(no subject)
Title: Thrum
Pairing: Matthew Fox/Josh Holloway
Rating: R
Summary: A different kind of "Hatch fic".
Disclaimer: Not real.
Warnings: Pretty much a PWP. Written really fast (for me!) and not beta'd. Probably riddled with mistakes.
Notes: Ok, so it's no longer Monday where I am but it still is in the States so, technically, this isn't late! Written for alliecat8 for her birthday.
Happy birthday, alliecat8!
Thrum
It feels like they’ve been stuck in this place forever. This tiny corner of the studio that’s made to feel all the more claustrophobic by cameramen, lighting technicians, riggers and all the other people that bustle and crowd around them, getting under their feet and stealing the air until it feels like a fight to suck in enough to breathe. The heat is intense. Lights glare down from high above, raising the temperature until it stifles and wraps around them. Matt thinks for the hundredth time that Josh is lucky to only have to lie there in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts, whilst he is trapped inside a cocoon of denim and cotton that feels like it’s getting smaller and more restrictive with every breath he takes.
Josh’s wardrobe is causing thoughts other than jealousy to creep into the periphery of Matt’s mind. The longer the two of them are stuck in this loop of repetition the harder it is for him to focus on what they are supposed to be doing and not think about what he wishes they could do. He knows Josh is feeling it too, the tension that’s building up between them. The silent buzz of want and need arcing between them, growing stronger each time they touch, each time he holds Josh in his arms and lowers him onto the bed.
With each take, it gets harder not to give into instinct and follow the roll of Josh’s body onto the mattress as he pushes him down. Matt has to close his eyes against it and force himself to focus. To remember that this isn’t him and Josh, this is Jack and Sawyer, and they are surrounded by a dozen people, not alone far away from prying eyes. Here, he can’t climb up and straddle Josh’s waist and look down at bronzed skin exposed and on show just for him. He can’t reach out a hand and cup Josh’s face. Feel the way it fits against his hand as Josh closes his eyes and rolls his head on the pillow. He can’t trail the tips of his fingers down Josh’s neck. Can’t reach out with his other hand and trace lazy patterns in tandem across Josh’s chest, down to his abs then skim down the side of Josh’s body until his hands reach the mattress and he can shift his weight forward, change his position, nudging Josh’s thighs apart so that he can kneel between them.
On show as they are, Josh can’t reach up and pull him down until their mouths meet and their lips part and their tongues twine together and they breathe their need and want and desire into each others bodies. Josh’s hands can’t smooth down his back, push up underneath his t-shirt, making him shiver as they draw the material up and off, exposing his skin so that, when he leans down again, there is no barrier between them. He can’t tangle a hand into Josh’s hair and pull his head back, expose Josh’s throat so that he can dip down and open his mouth onto the pulse point on Josh’s neck and taste the salt-sweat of his skin.
He can’t follow the trail that his hands laid earlier, with his mouth. Can’t lick and bite his way downwards as Josh arches up into the feel of his mouth hot-wet against smooth skin. He can’t listen to the noises that Josh makes as his teeth make red marks blossom against the gold. Can’t hear Josh begin to pant and beg as he sinks lower and his thumbs hook into the waistband of Josh’s shorts and tug them down. He can’t let himself be lead by the insistent pressure of Josh’s hands on his shoulders urging him to stop teasing and finish what he’s started.
He can’t do any of the things that he wants to do, that Josh wants to do. Not now, not here. Those things will have to wait for nights stolen away in a borrowed house, hidden in a secluded valley. There they can moan and pant and open to each other until the daylight comes, and they have to go back to pretending that they are just friends, that nothing exists between them but a shared sense of humour and respect for each others work. For now he and Josh will have to follow direction not instinct, play the patient and the doctor and hide all their secrets behind a mask of make believe.
But as they start the scene again Matt can’t help but rub the side of his face against Josh’s shoulder. Lets Josh feel the rasp of stubble against his skin. Matt closes his eyes as he feels the shiver that runs through Josh’s body and hears Josh’s breath catch in a way that’s audible only to him. Matt pulls back, says his lines, lets his hands linger for a second on Josh’s sides before moving up to cup his face - every inch the caring doctor. The director shouts "cut" and they break apart; waiting for the day to end and the night to begin.
Pairing: Matthew Fox/Josh Holloway
Rating: R
Summary: A different kind of "Hatch fic".
Disclaimer: Not real.
Warnings: Pretty much a PWP. Written really fast (for me!) and not beta'd. Probably riddled with mistakes.
Notes: Ok, so it's no longer Monday where I am but it still is in the States so, technically, this isn't late! Written for alliecat8 for her birthday.
Happy birthday, alliecat8!
Thrum
It feels like they’ve been stuck in this place forever. This tiny corner of the studio that’s made to feel all the more claustrophobic by cameramen, lighting technicians, riggers and all the other people that bustle and crowd around them, getting under their feet and stealing the air until it feels like a fight to suck in enough to breathe. The heat is intense. Lights glare down from high above, raising the temperature until it stifles and wraps around them. Matt thinks for the hundredth time that Josh is lucky to only have to lie there in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts, whilst he is trapped inside a cocoon of denim and cotton that feels like it’s getting smaller and more restrictive with every breath he takes.
Josh’s wardrobe is causing thoughts other than jealousy to creep into the periphery of Matt’s mind. The longer the two of them are stuck in this loop of repetition the harder it is for him to focus on what they are supposed to be doing and not think about what he wishes they could do. He knows Josh is feeling it too, the tension that’s building up between them. The silent buzz of want and need arcing between them, growing stronger each time they touch, each time he holds Josh in his arms and lowers him onto the bed.
With each take, it gets harder not to give into instinct and follow the roll of Josh’s body onto the mattress as he pushes him down. Matt has to close his eyes against it and force himself to focus. To remember that this isn’t him and Josh, this is Jack and Sawyer, and they are surrounded by a dozen people, not alone far away from prying eyes. Here, he can’t climb up and straddle Josh’s waist and look down at bronzed skin exposed and on show just for him. He can’t reach out a hand and cup Josh’s face. Feel the way it fits against his hand as Josh closes his eyes and rolls his head on the pillow. He can’t trail the tips of his fingers down Josh’s neck. Can’t reach out with his other hand and trace lazy patterns in tandem across Josh’s chest, down to his abs then skim down the side of Josh’s body until his hands reach the mattress and he can shift his weight forward, change his position, nudging Josh’s thighs apart so that he can kneel between them.
On show as they are, Josh can’t reach up and pull him down until their mouths meet and their lips part and their tongues twine together and they breathe their need and want and desire into each others bodies. Josh’s hands can’t smooth down his back, push up underneath his t-shirt, making him shiver as they draw the material up and off, exposing his skin so that, when he leans down again, there is no barrier between them. He can’t tangle a hand into Josh’s hair and pull his head back, expose Josh’s throat so that he can dip down and open his mouth onto the pulse point on Josh’s neck and taste the salt-sweat of his skin.
He can’t follow the trail that his hands laid earlier, with his mouth. Can’t lick and bite his way downwards as Josh arches up into the feel of his mouth hot-wet against smooth skin. He can’t listen to the noises that Josh makes as his teeth make red marks blossom against the gold. Can’t hear Josh begin to pant and beg as he sinks lower and his thumbs hook into the waistband of Josh’s shorts and tug them down. He can’t let himself be lead by the insistent pressure of Josh’s hands on his shoulders urging him to stop teasing and finish what he’s started.
He can’t do any of the things that he wants to do, that Josh wants to do. Not now, not here. Those things will have to wait for nights stolen away in a borrowed house, hidden in a secluded valley. There they can moan and pant and open to each other until the daylight comes, and they have to go back to pretending that they are just friends, that nothing exists between them but a shared sense of humour and respect for each others work. For now he and Josh will have to follow direction not instinct, play the patient and the doctor and hide all their secrets behind a mask of make believe.
But as they start the scene again Matt can’t help but rub the side of his face against Josh’s shoulder. Lets Josh feel the rasp of stubble against his skin. Matt closes his eyes as he feels the shiver that runs through Josh’s body and hears Josh’s breath catch in a way that’s audible only to him. Matt pulls back, says his lines, lets his hands linger for a second on Josh’s sides before moving up to cup his face - every inch the caring doctor. The director shouts "cut" and they break apart; waiting for the day to end and the night to begin.