His body went involuntarily rigid and the stars behind his eyes changed from red to white. He was gasping now, straining. He wanted fast and rough and hard, but Jack persisted with gentleness and patience that Sawyer could not bear.
When he came, his entire body convulsed and it seemed to go on and on. He wanted it to stop, but he wanted it to go on forever. It left him weak and shuddering at even the barest hint of a touch. He opened his eyes and saw the heavy darkness lingering in Jack's gaze. Sawyer's hand shook as he raised it, to touch Jack the way he'd been touched.
Jack put his hand over Sawyer's, strong fingers guiding ones left weak and boneless. His thumb pressed Sawyer's against the ridge, working it over the swollen head of his cock. It didn't take much. Jack was already halfway just from watching, from making Sawyer come. Moments later, when it was done, he lay down beside Sawyer.
"I don't -- " Sawyer started to say.
"I know," Jack said. Sawyer thought that was the end of it, as Jack moved to lie closer against him. But then he whispered, "In the morning we'll do it your way." With the promise that Jack wouldn't leave him, Sawyer was able to sleep.
…
Sunlight filtered in through the window. Out in the street a bell was tolling and far away were the sounds of people and music and revelry. Mardi Gras.
Jack heard none of it, sleeping so peacefully that Sawyer wanted to touch him. To deepen the peace. To disturb it.
Instead, he watched. Thinking about the night before. The places they'd been, and where they were going. Jack's eyes opened, pale in the reflection of the sunlight. He smiled, and one hand reached for Sawyer.
Sawyer caught that hand and folded his fingers down. Then he lay back against the mattress, face to face with Jack. Jack raised an eyebrow. "Not now," Sawyer whispered. "I'm saving it."
Jack seemed to understand, and let his eyes fall closed again. He drifted back into sleep, and Sawyer sat up, watching him, still keeping close possession of his dreams.
…
Jack's mother treated him silently when he finally made his way home. Waves of cold anger radiated through the room, from her pursed, closed lips to Jack's ringing ears. The boy in him wanted to make excuses, to apologize, to do what he'd always done and make things be all right. The man had lived long enough to stand there waiting, equally silent.
"Sabrina Rutherford came to call," his mother said. "She's sending Shannon away to France, unless you have some objection."
Jack shook his head mildly. "No objection." He thought of Shannon with some regret, but she would enjoy Paris and the freedom she would find there. "I've rented a cottage in the French Quarter."
"You're exactly like your father," his mother snarled at him, eyes turning amber. "Wasting your life, cavorting in secret with your whores."
"No," Jack said, his voice cool and even. "I'm not like him. I'm not married." The words designed to hurt her, to throw in her face all the years of pain and lying. And it was the truth. Jack might have found himself weak, but he would not do to someone else what his father had done. He would not marry again.
The words struck her like a blow, like a hard smack across the cheek, and she turned her face away. "Get out."
Jack said nothing. Just did as he'd been ordered. He'd only come back because he refused to leave without a goodbye. He would not do what his father had done. Jack leaned in to kiss her on the cheek, and she let him.
He carried his dark leather bag as he walked down St. Charles. The streetcar passed by him, but Jack wanted to walk. To bridge the space between one life and another. He might not be a stronger man than his father, but at least he would not lie about it.
"You can't stay here forever," Sawyer had said. He lay comfortably naked in the bright sunlight that spilled onto the bed.
"Then come home with me," Jack said, and watched Sawyer's eyes turn dark, like a thunderstorm rolling in to electrify the sky. Sawyer had left him alone once before in the house with the oaks. He'd never shared his reasons with Jack. Maybe he never would. Jack rose to dress, feeling Sawyer's eyes following as he buttoned his shirt and pulled on his trousers.
"Stay," Sawyer said. The request roughened his voice, echoing the rumble of thunder. They both knew that if Jack had said the word to Sawyer, those months ago, it wouldn't have made a difference.
Jack had gone that day and rented a cottage mere blocks from Sawyer's flat. It was four simple rooms, a divided square, with living rooms in the front and bedchambers in the back. Four shuttered openings faced the street, two windows and two doors, with the same mirrored on the back of the house to invite in the springtime breeze.
It couldn't have been more different from his rural house, and Jack found he loved the simplicity. There was enough room for the two of them, but it was small enough to keep them close. Sawyer didn't move in, but he lived there.
End of chapter 8
I find myself rather nervous about this part. I'm also feeling reluctant to write lately, because we're coming close to the end, and I'm not sure I want it to. There's only one -- maybe two -- parts left. Eeek. Thanks for reading, and for your patience.