Fic: The Hollow Men (1/1)
Title: The Hollow Men
Rating: NC-17
Pairing/Character(s): Richard/Ben, Richard/Ben/Locke; Richard Alpert, Benjamin Linus, John Locke, Alexandra Linus Rousseau, Jacob.
Word Count: 4,618
Summary: Between the idea and the reality, between the motion and the act, falls the shadow. For the 18coda Prompt #9 - Nocturne. AU-ish. Spoilers through 5.15 - Follow the Leader. Warnings for explicit sexual situations, violence, and character death.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. “The Hollow Men” belongs to the immortal T. S. Eliot.
Author’s Notes: I don’t even have an explanation for this twisted SOB. I can’t even justify it. It seriously stared out as a straightforward threesome PWP sort of thing in light of “Follow the Leader,” for obvious reasons if you watched that episode - and maybe that much more innocent, much less violent story will one day be written. Alas, this was what came of it - after talking with a friend about how we missed the days when Richard knew everything and Locke was still fumbling around, the idea came out of nowhere, and it essentially wrote itself. For that, I do apologize.
As a sidenote, do me a favor and pretend that the entire premise actually makes canonical sense, if the fact that it doesn’t much bothers you a whole lot. And forgive where the sex is awkward at points - it’s been a while since I did porn à la slash, so I’m a bit rusty.
The Hollow Men
He would have been lying if he’d said he was happy to see Benjamin Linus back on the Island.
The initial reaction for Richard is panic; the leap of his heart in his throat as those piercing pinpricks of condemning light that the other man passed off as eyes consider him from near the surf, his jaw set - his presence an omen. Ben was meant to be gone. He was meant to stay gone. The Island had wanted it, and where Ben had little regard left for such matters, Richard's habits ran a bit deeper, died a little harder.
It’s been so long since he’s felt that gaze on him, trained as if he is the only sentient being in the whole of existence, fixed upon Richard without relent, and it unnerves him, unravels him to his very core, and when Richard leaves camp in the very heart of eve, retreating into the jungle long after they’ve all retired for the evening to escape it, Ben watches him still, watches the way his figure disappears in bursts and flashes between the sparks of the fire, the light of the flames. Richard doesn’t notice the shadow that follows him until it’s pressed him bodily up against a tree, the rumble of the breath at his neck rough, the chest against his own warm and solid and familiar like nothing seems to be anymore, as nothing could ever manage except for this one man, this one living creature in all the world.
Richard would be lying if he said that he was happy to see Benjamin Linus, but he’d be lying just the same if he admitted the opposite.
_________________________
Richard is the only person Ben has ever known who doesn’t say a goddamned thing when someone’s sucking him off, so he has to glean as much conversation from the foreplay as he possibly can.
He trails his mouth along the curvatures of Richard’s clavicle, relishing the stutters in his breathing, the subtle shake of the man against him as he moves, as he wraps his lips around the right nipple, then the left, sucking and tonguing and nipping at the firm buds of flesh, measuring the gaps between beats as he licks greedily at the skin concealing that ageless heart.
“Tell me you missed me,” Ben whispers into the center of his chest, gaze focused on the way his skin reacts, the subtle raising of it, the teasing of the hair on his abdomen, the way it follows with the moisture of his tongue as he makes his way lower. And they’re lies - lies, lies, lies rolling off his tongue - not words, words are too much to ask of him; but whatever they are, they’re the sweetest fabrications that Richard has ever tasted as he moans from his very core, the sound catching in his throat, tangling between gasps and sticking, strangled in the staccato trill of his pulse. He can’t breathe, and his chest heaves dangerously as his eyes slide shut, the careful bow of Ben’s jaw seared against his eyelids as everything tightens, everything shifts - pulled taut from his neck to his groin, he knows that with one wrong move, he’ll snap.
“Look at me.” The touch of that mouth - its wet warmth on lonely flesh disappears in the space between breaths, and Richard almost whimpers at the loss, almost cries out as his eyes snap open; and those eyes, those menacing angel eyes are riveted, fixed upon him and Richard is powerless, even as it’s Benjamin who is on his knees before him, fingers bruising already at his hips as he drags his chin along the sensitive line of hair disappearing into the waist of his pants.
“Tell me you missed me,” his tongue flickers between swollen lips to tease the flesh just below Richard’s navel, disappearing as his mouth curves into a satisfied sneer at the tremor that surges through Richard’s frame, echoing through Ben’s bones as his palm trails down to curl around a strong thigh, fingers dancing up again to delicately undo the button on his trousers. He separates the halves of the fabric with careful precision, pressing a strange, malevolent sort of kiss against the exposed skin - featherlight and vibrating in Richard’s thundering pulse, interrupting and setting it dangerously off-pace. Moving down with his mouth, he catches the zipper of Richard’s fly between his front teeth and tugs, all the while watching Richard with those damned eyes, hooded and sinister and burning Richard from the inside until he doesn’t even remember the world, doesn’t remember that anything exists outside this moment.
“I can’t hear you,” Ben complains, his voice low and jagged, laced with need. And Richard can barely hear him either, to be honest, because everything is muted; he feels vaguely like a child, with his ear pressed to a shell on the shore, listening to the gentle echo of the sea; the rush of his blood is hypnotic, paralyzing - he cannot move, he cannot think, and all he knows is that when Ben feels it, his fingers brushing dangerously against the frantic throb of his femoral pulse as he frames Richard’s straining length with his fingertips, his breath close enough to condense against the wet tip of Richard’s shaft; when he feels it, Ben pauses, his eyes wider and deeper, bluer than they’ve ever been, and Richard thinks it’s not just the auscultation, the distant, angry thunder of his heart behind his thoughts; it’s the ocean, and its in his eyes.
“Close enough,” Ben concedes, seeing something in the depths of Richard’s gaze that even Richard isn’t aware exists there, something that satisfies the soul of them both and lets Ben consume the whole of him, urges those pliant lips around his length and convinces him that sucking the rest of Richard’s hardness further into his mouth, pursing around him with a skill borne of great practice, great comfort with the man who is about to climax and release down his throat. Richard breathes heavily, his whole body tensed with anticipation as Ben lets him slide in just a little further, his fingers teasing the underside of his balls as Ben sighs, moans so that the tip of Richard’s cock trills with the sound; it’s enough to drive him mad, and he cannot stop it, cannot wait. Ben’s eyes gleam in the moonlight; Richard’s lungs collapse and his heart gives out, Ben’s hands at the back of his knees the only things keeping him from falling before he’s gone, too far gone, and Ben is dutifully ensuring that no evidence is left behind, licking him clean before pulling away. Richard pants, trying to regain his breath, and his hand finds the side of Ben’s face, caressing his cheek with gentle gratitude.
“Christ,” Richard gasps, and Ben only blinks; though the gesture says more than his words ever could; because words lie, and Ben’s eyes never have.
And he can’t deny possibly deny it now; this, Richard has most certainly missed.
_________________________
It’s suspicion that drives John to follow them into the trees, and for that he’s justified - nothing could have prepared him for what he finds, though; a coup of a completely different kind.
John’s throat goes dry at the sounds, and he can barely swallow as he watches the scene unfold from between the leaves, the edges of his vision tinged with green; Ben, on the other hand, has absolutely no trouble swallowing at all, the curve of his Adam’s apple shivering even as his lips part, the hollow cavern of his mouth casting shadows in the dim light against the ebbing arousal between Richard’s legs, the wetness still shimmering in the dusk, the heavy echo of their breathes cacophonous, wondrous. In that moment, John is infinitely glad that he is alone because the pull from his thighs is undeniable, unexpected but not unwarranted; John flees in the opposite direction, going back the way he came, and he cannot help but notice that, when he passes by Richard’s makeshift tent, there’s an oil lamp burning inside, deceptively suggesting his presence inside.
Apparently, there are some things that the Island hasn’t seen fit to let John in on just yet.
_________________________
John Locke was going to be trouble, that much was obvious.
“The Island clearly wants him here,” Richard protests, sitting on the sleep pad he’d rolled beneath his tarp where they’d stopped for the evening, watching as Ben unfurls himself on the uncovered sand next to him.
“The Island’s been wrong before,” Ben murmurs, watching the way in which Richard's silhouette on the burlap walls of the tent starts to elongate ever so slightly with the rising of the sun, admiring the way it reflects the elegant lines of his body, the way they curl and stretch with easy grace.
“Has it?” Richard asks, and his eyes wander to take in the way that Ben pauses, stills with purpose as he tries to figure the nuances, the subtleties of something beyond what Richard is trying to convey.
Because if there is one thing that Ben’s good at, it’s reading people. And Ben can read John from the opening in the tent, the way he paces, the agitation, and the trail of his boots from the trees, going in and coming back out again. He can read his intuition, can know that he was certain that they weren’t alone in the jungle, that when Richard came, his weren’t the only eyes watching the expression, the sheer bliss of release that graced those flawless features, that slid down the planes of his figure. They hadn’t been alone, and each of these meaningless pieces began to slowly form a whole; and Benjamin Linus always plays to his strengths.
He breathes, and Richard closes his eyes as Ben exhales: “I have an idea.”
_________________________
John tells himself he’s looking for a mango tree when he departs camp at sundown; they’re just a day out from where Richard has assured him that Jacob’s cabin is currently situated, disturbingly close to the old Dharma compound, and John feels a little bit like he’s retracing his steps - therefore, mangos sound fitting, his first taste of the Island coming back full circle.
His foray into the trees has nothing to do with Ben’s similar escape within them only minutes prior, nor Richard’s clandestine move to follow shortly after him. It has nothing to do with following the imprints of their shoes - sloppy trails left in the undergrowth; it’s completely unconnected with the sharp panting that’s growing louder, faster with every step that John resolutely does not take behind them. He does not hold his breath as he sees the line of bare skin, the arch of a neck against the trees and he does not feel the vibrations of a thrust, a sequence of thrusts against the bark that resonate through the greenery and find sympathy in John’s aching groin.
All he’d wanted were some mangos.
“S’hardly a spectator sport, is it John?” He doesn’t expect the voice, thinks maybe it’s in his head, but no - he doesn’t move as he seeks out the eyes, the ruby lips gleaming, bruised with fervor, and he takes in the subtle glow around Richard’s features as he smiles softly, lazily in John’s direction.
He notes now the set up, the way that Richard’s entire weight leans against Ben, both pinning him and depending upon him for support, the way in which their bare chests heave against one another, slick with sweat, and that their eyes connect, so deep that John is almost regretful when Ben swivels his neck to glance back at him, smirking just a bit dazedly, eyes unfocused; “Looking to make the team?”
John doesn’t move at first, but then again neither do they - and he feels awkward for the first time, because on this Island he is at peace; only not anymore, and his heart is pounding in his chest as he takes one step, and then another, slowly approaching the clearing and taking in the sight of them, of Richard trembling with anticipation, his straining erection lined against Ben’s, suspended in mid-satisfaction, their trousers pooled around their knees, Richard’s shirt hanging open from his shoulders where Ben’s lies discarded in the underbrush. “Don’t look so surprised,” Richard says softly, his eyebrows raised in polite admonition, his palm spreading slowly at Ben’s hip and inching up his stomach, fingers lilting over his sensitive nipple and relishing the sharp intake of breath he elicits, which in turn produces a moan from them both as Ben shifts, teasing their groins together for the barest of moments, a second away from control.
“It was only a matter of time, really,” Ben breathes on the inhale, the sound harsh, a gasp against the night as John comes closer, almost against his will - it’s fascinating, and he cannot help but want to get closer, to take part. It makes no sense, but John doesn’t care; sense stopped mattering to him long ago.
“Inevitable,” Richard agrees as John hovers, close enough to them that his body heat resonates, makes it impossible to breathe, and he cannot even process the chain of actions, the minute succession of infinite movements that result in his relative nudity; his shirt remains untouched, but everything else disappears and before he knows what’s happening, before he can remember his name or where he is, there are hands upon him, everywhere - hands on the hard length of his cock and dancing across the cleft of his ass and teasing at his taut nipples and stoking the inside of his thigh and he’s lost; doesn’t ever want to be found. A slick finger teases his entrance just as two more close around his erection, squeezing a tantalizingly brutal pressure just below his balls, forefinger stroking his scrotum, and the moan he lets loose is unparalleled, the intensity of the sensation something he’s never know before.
“You like that?” Richard asks, the grin in his voice audible, and it takes the bite from the throbbing of John’s pulse, the perpetual wince from the way his heart is battering against his ribs; makes the need for oxygen seem trivial as deft fingers stretch inside him, make him see light brighter than any time-flash, sweeter than any heaven as they brush against his prostate; he spills hard and hot into the attentive hands at his groin, the fingers dancing across his pulsing shaft like an incantation, a chant, urging him on, catching his fall.
“I... I...” John stammers, breathless, and the hands are there still, bracing him for the comedown as dizziness consumes him, steadying him as he regains his footing, his equilibrium - the world, it seems, is still skewed, tilted from its axis as the reality of what has just occurred sinks in, unfettered and unadulterated - pure and true, so very, very true.
“You wanted Jacob, John?” Ben whispers, cupping John’s cheek as he follows him to the ground, laying him down on the cool dirt and John doesn’t understand, can’t process what it all means as Ben’s eyes flicker to Richard, who is kneeling, pressed against John’s back, hands sliding under his shirt and hips arched just away from him, refusing to touch but undeniably there, just out of reach. It sticks in his gut for a moment, a moment longer than he’s comfortable with but that dissolves entirely as Richard rejects the separation without warning; and Ben can feel the press of the supple body between them, knows when Richard slides inside of him because he can feel the half-strangled moan vibrate where his chest meets John’s. There is something desperate in those eyes, Ben realizes, as they gaze up at him; something he’d have called fear if it weren’t so inextricably wrapped with desire, with utterly wanton need; John wants this, and far more than it terrifies him, it excites him. And they will fulfill a dead man’s wish: “You’ll have him.”
And Ben slides up against him, urging his erection between John’s lips, and he’s gratified that John doesn’t balk, sucks him in with a hesitant sort of vigor that trills through both of them, and Ben can feel it as Richard rocks into John from behind, every moan and gasp and thrust scintillating, teasing against the cock straining to the back of John’s throat, torturing Ben with every attempt to swallow, every hiss of pain and pleasure that starts low and vibrates along his length.
Richard’s moving harder, faster, and Ben knows that the game is reaching its end; John’s gag reflex, likewise, is starting to reassert itself with authority, the jerking of his throat taunting Ben to the point of release, and he spills down John’s throat before he can be rejected, pulls out when he’s spent, his wet limpness slipping from between cum-slick lips, pearly streams that John couldn’t quite swallow drawing shimmering lines down his chin as Ben tries to catch his breath. Richard follows soon after, and Ben doesn’t have to look to know it; he knows the sound of Richard’s orgasm by now, and even if he didn’t, the way John hisses against the hot burn buried tight within him is proof enough that it’s time to end the charade; that they’ve had their fun, and need to focus now on the issue at hand. Straightening, Ben rises to his knees and searches for his khakis, eager to finish this, once and for all.
Clutching the ground, damp soil collecting beneath his fingernails where he digs into the dirt, John lies gasping, trembling, his lungs on fire, and he revels in the cool that wraps around him in a breeze through the grove - it takes him a minute to realize it’s not just the wind, but the absence of that perfect touch all over his skin, filling him from all around, that’s killed the warmth, and suddenly the cold seeps into his veins, slows his still galloping heart with the dark frost of foreboding.
Ben’s is the face his blurry vision is able to make out first, the harsh lines of it sinister, calculating as he stares down at John with steely eyes, the blue in them like ice, a reflection of depths unfathomable - cruel, and unrestrained. He’s replaced his pants, and he’s crouching in front of him, bare only from the waist up whereas John is still exposed, still vulnerable. Richard, John can feel, is beyond his peripheral vision, lurking behind him, his respiration even but heavy - a predator waiting to strike.
“What,” John begins, his voice broken, mouth suddenly dry. “What is this?”
“Call it a preemptive strike, John,” Richard breathes, his voice low against John’s ear, his chest still and his eyes weeping dry tears of sorrow, because this is not Richard’s way; but he knows his limits, has had plenty of time to define them and work within their reach, and he knows that what is necessary is something that Ben is better suited for, that Ben knows intimately in the beating of his own heart, in his very blood.
“You would think you’d have learned by now,” Ben murmurs, lurking in front of John’s eyes, “to keep your mouth shut.” Those hands are in his hair, yanking his face upwards, forcing his gaze to meet the wild, uncontrolled gleam in Ben’s, the other man’s fingers diving to clench John’s jaw, confining him - controlling him. “Never know who might hear you.”
“Didn’t you ever wonder why you couldn’t find Jacob?” Richard asks softly, his hands now on John shoulder blades, warm and welcoming in John’s mind even now; the betrayal of it all sending shivers down his spine.
“I don’t...” John swallows, lowering his eyes to regain some semblance of composure; this, however, is not acceptable to Ben, who strikes across his cheek with a force that even John had never expected him capable of. John breathes against the resonant sting on the bone, squinting his eyes shut against instinctive tears as he straightens his head and breathes quickly through his teeth, centering himself before meeting Ben’s blazing eyes again. “I don’t under...”
“Have I ever struck you as the kind of man who takes orders?” Ben nearly hisses, his voice an almost feral growl, and the sardonicism seeping from his words is enough to burn - salt rubbed hard into perpetually open wounds. “From anyone?”
This is what John had been afraid of, in the back of his mind; afraid that once again, his faith had been misplaced. He should have known better, they’re right; he should have learned by now. But he’d been so sure...
“Are you afraid?” Ben asks softly, tilting his head to the side and studying John at an angle, watching with perverse fascination the way in which his chest shakes, the angry protrusion of his pulse at his throat with every half-second that passes between them, furious - unabashed. “I thought you weren’t afraid of anything I could do, John,” Ben mocks him, smirking malevolently as he watches John struggle against his grasp. “Not anymore.”
John feels everything in him fall, his blood run cold as the impossible seems to solidify, take shape before his eyes. “Who are you?”
“I think you know.” Richard is suddenly in front of him, dressed again and staring him down, a coldness in his eyes, a gravity exuding from them that John’s never seen there before, or perhaps just never noticed. “This is our Island, John,” he states simply, his expression pained, but steeled - he will not show mercy at the expense of what must be done. “You would have done well to have accepted that. It could have saved us all so much trouble.”
“But I heard him...” John protests, everything coming together suddenly, each frantic blink in hopes of erasing this nightmare instead serving to bring everything into focus - ‘You wanted Jacob? You’ll have him...’ - “I saw him...”
John’s voice fails him, and Ben takes his entrance, grabbing John at the neck, making certain he doesn’t regain the capacity to speak. “Jesus, John,” he whispers, tone low and lethal, his grip on John’s throat deadly. “Do you really think I shot you because I felt threatened? Because you “heard” him?” The look in John’s eyes this time is fear, uninhibited by any other emotion because everything else is gone - John is outnumbered, outwitted; he’s been deceived, and it will cost him everything. “I shot you because I knew then that you were absolutely insane. And on this Island,” Ben’s hand tightens around his neck, “insanity constitutes liability.”
“I’ll miss your fire, John. I won’t deny I’ll miss it.” Ben grunts against the mild thrashing, what little resistance John can provide, his grasp on him never wavering, never tiring, fueled by something beyond mere resolve. “But when it’s kill or be killed, you do what you have to.” There’s a crack in his voice as John jerks violently to the left, almost emotion but not quite, and it’s gone when he regains his control, the press of the heel of his palm against the trembling of his jugular unyielding, prepared to wait until it can testify that there is no life left beneath its hold. “In the end, your loss means nothing,” Ben hisses, digging his nails against John’s skin and drawing deep lines of blood. “Your loss is our gain.”
“Godspeed, John Locke.” The crack of the gun is an echo to Richard’s sudden intervention, and Ben snaps back before the blood can splatter him too badly as the bullet tears through John’s brain and he slumps, the bruises around his neck paling in the ruby pool spreading about under his cheek.
Ben turns, staring at Richard in mild shock, though the way in which those ancient, and yet impossibly smooth hands wipe the barrel clean tempers his surprise; Richard is still uncomfortable with what they’ve done, and this was the quickest way - this curtailed the suffering. Ben doesn’t know whether he’s proud, or disappointed. He settles on indifferent - the job is done, and that’s what matters.
“Our luck,” Ben sneers at the bloody jungle floor at their feet, the lifeless body - stripped of both its clothing and its pride - sprawled gracelessly before them, “and the bastard will be walking around again by morning.”
“Third time’s a charm,” Richard quips, tucking the gun in the waist of his Dockers as he turns to face Ben. “What do we tell the rest of them?”
The response, at first, is wordless - a disbelieving arch of an eyebrow, asking if he’s serious. “What we always tell them,” Ben answers deliberately, his eyes lifting to the beach beyond the trees. “That Jacob is... angry. Wants them back at camp, immediately.”
“And the body?” Richard refuses to look at it again, inclining his head indicatively to the side without glancing at the mud-pocked expanse of flesh, the absent piece of skull where the bullet tore through.
“Leave it,” Ben states cooly, his voice hard, hateful. “The boars will eat well tonight.”
The stream nearby runs red for three whole minutes whilst they wash in silence, though their hands still look suspiciously red as they walk back to camp. Richard stands tall, walks with awkward intent, and he doesn’t notice that he’s barely breathing until Ben stops him, a hand at his shoulder and the other at the side of his neck, lowering their foreheads to lean against one another for the briefest of moments, breathing each other in until the tension subsides.
All things considered, Richard is kind of glad that Ben came back.
_________________________
His eyes open slowly, the green of the canopy above him turned gold and grey against the rising of the sun. He feels stiff, cold - damp in the morning dew and he struggles to breathe at first, as if it’s something he’s temporarily forgotten.
He blinks, and he feels alone - there are no sounds around him, no life, but the voice breaks through anyway; impossible, but there, nevertheless.
“Hello, John,” the voice is soft, sweet. Genuine. The young lady to his side greets him with a smile that beams with the power of the sun, just a curl of those lips framed with endless chocolate curls, but it warms him, makes the breathing easier, makes it all feel okay.
“Alex?” he asks, and she tilts her head so that the smile looks just a little broader, crinkling the corners of her eyes as she stands, walking towards him before bending to look him in the eye, to consider him more closely.
“It’s time to finish things, John,” she tells him plainly, her gaze melting slowly into more of a scrutiny. “It’s time,” she repeats, and something clicks in his mind, something hidden and unknown and quite possibly nonexistent before that very moment, and he realizes what it all means; that maybe he wasn’t entirely wrong about his purpose, just misaligned as to the means. “Are you ready?”
Vindicated, he nods, and follows her through the trees.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing/Character(s): Richard/Ben, Richard/Ben/Locke; Richard Alpert, Benjamin Linus, John Locke, Alexandra Linus Rousseau, Jacob.
Word Count: 4,618
Summary: Between the idea and the reality, between the motion and the act, falls the shadow. For the 18coda Prompt #9 - Nocturne. AU-ish. Spoilers through 5.15 - Follow the Leader. Warnings for explicit sexual situations, violence, and character death.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. “The Hollow Men” belongs to the immortal T. S. Eliot.
Author’s Notes: I don’t even have an explanation for this twisted SOB. I can’t even justify it. It seriously stared out as a straightforward threesome PWP sort of thing in light of “Follow the Leader,” for obvious reasons if you watched that episode - and maybe that much more innocent, much less violent story will one day be written. Alas, this was what came of it - after talking with a friend about how we missed the days when Richard knew everything and Locke was still fumbling around, the idea came out of nowhere, and it essentially wrote itself. For that, I do apologize.
As a sidenote, do me a favor and pretend that the entire premise actually makes canonical sense, if the fact that it doesn’t much bothers you a whole lot. And forgive where the sex is awkward at points - it’s been a while since I did porn à la slash, so I’m a bit rusty.
The Hollow Men
He would have been lying if he’d said he was happy to see Benjamin Linus back on the Island.
The initial reaction for Richard is panic; the leap of his heart in his throat as those piercing pinpricks of condemning light that the other man passed off as eyes consider him from near the surf, his jaw set - his presence an omen. Ben was meant to be gone. He was meant to stay gone. The Island had wanted it, and where Ben had little regard left for such matters, Richard's habits ran a bit deeper, died a little harder.
It’s been so long since he’s felt that gaze on him, trained as if he is the only sentient being in the whole of existence, fixed upon Richard without relent, and it unnerves him, unravels him to his very core, and when Richard leaves camp in the very heart of eve, retreating into the jungle long after they’ve all retired for the evening to escape it, Ben watches him still, watches the way his figure disappears in bursts and flashes between the sparks of the fire, the light of the flames. Richard doesn’t notice the shadow that follows him until it’s pressed him bodily up against a tree, the rumble of the breath at his neck rough, the chest against his own warm and solid and familiar like nothing seems to be anymore, as nothing could ever manage except for this one man, this one living creature in all the world.
Richard would be lying if he said that he was happy to see Benjamin Linus, but he’d be lying just the same if he admitted the opposite.
_________________________
Richard is the only person Ben has ever known who doesn’t say a goddamned thing when someone’s sucking him off, so he has to glean as much conversation from the foreplay as he possibly can.
He trails his mouth along the curvatures of Richard’s clavicle, relishing the stutters in his breathing, the subtle shake of the man against him as he moves, as he wraps his lips around the right nipple, then the left, sucking and tonguing and nipping at the firm buds of flesh, measuring the gaps between beats as he licks greedily at the skin concealing that ageless heart.
“Tell me you missed me,” Ben whispers into the center of his chest, gaze focused on the way his skin reacts, the subtle raising of it, the teasing of the hair on his abdomen, the way it follows with the moisture of his tongue as he makes his way lower. And they’re lies - lies, lies, lies rolling off his tongue - not words, words are too much to ask of him; but whatever they are, they’re the sweetest fabrications that Richard has ever tasted as he moans from his very core, the sound catching in his throat, tangling between gasps and sticking, strangled in the staccato trill of his pulse. He can’t breathe, and his chest heaves dangerously as his eyes slide shut, the careful bow of Ben’s jaw seared against his eyelids as everything tightens, everything shifts - pulled taut from his neck to his groin, he knows that with one wrong move, he’ll snap.
“Look at me.” The touch of that mouth - its wet warmth on lonely flesh disappears in the space between breaths, and Richard almost whimpers at the loss, almost cries out as his eyes snap open; and those eyes, those menacing angel eyes are riveted, fixed upon him and Richard is powerless, even as it’s Benjamin who is on his knees before him, fingers bruising already at his hips as he drags his chin along the sensitive line of hair disappearing into the waist of his pants.
“Tell me you missed me,” his tongue flickers between swollen lips to tease the flesh just below Richard’s navel, disappearing as his mouth curves into a satisfied sneer at the tremor that surges through Richard’s frame, echoing through Ben’s bones as his palm trails down to curl around a strong thigh, fingers dancing up again to delicately undo the button on his trousers. He separates the halves of the fabric with careful precision, pressing a strange, malevolent sort of kiss against the exposed skin - featherlight and vibrating in Richard’s thundering pulse, interrupting and setting it dangerously off-pace. Moving down with his mouth, he catches the zipper of Richard’s fly between his front teeth and tugs, all the while watching Richard with those damned eyes, hooded and sinister and burning Richard from the inside until he doesn’t even remember the world, doesn’t remember that anything exists outside this moment.
“I can’t hear you,” Ben complains, his voice low and jagged, laced with need. And Richard can barely hear him either, to be honest, because everything is muted; he feels vaguely like a child, with his ear pressed to a shell on the shore, listening to the gentle echo of the sea; the rush of his blood is hypnotic, paralyzing - he cannot move, he cannot think, and all he knows is that when Ben feels it, his fingers brushing dangerously against the frantic throb of his femoral pulse as he frames Richard’s straining length with his fingertips, his breath close enough to condense against the wet tip of Richard’s shaft; when he feels it, Ben pauses, his eyes wider and deeper, bluer than they’ve ever been, and Richard thinks it’s not just the auscultation, the distant, angry thunder of his heart behind his thoughts; it’s the ocean, and its in his eyes.
“Close enough,” Ben concedes, seeing something in the depths of Richard’s gaze that even Richard isn’t aware exists there, something that satisfies the soul of them both and lets Ben consume the whole of him, urges those pliant lips around his length and convinces him that sucking the rest of Richard’s hardness further into his mouth, pursing around him with a skill borne of great practice, great comfort with the man who is about to climax and release down his throat. Richard breathes heavily, his whole body tensed with anticipation as Ben lets him slide in just a little further, his fingers teasing the underside of his balls as Ben sighs, moans so that the tip of Richard’s cock trills with the sound; it’s enough to drive him mad, and he cannot stop it, cannot wait. Ben’s eyes gleam in the moonlight; Richard’s lungs collapse and his heart gives out, Ben’s hands at the back of his knees the only things keeping him from falling before he’s gone, too far gone, and Ben is dutifully ensuring that no evidence is left behind, licking him clean before pulling away. Richard pants, trying to regain his breath, and his hand finds the side of Ben’s face, caressing his cheek with gentle gratitude.
“Christ,” Richard gasps, and Ben only blinks; though the gesture says more than his words ever could; because words lie, and Ben’s eyes never have.
And he can’t deny possibly deny it now; this, Richard has most certainly missed.
_________________________
It’s suspicion that drives John to follow them into the trees, and for that he’s justified - nothing could have prepared him for what he finds, though; a coup of a completely different kind.
John’s throat goes dry at the sounds, and he can barely swallow as he watches the scene unfold from between the leaves, the edges of his vision tinged with green; Ben, on the other hand, has absolutely no trouble swallowing at all, the curve of his Adam’s apple shivering even as his lips part, the hollow cavern of his mouth casting shadows in the dim light against the ebbing arousal between Richard’s legs, the wetness still shimmering in the dusk, the heavy echo of their breathes cacophonous, wondrous. In that moment, John is infinitely glad that he is alone because the pull from his thighs is undeniable, unexpected but not unwarranted; John flees in the opposite direction, going back the way he came, and he cannot help but notice that, when he passes by Richard’s makeshift tent, there’s an oil lamp burning inside, deceptively suggesting his presence inside.
Apparently, there are some things that the Island hasn’t seen fit to let John in on just yet.
_________________________
John Locke was going to be trouble, that much was obvious.
“The Island clearly wants him here,” Richard protests, sitting on the sleep pad he’d rolled beneath his tarp where they’d stopped for the evening, watching as Ben unfurls himself on the uncovered sand next to him.
“The Island’s been wrong before,” Ben murmurs, watching the way in which Richard's silhouette on the burlap walls of the tent starts to elongate ever so slightly with the rising of the sun, admiring the way it reflects the elegant lines of his body, the way they curl and stretch with easy grace.
“Has it?” Richard asks, and his eyes wander to take in the way that Ben pauses, stills with purpose as he tries to figure the nuances, the subtleties of something beyond what Richard is trying to convey.
Because if there is one thing that Ben’s good at, it’s reading people. And Ben can read John from the opening in the tent, the way he paces, the agitation, and the trail of his boots from the trees, going in and coming back out again. He can read his intuition, can know that he was certain that they weren’t alone in the jungle, that when Richard came, his weren’t the only eyes watching the expression, the sheer bliss of release that graced those flawless features, that slid down the planes of his figure. They hadn’t been alone, and each of these meaningless pieces began to slowly form a whole; and Benjamin Linus always plays to his strengths.
He breathes, and Richard closes his eyes as Ben exhales: “I have an idea.”
_________________________
John tells himself he’s looking for a mango tree when he departs camp at sundown; they’re just a day out from where Richard has assured him that Jacob’s cabin is currently situated, disturbingly close to the old Dharma compound, and John feels a little bit like he’s retracing his steps - therefore, mangos sound fitting, his first taste of the Island coming back full circle.
His foray into the trees has nothing to do with Ben’s similar escape within them only minutes prior, nor Richard’s clandestine move to follow shortly after him. It has nothing to do with following the imprints of their shoes - sloppy trails left in the undergrowth; it’s completely unconnected with the sharp panting that’s growing louder, faster with every step that John resolutely does not take behind them. He does not hold his breath as he sees the line of bare skin, the arch of a neck against the trees and he does not feel the vibrations of a thrust, a sequence of thrusts against the bark that resonate through the greenery and find sympathy in John’s aching groin.
All he’d wanted were some mangos.
“S’hardly a spectator sport, is it John?” He doesn’t expect the voice, thinks maybe it’s in his head, but no - he doesn’t move as he seeks out the eyes, the ruby lips gleaming, bruised with fervor, and he takes in the subtle glow around Richard’s features as he smiles softly, lazily in John’s direction.
He notes now the set up, the way that Richard’s entire weight leans against Ben, both pinning him and depending upon him for support, the way in which their bare chests heave against one another, slick with sweat, and that their eyes connect, so deep that John is almost regretful when Ben swivels his neck to glance back at him, smirking just a bit dazedly, eyes unfocused; “Looking to make the team?”
John doesn’t move at first, but then again neither do they - and he feels awkward for the first time, because on this Island he is at peace; only not anymore, and his heart is pounding in his chest as he takes one step, and then another, slowly approaching the clearing and taking in the sight of them, of Richard trembling with anticipation, his straining erection lined against Ben’s, suspended in mid-satisfaction, their trousers pooled around their knees, Richard’s shirt hanging open from his shoulders where Ben’s lies discarded in the underbrush. “Don’t look so surprised,” Richard says softly, his eyebrows raised in polite admonition, his palm spreading slowly at Ben’s hip and inching up his stomach, fingers lilting over his sensitive nipple and relishing the sharp intake of breath he elicits, which in turn produces a moan from them both as Ben shifts, teasing their groins together for the barest of moments, a second away from control.
“It was only a matter of time, really,” Ben breathes on the inhale, the sound harsh, a gasp against the night as John comes closer, almost against his will - it’s fascinating, and he cannot help but want to get closer, to take part. It makes no sense, but John doesn’t care; sense stopped mattering to him long ago.
“Inevitable,” Richard agrees as John hovers, close enough to them that his body heat resonates, makes it impossible to breathe, and he cannot even process the chain of actions, the minute succession of infinite movements that result in his relative nudity; his shirt remains untouched, but everything else disappears and before he knows what’s happening, before he can remember his name or where he is, there are hands upon him, everywhere - hands on the hard length of his cock and dancing across the cleft of his ass and teasing at his taut nipples and stoking the inside of his thigh and he’s lost; doesn’t ever want to be found. A slick finger teases his entrance just as two more close around his erection, squeezing a tantalizingly brutal pressure just below his balls, forefinger stroking his scrotum, and the moan he lets loose is unparalleled, the intensity of the sensation something he’s never know before.
“You like that?” Richard asks, the grin in his voice audible, and it takes the bite from the throbbing of John’s pulse, the perpetual wince from the way his heart is battering against his ribs; makes the need for oxygen seem trivial as deft fingers stretch inside him, make him see light brighter than any time-flash, sweeter than any heaven as they brush against his prostate; he spills hard and hot into the attentive hands at his groin, the fingers dancing across his pulsing shaft like an incantation, a chant, urging him on, catching his fall.
“I... I...” John stammers, breathless, and the hands are there still, bracing him for the comedown as dizziness consumes him, steadying him as he regains his footing, his equilibrium - the world, it seems, is still skewed, tilted from its axis as the reality of what has just occurred sinks in, unfettered and unadulterated - pure and true, so very, very true.
“You wanted Jacob, John?” Ben whispers, cupping John’s cheek as he follows him to the ground, laying him down on the cool dirt and John doesn’t understand, can’t process what it all means as Ben’s eyes flicker to Richard, who is kneeling, pressed against John’s back, hands sliding under his shirt and hips arched just away from him, refusing to touch but undeniably there, just out of reach. It sticks in his gut for a moment, a moment longer than he’s comfortable with but that dissolves entirely as Richard rejects the separation without warning; and Ben can feel the press of the supple body between them, knows when Richard slides inside of him because he can feel the half-strangled moan vibrate where his chest meets John’s. There is something desperate in those eyes, Ben realizes, as they gaze up at him; something he’d have called fear if it weren’t so inextricably wrapped with desire, with utterly wanton need; John wants this, and far more than it terrifies him, it excites him. And they will fulfill a dead man’s wish: “You’ll have him.”
And Ben slides up against him, urging his erection between John’s lips, and he’s gratified that John doesn’t balk, sucks him in with a hesitant sort of vigor that trills through both of them, and Ben can feel it as Richard rocks into John from behind, every moan and gasp and thrust scintillating, teasing against the cock straining to the back of John’s throat, torturing Ben with every attempt to swallow, every hiss of pain and pleasure that starts low and vibrates along his length.
Richard’s moving harder, faster, and Ben knows that the game is reaching its end; John’s gag reflex, likewise, is starting to reassert itself with authority, the jerking of his throat taunting Ben to the point of release, and he spills down John’s throat before he can be rejected, pulls out when he’s spent, his wet limpness slipping from between cum-slick lips, pearly streams that John couldn’t quite swallow drawing shimmering lines down his chin as Ben tries to catch his breath. Richard follows soon after, and Ben doesn’t have to look to know it; he knows the sound of Richard’s orgasm by now, and even if he didn’t, the way John hisses against the hot burn buried tight within him is proof enough that it’s time to end the charade; that they’ve had their fun, and need to focus now on the issue at hand. Straightening, Ben rises to his knees and searches for his khakis, eager to finish this, once and for all.
Clutching the ground, damp soil collecting beneath his fingernails where he digs into the dirt, John lies gasping, trembling, his lungs on fire, and he revels in the cool that wraps around him in a breeze through the grove - it takes him a minute to realize it’s not just the wind, but the absence of that perfect touch all over his skin, filling him from all around, that’s killed the warmth, and suddenly the cold seeps into his veins, slows his still galloping heart with the dark frost of foreboding.
Ben’s is the face his blurry vision is able to make out first, the harsh lines of it sinister, calculating as he stares down at John with steely eyes, the blue in them like ice, a reflection of depths unfathomable - cruel, and unrestrained. He’s replaced his pants, and he’s crouching in front of him, bare only from the waist up whereas John is still exposed, still vulnerable. Richard, John can feel, is beyond his peripheral vision, lurking behind him, his respiration even but heavy - a predator waiting to strike.
“What,” John begins, his voice broken, mouth suddenly dry. “What is this?”
“Call it a preemptive strike, John,” Richard breathes, his voice low against John’s ear, his chest still and his eyes weeping dry tears of sorrow, because this is not Richard’s way; but he knows his limits, has had plenty of time to define them and work within their reach, and he knows that what is necessary is something that Ben is better suited for, that Ben knows intimately in the beating of his own heart, in his very blood.
“You would think you’d have learned by now,” Ben murmurs, lurking in front of John’s eyes, “to keep your mouth shut.” Those hands are in his hair, yanking his face upwards, forcing his gaze to meet the wild, uncontrolled gleam in Ben’s, the other man’s fingers diving to clench John’s jaw, confining him - controlling him. “Never know who might hear you.”
“Didn’t you ever wonder why you couldn’t find Jacob?” Richard asks softly, his hands now on John shoulder blades, warm and welcoming in John’s mind even now; the betrayal of it all sending shivers down his spine.
“I don’t...” John swallows, lowering his eyes to regain some semblance of composure; this, however, is not acceptable to Ben, who strikes across his cheek with a force that even John had never expected him capable of. John breathes against the resonant sting on the bone, squinting his eyes shut against instinctive tears as he straightens his head and breathes quickly through his teeth, centering himself before meeting Ben’s blazing eyes again. “I don’t under...”
“Have I ever struck you as the kind of man who takes orders?” Ben nearly hisses, his voice an almost feral growl, and the sardonicism seeping from his words is enough to burn - salt rubbed hard into perpetually open wounds. “From anyone?”
This is what John had been afraid of, in the back of his mind; afraid that once again, his faith had been misplaced. He should have known better, they’re right; he should have learned by now. But he’d been so sure...
“Are you afraid?” Ben asks softly, tilting his head to the side and studying John at an angle, watching with perverse fascination the way in which his chest shakes, the angry protrusion of his pulse at his throat with every half-second that passes between them, furious - unabashed. “I thought you weren’t afraid of anything I could do, John,” Ben mocks him, smirking malevolently as he watches John struggle against his grasp. “Not anymore.”
John feels everything in him fall, his blood run cold as the impossible seems to solidify, take shape before his eyes. “Who are you?”
“I think you know.” Richard is suddenly in front of him, dressed again and staring him down, a coldness in his eyes, a gravity exuding from them that John’s never seen there before, or perhaps just never noticed. “This is our Island, John,” he states simply, his expression pained, but steeled - he will not show mercy at the expense of what must be done. “You would have done well to have accepted that. It could have saved us all so much trouble.”
“But I heard him...” John protests, everything coming together suddenly, each frantic blink in hopes of erasing this nightmare instead serving to bring everything into focus - ‘You wanted Jacob? You’ll have him...’ - “I saw him...”
John’s voice fails him, and Ben takes his entrance, grabbing John at the neck, making certain he doesn’t regain the capacity to speak. “Jesus, John,” he whispers, tone low and lethal, his grip on John’s throat deadly. “Do you really think I shot you because I felt threatened? Because you “heard” him?” The look in John’s eyes this time is fear, uninhibited by any other emotion because everything else is gone - John is outnumbered, outwitted; he’s been deceived, and it will cost him everything. “I shot you because I knew then that you were absolutely insane. And on this Island,” Ben’s hand tightens around his neck, “insanity constitutes liability.”
“I’ll miss your fire, John. I won’t deny I’ll miss it.” Ben grunts against the mild thrashing, what little resistance John can provide, his grasp on him never wavering, never tiring, fueled by something beyond mere resolve. “But when it’s kill or be killed, you do what you have to.” There’s a crack in his voice as John jerks violently to the left, almost emotion but not quite, and it’s gone when he regains his control, the press of the heel of his palm against the trembling of his jugular unyielding, prepared to wait until it can testify that there is no life left beneath its hold. “In the end, your loss means nothing,” Ben hisses, digging his nails against John’s skin and drawing deep lines of blood. “Your loss is our gain.”
“Godspeed, John Locke.” The crack of the gun is an echo to Richard’s sudden intervention, and Ben snaps back before the blood can splatter him too badly as the bullet tears through John’s brain and he slumps, the bruises around his neck paling in the ruby pool spreading about under his cheek.
Ben turns, staring at Richard in mild shock, though the way in which those ancient, and yet impossibly smooth hands wipe the barrel clean tempers his surprise; Richard is still uncomfortable with what they’ve done, and this was the quickest way - this curtailed the suffering. Ben doesn’t know whether he’s proud, or disappointed. He settles on indifferent - the job is done, and that’s what matters.
“Our luck,” Ben sneers at the bloody jungle floor at their feet, the lifeless body - stripped of both its clothing and its pride - sprawled gracelessly before them, “and the bastard will be walking around again by morning.”
“Third time’s a charm,” Richard quips, tucking the gun in the waist of his Dockers as he turns to face Ben. “What do we tell the rest of them?”
The response, at first, is wordless - a disbelieving arch of an eyebrow, asking if he’s serious. “What we always tell them,” Ben answers deliberately, his eyes lifting to the beach beyond the trees. “That Jacob is... angry. Wants them back at camp, immediately.”
“And the body?” Richard refuses to look at it again, inclining his head indicatively to the side without glancing at the mud-pocked expanse of flesh, the absent piece of skull where the bullet tore through.
“Leave it,” Ben states cooly, his voice hard, hateful. “The boars will eat well tonight.”
The stream nearby runs red for three whole minutes whilst they wash in silence, though their hands still look suspiciously red as they walk back to camp. Richard stands tall, walks with awkward intent, and he doesn’t notice that he’s barely breathing until Ben stops him, a hand at his shoulder and the other at the side of his neck, lowering their foreheads to lean against one another for the briefest of moments, breathing each other in until the tension subsides.
All things considered, Richard is kind of glad that Ben came back.
_________________________
His eyes open slowly, the green of the canopy above him turned gold and grey against the rising of the sun. He feels stiff, cold - damp in the morning dew and he struggles to breathe at first, as if it’s something he’s temporarily forgotten.
He blinks, and he feels alone - there are no sounds around him, no life, but the voice breaks through anyway; impossible, but there, nevertheless.
“Hello, John,” the voice is soft, sweet. Genuine. The young lady to his side greets him with a smile that beams with the power of the sun, just a curl of those lips framed with endless chocolate curls, but it warms him, makes the breathing easier, makes it all feel okay.
“Alex?” he asks, and she tilts her head so that the smile looks just a little broader, crinkling the corners of her eyes as she stands, walking towards him before bending to look him in the eye, to consider him more closely.
“It’s time to finish things, John,” she tells him plainly, her gaze melting slowly into more of a scrutiny. “It’s time,” she repeats, and something clicks in his mind, something hidden and unknown and quite possibly nonexistent before that very moment, and he realizes what it all means; that maybe he wasn’t entirely wrong about his purpose, just misaligned as to the means. “Are you ready?”
Vindicated, he nods, and follows her through the trees.