(no subject)
Title: Control
Fandom/Pairing: Lost - Jack/Sawyer
Rating: R
Warnings: Snark. Rude words. This fic has s/D issues (oh boy does it have issues!)
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters from Lost nor will I make any money from them.
Beta: The spectacularly brutal philomel who, after fixing the punctuation and providing invaluable character tips, ripped it apart and then inspired me to put it back together again.
Feedback: I'm sure by now you've realised that I'm a whore for it!
Notes: This was (finally) completed whilst listening to Nine Inch Nails as a thunderstorm raged outside my window I think it may have had an effect!
Neither of them knew how it had gone this far. How a simple way of relieving some tension had become this ritual. How “just the once” had turned into a daily clashing of bodies and egos. Alpha male pitted against Alpha male in a battle for dominance. Neither of them willing to submit to the other or to the admittance that this thing they shared was now more than just a release valve for pressure. This was now need and want and desire.
If you could get either man to admit to what it was they did deep in the jungle, the only sound you would hear would be that of denial. Denial of passion. Denial of feelings kept in check. Denial of anything more than the need to show the other that the speaker was the one in charge, that he was the king of this strange domain in which they found themselves trapped. Sawyer would say that Jack had come to him first, begging for some relief from the burden of responsibility that bore down heavily on his shoulders.
Jack would say that it was Sawyer who asked first, needful of an emotion other than the anger that he felt for the world around him.
Neither would ever admit that they both craved the feel of hot breath on their skin. The touch of the other's hands, once strange, now so familiar. The stretch and burn and tight heat that the other provided.
To admit to these things would be weakness, and weakness had no place on their battlefield.
Hands pawed at clothes. Fingers pulled at hair. Nails raked skin, leaving welts in their path. Lips mashed cruelly together, each man brutal in his attempt to bend the other to his will.
Sawyer sucked Jack's lower lip into his mouth and bit down hard. Enamel sinking into soft flesh, bringing blood to the surface, its copper tasting like victory on his tongue.
Jack pulled back, shoving Sawyer away hard as he did so, sending him sprawling to the sand at his feet. Spitting blood, Jack felt for damage, glaring at Sawyer as he surveyed the red on his fingers.
Sawyer held his stare solidly, not backing down, no apology in his eyes as he shifted back and came to rest against a tree.
”You bastard. I'm going to make you pay for that.” Jack was enraged now, the throbbing in his temple matching the one in his groin beat for beat.
”Do your worst, Doc,” Sawyer drawled lazily, leaning his head back against the rough bark behind him, eyes closed, feigning disinterest. He knew full well that Jack's worst was the best he'd had but saw no reason to share this fact. “Do your worst."
”Insufferable cunt.”
”Daddy's boy.”
”Redneck whore.”
”Fuck you.”
”Not what I had in mind. This time we do this my way. I take you here and now and, if you're lucky, I'll let you come.”
“You may be the self appointed ruler of this island but you’re not the boss of me. Why should I let you fuck me?”
“Medical treatment doesn’t come cheap, I figure you owe me. I intend to see you pay your debt.”
Something in Jack’s tone told Sawyer that this was an argument he wouldn’t win. He wanted to get off not hang around talking so with a sigh of resignation he answered:
”Fine. How do you want me?”
Sawyer's submission coming so easily should have put Jack on edge, but all he could see now was the red heat of anger and desire mixed in equal measures: the haze overwhelming his brain and stopping the warning bells from sounding through.
”On your hands and knees. Turned away from me. I don't want to see your face."
”Why not, Doc? Want to pretend I'm someone else? Who has your pulse racing? Sayid? Charlie? Hurley?” Sawyer sneered, continuing on, “That's it, isn't it? You've got the hots for Stay Puft. I never figured you for a chubby chaser but, hey, each to their own.”
Jack's anger rose. On the verge of loosing control, he glared at the author of his fury and in a voice barely above a whisper commanded: “Shut the fuck up right now and get on your knees.”
Sawyer grinned and then began to position himself. As he did, so Jack sank into the sand behind him, pressing himself up against the other man, using his full weight to hold him still whilst his hands pulled Sawyer's trousers down and off, the softness below them making the task an easy one.
He ran his hands up the inside of Sawyer's thighs, pushing them apart until he was spread before him and then paused, steadying himself. This was his moment. He was going to put an end to this childish game of one-upmanship. He was going to make Sawyer beg, make him plead, make him scream his name. He envisioned a future in which Sawyer knelt pliant before him, mouth open to receive the fill of Jack's cock, eyes downcast, a vision of supplication.
Jack reached around Sawyer's body, dipping underneath until he found the other man’s prick. He slowly began to work his hand up and down its length, twisting slightly as he reached its tip, thumb brushing over the slit, spreading the pre-come, pooling there around and along. He ground his own still-denim-clad erection hard onto Sawyer's flesh, leaving red marks as zipper and material rubbed at soft skin.
Neither man made a sound. It was part of the game they played. Only a grunt on completion was allowed within the rules, anything else signalled pleasure and that would make this thing between them something real.
Placing his free hand on the back of Sawyer's neck, fingers wrapped around possessively, Jack stopped his lazy movements and brought the hand that had been stroking Sawyer to his mouth, sucking on his fingers to wet them and tasting the other man's musk as he did so. Pulling his fingers out with an audible pop, he ran them lightly down Sawyer's spine, his saliva forming a shiny trail in the man's tan.
He began to tease at Sawyer's entrance, watching as it flexed at his touch. He felt Sawyer squirm and push back ever so slightly, and a thrill shot through him, pleasure at getting a response. Slowly he pushed in one finger to the knuckle and then added a second, feeling the tight heat surround him and the muscles contracting, rebelling against the invasion. Slower still, he began to work his fingers in and out, stretching Sawyer as he did until he was able to add a third. He twisted and turned his digits, fucking Sawyer with them, searching out the spot that he knew would break this wilful man, make him his to do with as he pleased. A slight intake of breath from Sawyer told Jack he had found his prize and, with a sense of triumph, he stroked Sawyer's prostate again and again until his work was rewarded with a shudder that ran the length of the man’s body, its vibrations felt within and without.
Satisfied that Sawyer was no longer in a state of mind to fight back, Jack withdrew his fingers and stood to unbutton his jeans, ready for the next manoeuvre in his war. So convinced was he that he had the upper hand, he failed to notice Sawyer watching him over his shoulder. Failed to see the man draw his legs up underneath him, his body wound tight waiting for the perfect moment. Failed to see the feet fly out at him just as he stepped out from his jeans, momentarily unbalanced and so much easier to knock over. Driven down he landed heavily on the sand behind, the breath knocked from his body.
A shadow fell across him as he lay gasping for air and he looked up to see Sawyer standing astride him, his mouth set in its trademark smirk. The Southerner sank down until he was positioned with his knees on either side of Jacks hips, hovering just above Jack's straining cock. Taunting the man beneath him.
Sawyer leant forward and grasped Jack's wrists in one hand and then, moving back again, he used the other for guidance as he sank himself tantalisingly slowly onto Jack's flesh, inch by torturous inch until he was impaled fully, his own erection jutting free between their bodies.
”This is my show now, Doc. You're just here for the ride," he drawled, satisfaction covering his features.
”Oh yeah? Well, whose dick is up whose ass?” Jack countered, desperate to regain some measure of control.
Sawyer grinned: “I still get to be boss. I get to decide who comes and who doesn't. Hell, maybe I'll just sit here and bring myself off, then leave. I haven't decided yet.”
A groan escaped Jack's mouth. He wasn't sure if it was the idea of being left frustrated or the vision of Sawyer stroking himself to completion as he watched that wrestled the sound from him. But the noise changed everything.
Sawyer's eyes flashed dark with desire and he groaned in response. Then slowly he began to work himself up and down Jack's length. Rising and falling in a lazy rhythm, grinding down hard as he reached the end of every fall, his hand stroking his own flesh in time with his movements.
Sawyer's grip on his wrist loosened and, without thinking, Jack reached forward and wrapped one of his hands around Sawyer's, joining it in its work. He said simply, “Let me.”
Sawyer looked him in the eye and their gazes locked, each man frozen for a moment, unsure of what to do. Time seemed to stretch as they both considered the request and its greater meaning. Then, almost imperceptively, Sawyer nodded assent, removing his hand and allowing Jack's to take its place.
Jack raised his legs behind Sawyer's back, supporting him, and they began to move in earnest, matching each other's rhythm. Jack's hips pushing up as Sawyer ground down. Their actions speeding up as each neared completion.
With a hoarse cry, Sawyer’s movements ceased, spine curving into an arch, body taut as a bow, and he came in thick spurts across Jack's chest and hand. Jack followed him seconds later, the feel of Sawyer's muscles clutching at him driving him over the edge. His cry mixed with Sawyer's as his hips lifted up, pushing them both into the air, thrusting fiercely as he came.
Minutes later, Sawyer rose and, without saying a word, he walked to where his trousers lay and pulled them on. Then he picked up the ruins of his T shirt, torn in the earlier struggle, and threw the remnants of material at Jack saying, “Clean yourself up, Doc. You're a mess.” He turned and began to walk away before stopping and looking over his shoulder at the man who still lay dazed in the sand behind him.
“Now who's the whore?” he asked quietly and disappeared in the jungle.
Fandom/Pairing: Lost - Jack/Sawyer
Rating: R
Warnings: Snark. Rude words. This fic has s/D issues (oh boy does it have issues!)
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters from Lost nor will I make any money from them.
Beta: The spectacularly brutal philomel who, after fixing the punctuation and providing invaluable character tips, ripped it apart and then inspired me to put it back together again.
Feedback: I'm sure by now you've realised that I'm a whore for it!
Notes: This was (finally) completed whilst listening to Nine Inch Nails as a thunderstorm raged outside my window I think it may have had an effect!
Neither of them knew how it had gone this far. How a simple way of relieving some tension had become this ritual. How “just the once” had turned into a daily clashing of bodies and egos. Alpha male pitted against Alpha male in a battle for dominance. Neither of them willing to submit to the other or to the admittance that this thing they shared was now more than just a release valve for pressure. This was now need and want and desire.
If you could get either man to admit to what it was they did deep in the jungle, the only sound you would hear would be that of denial. Denial of passion. Denial of feelings kept in check. Denial of anything more than the need to show the other that the speaker was the one in charge, that he was the king of this strange domain in which they found themselves trapped. Sawyer would say that Jack had come to him first, begging for some relief from the burden of responsibility that bore down heavily on his shoulders.
Jack would say that it was Sawyer who asked first, needful of an emotion other than the anger that he felt for the world around him.
Neither would ever admit that they both craved the feel of hot breath on their skin. The touch of the other's hands, once strange, now so familiar. The stretch and burn and tight heat that the other provided.
To admit to these things would be weakness, and weakness had no place on their battlefield.
Hands pawed at clothes. Fingers pulled at hair. Nails raked skin, leaving welts in their path. Lips mashed cruelly together, each man brutal in his attempt to bend the other to his will.
Sawyer sucked Jack's lower lip into his mouth and bit down hard. Enamel sinking into soft flesh, bringing blood to the surface, its copper tasting like victory on his tongue.
Jack pulled back, shoving Sawyer away hard as he did so, sending him sprawling to the sand at his feet. Spitting blood, Jack felt for damage, glaring at Sawyer as he surveyed the red on his fingers.
Sawyer held his stare solidly, not backing down, no apology in his eyes as he shifted back and came to rest against a tree.
”You bastard. I'm going to make you pay for that.” Jack was enraged now, the throbbing in his temple matching the one in his groin beat for beat.
”Do your worst, Doc,” Sawyer drawled lazily, leaning his head back against the rough bark behind him, eyes closed, feigning disinterest. He knew full well that Jack's worst was the best he'd had but saw no reason to share this fact. “Do your worst."
”Insufferable cunt.”
”Daddy's boy.”
”Redneck whore.”
”Fuck you.”
”Not what I had in mind. This time we do this my way. I take you here and now and, if you're lucky, I'll let you come.”
“You may be the self appointed ruler of this island but you’re not the boss of me. Why should I let you fuck me?”
“Medical treatment doesn’t come cheap, I figure you owe me. I intend to see you pay your debt.”
Something in Jack’s tone told Sawyer that this was an argument he wouldn’t win. He wanted to get off not hang around talking so with a sigh of resignation he answered:
”Fine. How do you want me?”
Sawyer's submission coming so easily should have put Jack on edge, but all he could see now was the red heat of anger and desire mixed in equal measures: the haze overwhelming his brain and stopping the warning bells from sounding through.
”On your hands and knees. Turned away from me. I don't want to see your face."
”Why not, Doc? Want to pretend I'm someone else? Who has your pulse racing? Sayid? Charlie? Hurley?” Sawyer sneered, continuing on, “That's it, isn't it? You've got the hots for Stay Puft. I never figured you for a chubby chaser but, hey, each to their own.”
Jack's anger rose. On the verge of loosing control, he glared at the author of his fury and in a voice barely above a whisper commanded: “Shut the fuck up right now and get on your knees.”
Sawyer grinned and then began to position himself. As he did, so Jack sank into the sand behind him, pressing himself up against the other man, using his full weight to hold him still whilst his hands pulled Sawyer's trousers down and off, the softness below them making the task an easy one.
He ran his hands up the inside of Sawyer's thighs, pushing them apart until he was spread before him and then paused, steadying himself. This was his moment. He was going to put an end to this childish game of one-upmanship. He was going to make Sawyer beg, make him plead, make him scream his name. He envisioned a future in which Sawyer knelt pliant before him, mouth open to receive the fill of Jack's cock, eyes downcast, a vision of supplication.
Jack reached around Sawyer's body, dipping underneath until he found the other man’s prick. He slowly began to work his hand up and down its length, twisting slightly as he reached its tip, thumb brushing over the slit, spreading the pre-come, pooling there around and along. He ground his own still-denim-clad erection hard onto Sawyer's flesh, leaving red marks as zipper and material rubbed at soft skin.
Neither man made a sound. It was part of the game they played. Only a grunt on completion was allowed within the rules, anything else signalled pleasure and that would make this thing between them something real.
Placing his free hand on the back of Sawyer's neck, fingers wrapped around possessively, Jack stopped his lazy movements and brought the hand that had been stroking Sawyer to his mouth, sucking on his fingers to wet them and tasting the other man's musk as he did so. Pulling his fingers out with an audible pop, he ran them lightly down Sawyer's spine, his saliva forming a shiny trail in the man's tan.
He began to tease at Sawyer's entrance, watching as it flexed at his touch. He felt Sawyer squirm and push back ever so slightly, and a thrill shot through him, pleasure at getting a response. Slowly he pushed in one finger to the knuckle and then added a second, feeling the tight heat surround him and the muscles contracting, rebelling against the invasion. Slower still, he began to work his fingers in and out, stretching Sawyer as he did until he was able to add a third. He twisted and turned his digits, fucking Sawyer with them, searching out the spot that he knew would break this wilful man, make him his to do with as he pleased. A slight intake of breath from Sawyer told Jack he had found his prize and, with a sense of triumph, he stroked Sawyer's prostate again and again until his work was rewarded with a shudder that ran the length of the man’s body, its vibrations felt within and without.
Satisfied that Sawyer was no longer in a state of mind to fight back, Jack withdrew his fingers and stood to unbutton his jeans, ready for the next manoeuvre in his war. So convinced was he that he had the upper hand, he failed to notice Sawyer watching him over his shoulder. Failed to see the man draw his legs up underneath him, his body wound tight waiting for the perfect moment. Failed to see the feet fly out at him just as he stepped out from his jeans, momentarily unbalanced and so much easier to knock over. Driven down he landed heavily on the sand behind, the breath knocked from his body.
A shadow fell across him as he lay gasping for air and he looked up to see Sawyer standing astride him, his mouth set in its trademark smirk. The Southerner sank down until he was positioned with his knees on either side of Jacks hips, hovering just above Jack's straining cock. Taunting the man beneath him.
Sawyer leant forward and grasped Jack's wrists in one hand and then, moving back again, he used the other for guidance as he sank himself tantalisingly slowly onto Jack's flesh, inch by torturous inch until he was impaled fully, his own erection jutting free between their bodies.
”This is my show now, Doc. You're just here for the ride," he drawled, satisfaction covering his features.
”Oh yeah? Well, whose dick is up whose ass?” Jack countered, desperate to regain some measure of control.
Sawyer grinned: “I still get to be boss. I get to decide who comes and who doesn't. Hell, maybe I'll just sit here and bring myself off, then leave. I haven't decided yet.”
A groan escaped Jack's mouth. He wasn't sure if it was the idea of being left frustrated or the vision of Sawyer stroking himself to completion as he watched that wrestled the sound from him. But the noise changed everything.
Sawyer's eyes flashed dark with desire and he groaned in response. Then slowly he began to work himself up and down Jack's length. Rising and falling in a lazy rhythm, grinding down hard as he reached the end of every fall, his hand stroking his own flesh in time with his movements.
Sawyer's grip on his wrist loosened and, without thinking, Jack reached forward and wrapped one of his hands around Sawyer's, joining it in its work. He said simply, “Let me.”
Sawyer looked him in the eye and their gazes locked, each man frozen for a moment, unsure of what to do. Time seemed to stretch as they both considered the request and its greater meaning. Then, almost imperceptively, Sawyer nodded assent, removing his hand and allowing Jack's to take its place.
Jack raised his legs behind Sawyer's back, supporting him, and they began to move in earnest, matching each other's rhythm. Jack's hips pushing up as Sawyer ground down. Their actions speeding up as each neared completion.
With a hoarse cry, Sawyer’s movements ceased, spine curving into an arch, body taut as a bow, and he came in thick spurts across Jack's chest and hand. Jack followed him seconds later, the feel of Sawyer's muscles clutching at him driving him over the edge. His cry mixed with Sawyer's as his hips lifted up, pushing them both into the air, thrusting fiercely as he came.
Minutes later, Sawyer rose and, without saying a word, he walked to where his trousers lay and pulled them on. Then he picked up the ruins of his T shirt, torn in the earlier struggle, and threw the remnants of material at Jack saying, “Clean yourself up, Doc. You're a mess.” He turned and began to walk away before stopping and looking over his shoulder at the man who still lay dazed in the sand behind him.
“Now who's the whore?” he asked quietly and disappeared in the jungle.