Fic: Lost In Translation (1/1)
Title: Lost In Translation
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sayid/Danielle
Word Count: 512
Summary: Some things transcend even themselves. For the cliche_bingo Prompt - Exile. Spoilers through 1.09 - Solitary.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: I had this terrible, terrible idea to use languages in a story, and this strange little pairing and scenario played out as a result. I apologize in advance to native speakers of either language for butchering the grammar/vocabulary/word order/etc. - I’ve only been to France once, and my knowledge of the language is rusty these days at best, much better suited to reading than anything; and at Arabic, I’m still just a novice, flat out.
Lost In Translation
The rain falls like gentle grains of sand, counting down eternity, and on naked flesh it gathers, pools - lending them the pulse of borrowed life.
“Oui.” It’s the only word he can make out, the only one that trickles through and holds. And it’s all she has to say; all she ever has to say, because there are lines in the strain of her neck that read like poetry, and he doesn’t need to know anything else.
“Mon Dieu,” she hisses, arching into him, and he responds in kind, hands running the dips of her ribs like braille, the revelation of a higher truth. They move together like the ebb of the tides, meandering but heady, perfect and dangerous and not meant for them to touch, to know. He watches the way the weight of years and pain melts from her as she moans, and he knows, somehow, he’s touching infinity.
“Jamilla,” he breathes, his voice like the pour of wine on silk, raised droplets of anguish and release and indulgence and hunger and drunken, mindless want that curl around them before seeping through the pores. “Jamilla...”
She clutches him closer, and he can feel the sun spots, the wear of sand and salt, the patterns in her skin against his chest as she drives him deeper, gasping and panting and filled with such a need for surrender that he can help but feel liberated, feel free despite the fact that he’s her prisoner, that they’re both bound in their own chains.
“Ne me quitte pas...” and it’s a mantra, and it’s desperate, and it sucks the blood from his arteries, the sheer despair that replaces his breath and shivers through him, gathering tight in his gut.
The sedative pounds in his veins still, just the dregs of it, the remnants, and it makes everything hazy, the residue of dreams. He shatters in the heat of her, letting it take him down as he falls apart, and when his vision starts to clear, all he can see are the soft, faded lines of white tugging at the skin of her breasts, thin where she threatens to pull rip at the seams - her battle scars, the evidence of what she’s lost. He runs a finger across the stretch marks, and the frantic trashing of her heart beneath is all fear and the shadow of an end, throbbing through her veins like an omen, an epitaph. She’s still hot around him, her nails stinging the flesh of his shoulders, and he’ll drown in this, willingly, if only for the excuse to feel.
The rain stops, and they bleed into the periphery, breathless and spent, chests heaving, trembling in time with the crashing thunder beyond, their colors ebbing as their dreams flavor the clouds; and he wonders at how something so kinetic, so vivid, can so quickly be reduced to mere potential; sketched stark, empty in blacks and whites.
He sleeps outside her arms, and waits for dawn to wash it all away.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sayid/Danielle
Word Count: 512
Summary: Some things transcend even themselves. For the cliche_bingo Prompt - Exile. Spoilers through 1.09 - Solitary.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: I had this terrible, terrible idea to use languages in a story, and this strange little pairing and scenario played out as a result. I apologize in advance to native speakers of either language for butchering the grammar/vocabulary/word order/etc. - I’ve only been to France once, and my knowledge of the language is rusty these days at best, much better suited to reading than anything; and at Arabic, I’m still just a novice, flat out.
Lost In Translation
The rain falls like gentle grains of sand, counting down eternity, and on naked flesh it gathers, pools - lending them the pulse of borrowed life.
“Oui.” It’s the only word he can make out, the only one that trickles through and holds. And it’s all she has to say; all she ever has to say, because there are lines in the strain of her neck that read like poetry, and he doesn’t need to know anything else.
“Mon Dieu,” she hisses, arching into him, and he responds in kind, hands running the dips of her ribs like braille, the revelation of a higher truth. They move together like the ebb of the tides, meandering but heady, perfect and dangerous and not meant for them to touch, to know. He watches the way the weight of years and pain melts from her as she moans, and he knows, somehow, he’s touching infinity.
“Jamilla,” he breathes, his voice like the pour of wine on silk, raised droplets of anguish and release and indulgence and hunger and drunken, mindless want that curl around them before seeping through the pores. “Jamilla...”
She clutches him closer, and he can feel the sun spots, the wear of sand and salt, the patterns in her skin against his chest as she drives him deeper, gasping and panting and filled with such a need for surrender that he can help but feel liberated, feel free despite the fact that he’s her prisoner, that they’re both bound in their own chains.
“Ne me quitte pas...” and it’s a mantra, and it’s desperate, and it sucks the blood from his arteries, the sheer despair that replaces his breath and shivers through him, gathering tight in his gut.
The sedative pounds in his veins still, just the dregs of it, the remnants, and it makes everything hazy, the residue of dreams. He shatters in the heat of her, letting it take him down as he falls apart, and when his vision starts to clear, all he can see are the soft, faded lines of white tugging at the skin of her breasts, thin where she threatens to pull rip at the seams - her battle scars, the evidence of what she’s lost. He runs a finger across the stretch marks, and the frantic trashing of her heart beneath is all fear and the shadow of an end, throbbing through her veins like an omen, an epitaph. She’s still hot around him, her nails stinging the flesh of his shoulders, and he’ll drown in this, willingly, if only for the excuse to feel.
The rain stops, and they bleed into the periphery, breathless and spent, chests heaving, trembling in time with the crashing thunder beyond, their colors ebbing as their dreams flavor the clouds; and he wonders at how something so kinetic, so vivid, can so quickly be reduced to mere potential; sketched stark, empty in blacks and whites.
He sleeps outside her arms, and waits for dawn to wash it all away.