Fic: Conversational (1/1)
Title: Conversational
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Jack/Sawyer
Word Count: 791
Summary: They were never about the words. For the prompts “fight" and "dialog" at lostsquee's Lost Ficlet Challenge 2010, and for the psych_30 Prompt #13 - Delusion. Spoilers through 6.16 - What They Died For.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Because I missed writing these two, there was MAJOR UST in that one scene (you know which one), and, while I don't know if I managed them very well after such a hiatus in writing the pairing, it was nice to revisit them again.
Conversational
The jungle; it’s probably as hot as it ever was, but it doesn’t stifle, doesn’t sear; nothing can, anymore.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Jack murmurs, too deep, though the words aren’t what matter, aren’t what get through; they’re a mantra, empty, and words have never won a war for either one of them.
They were never about the words.
But there’s a fire that’s dying, a light that’s going out. He can feel it, suspects they all can, they both can; it’s in the way nausea and bile rise from his gut to his throat, and so he falls to his knees, dirt soaking in, and he swallows James farther, faster, deeper -- chokes the taste of fear down with something sweeter, bitter as it is; something stronger, fleeting -- something he can run to, even as the world closes in from all side, nowhere left for him to hide.
He hollows his cheeks and sucks, laves, remembers the way his mouth fits the ridge, the swell of James’ size, his shape; grazes his teeth as he pulls away, almost too late -- closer than they’ve ever gotten, ever been: they can fight it, but they’ve yet to win.
Never will.
Jack stands slowly, presses flush against James so that he can feel everything, they both can, and they don’t speak; they say everything: ‘I’m sorry,’ in the ring of Jack’s lips between hard nipples, following the rush of his blood from its source; ‘I’m scared,’ in the way it pumps faster, harder, in the way that Jack’s fingertips dig bruises into James’ hips, the jut of the bone.
‘This place is death, goddamnit, and now it needs to fucking feed’ in every heartbeat, so fast and frantic that there’s scarcely a moment without a throb, without the fierce pulse of life making a stand, a statement.
Racing, in hopes of leaving something behind.
‘We’ll make it’ -- the pressure, the heat gathers, condenses, and Jack can barely breathe; lightheaded, eyes glazed, he meets James’ stare, eye to eye, and he wishes it could cool him, wishes they were before, instead of after.
Then, instead of now.
His muscles contract, power coiled in his thighs as he drags, slides the hard shaft of his need along the slowly-drying skin strained red around James’ cock; James falters, just a little, braces against the trunk of the tree at his back, and Jack’s too close not to fall against him, the barely-damp underside of his length hot in between them, and in the cadence, the erratic shuffle of their feet as they gain purchase in the soil, in the shade: ‘We won’t.’
A breath, shuddering counterpoint to the rhythm beneath his tongue, pounding in the veins below as he licks down James’ throat; the breaking point, finally -- ‘We’ll make do.’
‘There’s no time;’ he breathes out, falls as James breathes him back in before he’s ready, before it’s time.
‘It’s enough,’ as his hand slides, catches against their abs and pulls, draws a hiss he can’t place to either one of them, doesn’t need to; as he runs his thumb along James’ wet tip once, twice, and it is, it is.
‘No,’ and even though the gasp that echoes, clings against the dew on the leaves cries out to the contrary, they both know the truth; ‘no it’s not.’
James spills, chest heaving against Jack’s, and the stream of his seed running across Jack’s own length sends him over the edge in kind; wild, frenzied -- never enough.
And the feel of that hand -- broad, firm, sure -- against his arm, palm at his shoulder; the touch reminds Jack of times gone by. The burn of those eyes through sweat-clumped strands of hair; it whispers to him of the things they may have missed -- what they might have had, somewhere else.
Anywhere else.
Just as they’re beginning, they’re too late: it’s already over. They’ve reached the end.
His chest is full, sore; and James’ hand against the sting, the give of it is like salt in a wound. He breathes deep, it sears, and he feels trapped, his heart on fire between burning lungs and that hand, that hold -- steadying, but they both know the truth: to slow now is to stop later.
They can’t afford to stop.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Jack/Sawyer
Word Count: 791
Summary: They were never about the words. For the prompts “fight" and "dialog" at lostsquee's Lost Ficlet Challenge 2010, and for the psych_30 Prompt #13 - Delusion. Spoilers through 6.16 - What They Died For.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Because I missed writing these two, there was MAJOR UST in that one scene (you know which one), and, while I don't know if I managed them very well after such a hiatus in writing the pairing, it was nice to revisit them again.
Conversational
The jungle; it’s probably as hot as it ever was, but it doesn’t stifle, doesn’t sear; nothing can, anymore.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Jack murmurs, too deep, though the words aren’t what matter, aren’t what get through; they’re a mantra, empty, and words have never won a war for either one of them.
They were never about the words.
But there’s a fire that’s dying, a light that’s going out. He can feel it, suspects they all can, they both can; it’s in the way nausea and bile rise from his gut to his throat, and so he falls to his knees, dirt soaking in, and he swallows James farther, faster, deeper -- chokes the taste of fear down with something sweeter, bitter as it is; something stronger, fleeting -- something he can run to, even as the world closes in from all side, nowhere left for him to hide.
He hollows his cheeks and sucks, laves, remembers the way his mouth fits the ridge, the swell of James’ size, his shape; grazes his teeth as he pulls away, almost too late -- closer than they’ve ever gotten, ever been: they can fight it, but they’ve yet to win.
Never will.
Jack stands slowly, presses flush against James so that he can feel everything, they both can, and they don’t speak; they say everything: ‘I’m sorry,’ in the ring of Jack’s lips between hard nipples, following the rush of his blood from its source; ‘I’m scared,’ in the way it pumps faster, harder, in the way that Jack’s fingertips dig bruises into James’ hips, the jut of the bone.
‘This place is death, goddamnit, and now it needs to fucking feed’ in every heartbeat, so fast and frantic that there’s scarcely a moment without a throb, without the fierce pulse of life making a stand, a statement.
Racing, in hopes of leaving something behind.
‘We’ll make it’ -- the pressure, the heat gathers, condenses, and Jack can barely breathe; lightheaded, eyes glazed, he meets James’ stare, eye to eye, and he wishes it could cool him, wishes they were before, instead of after.
Then, instead of now.
His muscles contract, power coiled in his thighs as he drags, slides the hard shaft of his need along the slowly-drying skin strained red around James’ cock; James falters, just a little, braces against the trunk of the tree at his back, and Jack’s too close not to fall against him, the barely-damp underside of his length hot in between them, and in the cadence, the erratic shuffle of their feet as they gain purchase in the soil, in the shade: ‘We won’t.’
A breath, shuddering counterpoint to the rhythm beneath his tongue, pounding in the veins below as he licks down James’ throat; the breaking point, finally -- ‘We’ll make do.’
‘There’s no time;’ he breathes out, falls as James breathes him back in before he’s ready, before it’s time.
‘It’s enough,’ as his hand slides, catches against their abs and pulls, draws a hiss he can’t place to either one of them, doesn’t need to; as he runs his thumb along James’ wet tip once, twice, and it is, it is.
‘No,’ and even though the gasp that echoes, clings against the dew on the leaves cries out to the contrary, they both know the truth; ‘no it’s not.’
James spills, chest heaving against Jack’s, and the stream of his seed running across Jack’s own length sends him over the edge in kind; wild, frenzied -- never enough.
And the feel of that hand -- broad, firm, sure -- against his arm, palm at his shoulder; the touch reminds Jack of times gone by. The burn of those eyes through sweat-clumped strands of hair; it whispers to him of the things they may have missed -- what they might have had, somewhere else.
Anywhere else.
Just as they’re beginning, they’re too late: it’s already over. They’ve reached the end.
His chest is full, sore; and James’ hand against the sting, the give of it is like salt in a wound. He breathes deep, it sears, and he feels trapped, his heart on fire between burning lungs and that hand, that hold -- steadying, but they both know the truth: to slow now is to stop later.
They can’t afford to stop.