Prisms and Echoes, 3/4
Sep. 14th, 2008 07:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
alliecat8Title: Prisms and Echoes, Chapter 3 of 4 (oops!)
Characters: Jack/Sawyer
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3,343 (and it's all one sex scene, *collapses*)
A/N This scene decided it wanted to be big and take the whole chapter for itself, so now there’ll be 4 chapters, eep, sorry!
Disclaimer: Only mine in my dreams
Chapter 1 is here.
Chapter 2 is here.
Grace
“Pity!” Sawyer spat when he pushed Jack away that first time. He’d figured out that he could do that, speak in one-word bursts and he thought it came out okay, he thought he sounded like his old self.
And he’d fought Jack, of course he had; fighting Jack was normal, it was natural and it felt right when he pulled away from Jack’s kiss and snarled at him. Then he’d hit him and Jack didn’t hit back, so he hit him again and Jack did hit back, and then they were fighting and it felt so good, until Sayid showed up and pulled them apart, pulled Sawyer into his tent and put a rope in his hand. It was a threat – behave, or we’ll tie you up again. In his head Sawyer could see one color, the color of fury, Red Rage. Jack felt sorry for him, Sayid treated him like he was an animal, Kate kept her distance and pretended he didn’t exist. He hated this life with a dark red passion, but he was trapped. No way out.
The worst part was that he’d lost his words. Couldn’t hear them, couldn’t see them, and he was afraid to speak them. Words had always been Sawyer’s weapon. With them he could cut down any enemy, and in his lifetime he’d had so, so many enemies. But he’d also used words for gain. Trust, loyalty, even love – these he drew to himself with perfectly crafted words, all the time scheming silently to use the emotions he cultivated to betray and destroy. Now that his words were gone, he was Samson after Delilah had shorn his hair. He was weak; he was stripped of the walls that fortified him and kept his soul safely hidden away. Without his words he was locked in dark silence, a prisoner all alone.
But words had been his lover, too. Now Jack had become synonymous with words for him, and he hated it; hated that Jack had that power over him. Jack still came to him, though, with books. With words. And though he hated it, Sawyer absorbed the words like a sponge, words upon words upon words. Sometimes Jack kissed him, and Sawyer allowed it. He allowed it until Jack moved closer and Sawyer felt what he wanted from those kisses, where he wanted them to lead. Then Sawyer hit him again and retreated into his tent, into smallness and staleness and the only safety he knew.
Jack came to him in the night. Sawyer knew it by the change in the air, a small shift beside him as he lay on his pallet, staring into nothing. Suddenly the air in his tent wasn’t an empty void, suddenly it held Jack, and Sawyer closed his eyes and barked, “Out!”
The air shifted again, and Jack grabbed his hand. He always talked into Sawyer’s left hand, the same hand that Sawyer hit him with. Tonight he spoke roughly, as if he too was raging, and he said, “Remember before. Remember what we were. Remember us." And he curled Sawyer’s hand into a tight, hard fist, and he waited.
No, he wanted to say, because remembering was the most painful thing in the world. Remembering meant feeling whole again, seeing colors and hearing the echoing cries of birds, the muted roar of waves rolling over the sand. Remembering him and Jack, that was the worst, the two of them colliding and clashing as equals, neither able to boast the upper hand for long…now Jack had the upper hand, both figuratively and literally. Sawyer fought back the memories of who they had been, because they were too bittersweet to bear.
But Jack was still holding his fist, and against his will the memories came anyway. He remembered the first time, when they touched in violence – Jack pulling him off Sayid and holding him in an angry embrace. How would Jack hold him now, he wondered. Jack had kissed him, yes, but Sawyer had never allowed the kisses to be accompanied by hands; Jack’s hands meant words to him and in that respect they were sacred. How easily, he thought, Jack’s touch could become sacred to him now, when touch was all he had.
As if he sensed Sawyer’s thoughts, Jack’s hand tightened and he reached out with his other hand, slowly, purposefully, and he cupped Sawyer’s cheek and jaw. He was all fierce determination, but now both of his hands were shaking. Sawyer knew by his smell that Jack was leaning closer; he could smell Jack’s sweat and the aloe he used for toothpaste and the faint scent of mangoes on his breath, and then he was enveloped in Jack’s scent as he found Sawyer’s mouth and kissed him hard. Sawyer held himself still; he was never pliant with Jack, he never let Jack in without a fight, not even his tongue and tonight was no exception, he didn’t want Jack inside and he really didn’t want to think about why. Because if he thought about why, he might figure out that he was scared and he would never, ever admit to himself that he was scared of Jack.
Jack was stroking Sawyer’s cheek with his thumb and he wasn’t gentle, he stroked him roughly and resolutely until Sawyer obeyed him and opened his lips and let Jack inside. And it was good, he knew it would be good, that was why he didn’t want it. But now that he had no choice he reveled in it, the taste and the feel of Jack thrusting into him again and again. Since he couldn’t push Jack away with only one free hand, he wrapped it around Jack’s neck instead, and Jack took that as permission; he took it as an invitation to lie down on Sawyer’s bed, and Sawyer had no choice but to move over and let him – it was that, or Jack would have lain down on top of him.
Now suddenly they were chest to chest, belly to belly and thigh to thigh. Now Sawyer was consumed with hot red panic and the need to strike out at Jack, a reflex, but Jack was still gripping his closed fist and his other arm was trapped by Jack’s body, his right hand still wrapped around Jack’s neck like he was pulling him in, and then Sawyer realized that he was pulling him in and his tongue was thrusting against Jack’s. Somehow his body had separated itself from his brain and for an instant there was a battle for control, then the body just let go and molded itself to Jack, and in that surrender the battle was won. Sawyer stopped thinking entirely and let the ebb and flow of long-restrained passion consume him.
Jack felt the change and slowly, carefully he let go of Sawyer’s fist, and for an instant he froze in surprise as Sawyer uncurled his fingers and turned his wrist so they were palm-to-palm, and he twined his fingers through Jack’s and gripped him hard. We are going to do this, he was saying with his hand, we’re going to do this without letting go. And Jack’s fingers closed over Sawyer’s, right hand gripping left, not letting go.
His mouth didn’t leave Sawyer’s as his free hand started to roam, first aimlessly as he touched Sawyer’s hair, the curve of his shoulder, across his chest and down, following the faint ridge of hair beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, following it down, down. Down to his belt buckle, and now he was no longer aimless, now he worked with purpose as he unhooked the buckle effortlessly. He had good hands. Soon he had Sawyer’s jeans unbuttoned and he tugged the fabric down, and Sawyer found himself lifting his hips to help him, kicking the intrusive denim away, his shorts and shirt following closely. Now he was naked, naked while Jack was fully dressed, and the panic returned, only to be sucked away by Jack’s mouth, lips hot and wet on his, along his jaw and down to his neck where Jack bit and sucked and laved and made Sawyer cry out and writhe with impatience; where was he, where was that roaming hand and why wasn’t it on his cock? Because he needed it there, needed it.
He gave another wordless cry and there it was, that hand, wrapped around him and stroking and stroking and stroking with the rhythm of his tongue. It was too much, he’d wanted it but now it was too much, after so long without the feel of a hand not his own wrapped around him, he felt himself grow painfully hard and his balls drew up tight and he rolled his head back and forth on the pillow, no, no, not yet but Jack kept stroking, hard and rhythmic and then the feeling burst, white-hot behind his eyelids, and he was pushing into Jack’s hand as hard as he could, as he emptied himself to the sound of cries he could not hear.
He sank back onto the bed, his fingers uncurling from Jack’s hand, waiting for the hand to pull away. Jack would leave now, Sawyer knew. This had been nothing, this had been pity sex, Jack the herodoctorleader taking care of business. He remembered a book then, something about a wounded soldier, a horribly wounded soldier…Johnny Got His Gun, right, that was it, the soldier had no arms no legs no face no ears, nothing but a working brain and one working part of his body, and some nurse had come along and serviced that one part of him, and it had just been another in a long string of humiliations. Yeah, he remembered that book and now it was him, now he was the one being serviced and he hated it, and so he curled his left hand back into a fist and swung at Jack, and was ridiculously pleased when he connected with Jack’s jaw just as he’d meant to do. He wasn’t helpless, not like that soldier had been, he could fight back. It was all he had.
He expected Jack to leave then, his duty done and a sore jaw to show for it. But Jack didn’t leave, instead Jack gripped Sawyer’s left wrist, fingers digging into the muscle, the tendons, pushing into him hard until his hand went numb, fingers suddenly loose and boneless and Jack grabbed his limp left hand and slammed his own hand down into it and Sawyer felt what Jack was saying and he laughed, a short, bitter laugh.
Jack’s index finger and pinkie were extended, his thumb jutting out to the side and his middle and ring fingers curled down, into his palm. It was the symbol for “I love you,” and Jack had clearly gone insane. Sawyer could still feel red waves of impatience and anger rolling off of him, but his hand was pressing deep into Sawyer’s palm, saying an absurdity.
“You love broken things, jackass,” Sawyer said. His vocal chords felt tight and scratchy after being virtually unused for so long. “You love things you can fix, and you can’t fix this.” He knocked Jack’s hand away and retreated to the far corner of the bed, pulling the blanket up to his waist. “Get out.”
Instead of doing as he was told – Jack never took orders from anybody; he and Sawyer were both too alike that way – he grabbed Sawyer’s hand again and again he slapped that symbol into his palm, and then he raised Sawyer’s hand to his face and Sawyer felt wetness on his cheek and suddenly all of his rage evaporated. Jack knew. Jack knew he couldn’t fix Sawyer but here he was anyway, and somehow he’d gotten it into his damn fool head that he loved Sawyer.
Sawyer didn’t know how to process it all, sex and fury and now something else, something that Jack thought was love. Sawyer didn’t know what to do but go with it, when Jack lowered his head and started to kiss him again, when Jack led Sawyer’s hand down to feel him swollen and hard beneath his jeans, when he broke their kiss for only a heartbeat as he pulled off his shirt. Jack didn’t love him, but it was clear that he sure as hell wanted him, and he’d been leading up to this for a while.
He worked Jack’s belt buckle open one-handed, and he was proud that he did it with no more fumbling than Jack had; he had good hands, too, especially since he’d had nothing to rely on but his hands for the longest time. How odd it felt when he’d finally freed Jack, to know that he was allowed to touch Jack in any way he wanted, not just in anger but in desire, that Jack wanted it. Jack wanted it; Sawyer could feel the evidence beneath his palm, his fingers wrapped around Jack tentatively at first but Sawyer wasn’t a tentative man – hadn’t been, anyway, before his injury he’d never been tentative in the least with his hands – and suddenly he felt more like his old self, more confident than he’d felt in forever. His fingers tightened and he felt a low shudder roll through Jack’s body, and suddenly he realized that he could do this; that they could do this, and it might just be all right. It might even be good.
Now Jack was doing what Sawyer had done, lifting his hips and pushing off his jeans and boxers and then he had Jack naked in his hands, and Sawyer had to fight that prickly fear again until Jack rolled on top of him and then Sawyer gave up on trying to think and just let himself feel.
Still sated from his orgasm, Sawyer only registered Jack’s erection against his stomach in a tight, aching kind of way; other parts of his body registered Jack’s arousal and even though he was far from being hard again he was suddenly hot and needy and he understood, now, what they meant when they said that the most important sex organ was the brain, because his mind was simmering with things that he knew. He knew what Jack’s face looked like, his eyes focused on Sawyer’s face with an intensity that was all Jack, and maybe Jack was looking at his body, too, devouring him with his eyes, but Sawyer knew that Jack was watching his face. And he knew the sounds that Jack was making, too, because he could feel them, hot bursts against his cheek, urgent gasps, deep rumbles in his chest that were groans straight from his core. Jack was moving against him now, his cock trapped hard and tight between their bodies, and Sawyer felt the first telltale signs of warm wetness, Jack’s cock sliding slickly between them now, evidence of his growing arousal, of his need for Sawyer. Jack’s need for him.
Sawyer could feel it now, escaping his brain and traveling down, sharp shudders along his spine and quivers in his belly, and then it filled his cock and he swelled, rising to meet Jack, feeling Jack throbbing and hot against him and Jack reached down between them and grasped them both. The need pulsed back from his cock to his brain, along heated and sensitized nerve endings and spreading to every corner of his body, not just the need for orgasm but the need for Jack, the need to come because of Jack.
Now their hands were everywhere, Sawyer’s hand along Jack’s hip as it surged against him, Jack’s hand holding Sawyer’s face still as he kissed him, as Sawyer gasped and moaned against his mouth. He could feel his legs spreading wider and wider, opening himself for Jack, almost wantonly begging for Jack to go harder, deeper, to take more of Sawyer, to fill all the empty places inside him. He’d felt so empty after he’d been hurt, so empty and he’d wanted to die, and then Jack had been there to fill the emptiness, first with words and now with his body. So it only seemed right, it only seemed natural for Sawyer to roll over for Jack, to push himself onto his hands and knees and ask without words for Jack to fill him in the most intimate way possible.
Jack hesitated, as he’d known Jack would do, and Sawyer almost laughed when Jack seized one of his hands and drew a shaky question mark in his palm. “You know what to do, do it,” he said and he hoped Jack could hear the amusement in his voice, so he’d know it was more than okay, Sawyer wanted this and Jack’s hesitancy was absurd. Then Jack was positioning himself behind Sawyer, the fronts of his thighs tight against the backs of Sawyer’s and one hand gripping his shoulder hard. Jack rubbed his other hand across Sawyer’s mouth and Sawyer knew what he wanted, so he spit in it, tensing his muscles as they reached the point of no return. He felt Jack grasp himself and stroke himself hard, his own fluids mixing with Sawyer’s as he readied himself and then he thrust hard and deep into Sawyer’s body.
It hurt. It hurt a lot and Sawyer was glad it hurt, that dark-red burn and throb that encompassed him and told him that he was alive. He cried out in a voice thick with lust and pain and Jack wasn’t moving so Sawyer moved for him; he thrust back against him hard and tight and deep. He felt something let go in Jack then, something wild, and Jack’s fingers tightened on Sawyer’s skin and he began to move, fucking Sawyer hard, fucking him through the pain and out the other side, into the deep spreading burn and the hot sharp burst of pleasure that erased everything, made everything cease to exist except his body and the feel of Jack, always Jack.
Sawyer was overcome with the heady euphoria of sex. Nothing existed for him now but the bright spikes of pleasure Jack was building inside of him, and the aching burn of his cock, straining up stiff and hard and demanding attention. Sawyer reached for himself but Jack’s hand was there first, and he knocked Sawyer’s hand away and wrapped his fingers tight around the shaft, stroking him, pumping him, driving him into a frenzy as he tried to absorb the heat Jack was stoking in his ass and the heat he was building in his cock and he couldn’t, it overwhelmed him and he thought he screamed then, knew that his voice was as out-of-control as his body and he didn’t care, screamed again and erupted in Jack’s hand, spilling white-hot streams, one after another after another across Jack’s stroking fingers and onto the bed below.
Jack’s chest was rumbling against his back and through his sex-saturated haze Sawyer wondered if Jack was screaming too, and the thought turned him on and it wrung one last bright burst from him, one last cry before he sagged down onto the bed, too spent to hold himself up as he felt Jack’s powerful throbs, as Jack’s body convulsed and his hand tightened and relaxed, tightened and relaxed against Sawyer’s shoulder.
There was nothing to say, no words for this and so Sawyer let his body go lax as every nerve ending sizzled and sang in the afterglow. He felt drunk on it, blissfully intoxicated as he fell into his bed, feeling as if he were falling through his bed into some soft and warm and all-encompassing void. And in the shining darkness Jack was there with him, holding him, breathing against him. He didn’t know if Jack would stay but he was here now, and that was enough.
Like the red-tipped sunset waves washing over the shore he felt himself pulled, unresisting, out to sea.
TBC
Link to Chapter 4
Characters: Jack/Sawyer
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3,343 (and it's all one sex scene, *collapses*)
A/N This scene decided it wanted to be big and take the whole chapter for itself, so now there’ll be 4 chapters, eep, sorry!
Disclaimer: Only mine in my dreams
Chapter 1 is here.
Chapter 2 is here.
Grace
“Pity!” Sawyer spat when he pushed Jack away that first time. He’d figured out that he could do that, speak in one-word bursts and he thought it came out okay, he thought he sounded like his old self.
And he’d fought Jack, of course he had; fighting Jack was normal, it was natural and it felt right when he pulled away from Jack’s kiss and snarled at him. Then he’d hit him and Jack didn’t hit back, so he hit him again and Jack did hit back, and then they were fighting and it felt so good, until Sayid showed up and pulled them apart, pulled Sawyer into his tent and put a rope in his hand. It was a threat – behave, or we’ll tie you up again. In his head Sawyer could see one color, the color of fury, Red Rage. Jack felt sorry for him, Sayid treated him like he was an animal, Kate kept her distance and pretended he didn’t exist. He hated this life with a dark red passion, but he was trapped. No way out.
The worst part was that he’d lost his words. Couldn’t hear them, couldn’t see them, and he was afraid to speak them. Words had always been Sawyer’s weapon. With them he could cut down any enemy, and in his lifetime he’d had so, so many enemies. But he’d also used words for gain. Trust, loyalty, even love – these he drew to himself with perfectly crafted words, all the time scheming silently to use the emotions he cultivated to betray and destroy. Now that his words were gone, he was Samson after Delilah had shorn his hair. He was weak; he was stripped of the walls that fortified him and kept his soul safely hidden away. Without his words he was locked in dark silence, a prisoner all alone.
But words had been his lover, too. Now Jack had become synonymous with words for him, and he hated it; hated that Jack had that power over him. Jack still came to him, though, with books. With words. And though he hated it, Sawyer absorbed the words like a sponge, words upon words upon words. Sometimes Jack kissed him, and Sawyer allowed it. He allowed it until Jack moved closer and Sawyer felt what he wanted from those kisses, where he wanted them to lead. Then Sawyer hit him again and retreated into his tent, into smallness and staleness and the only safety he knew.
Jack came to him in the night. Sawyer knew it by the change in the air, a small shift beside him as he lay on his pallet, staring into nothing. Suddenly the air in his tent wasn’t an empty void, suddenly it held Jack, and Sawyer closed his eyes and barked, “Out!”
The air shifted again, and Jack grabbed his hand. He always talked into Sawyer’s left hand, the same hand that Sawyer hit him with. Tonight he spoke roughly, as if he too was raging, and he said, “Remember before. Remember what we were. Remember us." And he curled Sawyer’s hand into a tight, hard fist, and he waited.
No, he wanted to say, because remembering was the most painful thing in the world. Remembering meant feeling whole again, seeing colors and hearing the echoing cries of birds, the muted roar of waves rolling over the sand. Remembering him and Jack, that was the worst, the two of them colliding and clashing as equals, neither able to boast the upper hand for long…now Jack had the upper hand, both figuratively and literally. Sawyer fought back the memories of who they had been, because they were too bittersweet to bear.
But Jack was still holding his fist, and against his will the memories came anyway. He remembered the first time, when they touched in violence – Jack pulling him off Sayid and holding him in an angry embrace. How would Jack hold him now, he wondered. Jack had kissed him, yes, but Sawyer had never allowed the kisses to be accompanied by hands; Jack’s hands meant words to him and in that respect they were sacred. How easily, he thought, Jack’s touch could become sacred to him now, when touch was all he had.
As if he sensed Sawyer’s thoughts, Jack’s hand tightened and he reached out with his other hand, slowly, purposefully, and he cupped Sawyer’s cheek and jaw. He was all fierce determination, but now both of his hands were shaking. Sawyer knew by his smell that Jack was leaning closer; he could smell Jack’s sweat and the aloe he used for toothpaste and the faint scent of mangoes on his breath, and then he was enveloped in Jack’s scent as he found Sawyer’s mouth and kissed him hard. Sawyer held himself still; he was never pliant with Jack, he never let Jack in without a fight, not even his tongue and tonight was no exception, he didn’t want Jack inside and he really didn’t want to think about why. Because if he thought about why, he might figure out that he was scared and he would never, ever admit to himself that he was scared of Jack.
Jack was stroking Sawyer’s cheek with his thumb and he wasn’t gentle, he stroked him roughly and resolutely until Sawyer obeyed him and opened his lips and let Jack inside. And it was good, he knew it would be good, that was why he didn’t want it. But now that he had no choice he reveled in it, the taste and the feel of Jack thrusting into him again and again. Since he couldn’t push Jack away with only one free hand, he wrapped it around Jack’s neck instead, and Jack took that as permission; he took it as an invitation to lie down on Sawyer’s bed, and Sawyer had no choice but to move over and let him – it was that, or Jack would have lain down on top of him.
Now suddenly they were chest to chest, belly to belly and thigh to thigh. Now Sawyer was consumed with hot red panic and the need to strike out at Jack, a reflex, but Jack was still gripping his closed fist and his other arm was trapped by Jack’s body, his right hand still wrapped around Jack’s neck like he was pulling him in, and then Sawyer realized that he was pulling him in and his tongue was thrusting against Jack’s. Somehow his body had separated itself from his brain and for an instant there was a battle for control, then the body just let go and molded itself to Jack, and in that surrender the battle was won. Sawyer stopped thinking entirely and let the ebb and flow of long-restrained passion consume him.
Jack felt the change and slowly, carefully he let go of Sawyer’s fist, and for an instant he froze in surprise as Sawyer uncurled his fingers and turned his wrist so they were palm-to-palm, and he twined his fingers through Jack’s and gripped him hard. We are going to do this, he was saying with his hand, we’re going to do this without letting go. And Jack’s fingers closed over Sawyer’s, right hand gripping left, not letting go.
His mouth didn’t leave Sawyer’s as his free hand started to roam, first aimlessly as he touched Sawyer’s hair, the curve of his shoulder, across his chest and down, following the faint ridge of hair beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, following it down, down. Down to his belt buckle, and now he was no longer aimless, now he worked with purpose as he unhooked the buckle effortlessly. He had good hands. Soon he had Sawyer’s jeans unbuttoned and he tugged the fabric down, and Sawyer found himself lifting his hips to help him, kicking the intrusive denim away, his shorts and shirt following closely. Now he was naked, naked while Jack was fully dressed, and the panic returned, only to be sucked away by Jack’s mouth, lips hot and wet on his, along his jaw and down to his neck where Jack bit and sucked and laved and made Sawyer cry out and writhe with impatience; where was he, where was that roaming hand and why wasn’t it on his cock? Because he needed it there, needed it.
He gave another wordless cry and there it was, that hand, wrapped around him and stroking and stroking and stroking with the rhythm of his tongue. It was too much, he’d wanted it but now it was too much, after so long without the feel of a hand not his own wrapped around him, he felt himself grow painfully hard and his balls drew up tight and he rolled his head back and forth on the pillow, no, no, not yet but Jack kept stroking, hard and rhythmic and then the feeling burst, white-hot behind his eyelids, and he was pushing into Jack’s hand as hard as he could, as he emptied himself to the sound of cries he could not hear.
He sank back onto the bed, his fingers uncurling from Jack’s hand, waiting for the hand to pull away. Jack would leave now, Sawyer knew. This had been nothing, this had been pity sex, Jack the herodoctorleader taking care of business. He remembered a book then, something about a wounded soldier, a horribly wounded soldier…Johnny Got His Gun, right, that was it, the soldier had no arms no legs no face no ears, nothing but a working brain and one working part of his body, and some nurse had come along and serviced that one part of him, and it had just been another in a long string of humiliations. Yeah, he remembered that book and now it was him, now he was the one being serviced and he hated it, and so he curled his left hand back into a fist and swung at Jack, and was ridiculously pleased when he connected with Jack’s jaw just as he’d meant to do. He wasn’t helpless, not like that soldier had been, he could fight back. It was all he had.
He expected Jack to leave then, his duty done and a sore jaw to show for it. But Jack didn’t leave, instead Jack gripped Sawyer’s left wrist, fingers digging into the muscle, the tendons, pushing into him hard until his hand went numb, fingers suddenly loose and boneless and Jack grabbed his limp left hand and slammed his own hand down into it and Sawyer felt what Jack was saying and he laughed, a short, bitter laugh.
Jack’s index finger and pinkie were extended, his thumb jutting out to the side and his middle and ring fingers curled down, into his palm. It was the symbol for “I love you,” and Jack had clearly gone insane. Sawyer could still feel red waves of impatience and anger rolling off of him, but his hand was pressing deep into Sawyer’s palm, saying an absurdity.
“You love broken things, jackass,” Sawyer said. His vocal chords felt tight and scratchy after being virtually unused for so long. “You love things you can fix, and you can’t fix this.” He knocked Jack’s hand away and retreated to the far corner of the bed, pulling the blanket up to his waist. “Get out.”
Instead of doing as he was told – Jack never took orders from anybody; he and Sawyer were both too alike that way – he grabbed Sawyer’s hand again and again he slapped that symbol into his palm, and then he raised Sawyer’s hand to his face and Sawyer felt wetness on his cheek and suddenly all of his rage evaporated. Jack knew. Jack knew he couldn’t fix Sawyer but here he was anyway, and somehow he’d gotten it into his damn fool head that he loved Sawyer.
Sawyer didn’t know how to process it all, sex and fury and now something else, something that Jack thought was love. Sawyer didn’t know what to do but go with it, when Jack lowered his head and started to kiss him again, when Jack led Sawyer’s hand down to feel him swollen and hard beneath his jeans, when he broke their kiss for only a heartbeat as he pulled off his shirt. Jack didn’t love him, but it was clear that he sure as hell wanted him, and he’d been leading up to this for a while.
He worked Jack’s belt buckle open one-handed, and he was proud that he did it with no more fumbling than Jack had; he had good hands, too, especially since he’d had nothing to rely on but his hands for the longest time. How odd it felt when he’d finally freed Jack, to know that he was allowed to touch Jack in any way he wanted, not just in anger but in desire, that Jack wanted it. Jack wanted it; Sawyer could feel the evidence beneath his palm, his fingers wrapped around Jack tentatively at first but Sawyer wasn’t a tentative man – hadn’t been, anyway, before his injury he’d never been tentative in the least with his hands – and suddenly he felt more like his old self, more confident than he’d felt in forever. His fingers tightened and he felt a low shudder roll through Jack’s body, and suddenly he realized that he could do this; that they could do this, and it might just be all right. It might even be good.
Now Jack was doing what Sawyer had done, lifting his hips and pushing off his jeans and boxers and then he had Jack naked in his hands, and Sawyer had to fight that prickly fear again until Jack rolled on top of him and then Sawyer gave up on trying to think and just let himself feel.
Still sated from his orgasm, Sawyer only registered Jack’s erection against his stomach in a tight, aching kind of way; other parts of his body registered Jack’s arousal and even though he was far from being hard again he was suddenly hot and needy and he understood, now, what they meant when they said that the most important sex organ was the brain, because his mind was simmering with things that he knew. He knew what Jack’s face looked like, his eyes focused on Sawyer’s face with an intensity that was all Jack, and maybe Jack was looking at his body, too, devouring him with his eyes, but Sawyer knew that Jack was watching his face. And he knew the sounds that Jack was making, too, because he could feel them, hot bursts against his cheek, urgent gasps, deep rumbles in his chest that were groans straight from his core. Jack was moving against him now, his cock trapped hard and tight between their bodies, and Sawyer felt the first telltale signs of warm wetness, Jack’s cock sliding slickly between them now, evidence of his growing arousal, of his need for Sawyer. Jack’s need for him.
Sawyer could feel it now, escaping his brain and traveling down, sharp shudders along his spine and quivers in his belly, and then it filled his cock and he swelled, rising to meet Jack, feeling Jack throbbing and hot against him and Jack reached down between them and grasped them both. The need pulsed back from his cock to his brain, along heated and sensitized nerve endings and spreading to every corner of his body, not just the need for orgasm but the need for Jack, the need to come because of Jack.
Now their hands were everywhere, Sawyer’s hand along Jack’s hip as it surged against him, Jack’s hand holding Sawyer’s face still as he kissed him, as Sawyer gasped and moaned against his mouth. He could feel his legs spreading wider and wider, opening himself for Jack, almost wantonly begging for Jack to go harder, deeper, to take more of Sawyer, to fill all the empty places inside him. He’d felt so empty after he’d been hurt, so empty and he’d wanted to die, and then Jack had been there to fill the emptiness, first with words and now with his body. So it only seemed right, it only seemed natural for Sawyer to roll over for Jack, to push himself onto his hands and knees and ask without words for Jack to fill him in the most intimate way possible.
Jack hesitated, as he’d known Jack would do, and Sawyer almost laughed when Jack seized one of his hands and drew a shaky question mark in his palm. “You know what to do, do it,” he said and he hoped Jack could hear the amusement in his voice, so he’d know it was more than okay, Sawyer wanted this and Jack’s hesitancy was absurd. Then Jack was positioning himself behind Sawyer, the fronts of his thighs tight against the backs of Sawyer’s and one hand gripping his shoulder hard. Jack rubbed his other hand across Sawyer’s mouth and Sawyer knew what he wanted, so he spit in it, tensing his muscles as they reached the point of no return. He felt Jack grasp himself and stroke himself hard, his own fluids mixing with Sawyer’s as he readied himself and then he thrust hard and deep into Sawyer’s body.
It hurt. It hurt a lot and Sawyer was glad it hurt, that dark-red burn and throb that encompassed him and told him that he was alive. He cried out in a voice thick with lust and pain and Jack wasn’t moving so Sawyer moved for him; he thrust back against him hard and tight and deep. He felt something let go in Jack then, something wild, and Jack’s fingers tightened on Sawyer’s skin and he began to move, fucking Sawyer hard, fucking him through the pain and out the other side, into the deep spreading burn and the hot sharp burst of pleasure that erased everything, made everything cease to exist except his body and the feel of Jack, always Jack.
Sawyer was overcome with the heady euphoria of sex. Nothing existed for him now but the bright spikes of pleasure Jack was building inside of him, and the aching burn of his cock, straining up stiff and hard and demanding attention. Sawyer reached for himself but Jack’s hand was there first, and he knocked Sawyer’s hand away and wrapped his fingers tight around the shaft, stroking him, pumping him, driving him into a frenzy as he tried to absorb the heat Jack was stoking in his ass and the heat he was building in his cock and he couldn’t, it overwhelmed him and he thought he screamed then, knew that his voice was as out-of-control as his body and he didn’t care, screamed again and erupted in Jack’s hand, spilling white-hot streams, one after another after another across Jack’s stroking fingers and onto the bed below.
Jack’s chest was rumbling against his back and through his sex-saturated haze Sawyer wondered if Jack was screaming too, and the thought turned him on and it wrung one last bright burst from him, one last cry before he sagged down onto the bed, too spent to hold himself up as he felt Jack’s powerful throbs, as Jack’s body convulsed and his hand tightened and relaxed, tightened and relaxed against Sawyer’s shoulder.
There was nothing to say, no words for this and so Sawyer let his body go lax as every nerve ending sizzled and sang in the afterglow. He felt drunk on it, blissfully intoxicated as he fell into his bed, feeling as if he were falling through his bed into some soft and warm and all-encompassing void. And in the shining darkness Jack was there with him, holding him, breathing against him. He didn’t know if Jack would stay but he was here now, and that was enough.
Like the red-tipped sunset waves washing over the shore he felt himself pulled, unresisting, out to sea.
TBC
Link to Chapter 4
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Date: 2008-09-15 12:18 am (UTC)The parts I loved:
- Sawyer's hand turning from a fist to holding Jack's hand
- the part about Johnny Got His Gun. That book was so freaking creepy! It makes a lot of sense for Sawyer to be thinking about it here
- Sawyer being all, "you love broken things, jackass!" Truer words were never spoken -- and yet, there's another layer to that here. I love the part before that too with Jack using the sign that prompts Sawyer's outburst.
I'm crazy curious to see how this all ends.
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Date: 2008-09-15 02:23 pm (UTC)♥
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Date: 2008-09-15 04:20 am (UTC)I'm glad that your sex scene took up almost the whole chapter. It seems like a long time since I indulged in a fully emotional, intense J/S sex scene! Some things just never get old. :)
Though I do miss Sawyer's voice. How odd it must be to write a fic with so little dialog.
I second Megan's mention of the Johnny Got His Gun reference. I've never forgotten that book - and that scene in that book - and it makes perfect sense that Sawyer would have read it and would remember that and relate it to himself. That reference packs a punch to anyone who's read the book, for sure.
I find myself drawn into this almost against my will and I'm looking forward to finding out how you've decided to wrap this one up. I don't know how Sawyer can live without words, so I'm trusting you to figure this out!
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Date: 2008-09-15 02:27 pm (UTC)I find myself drawn into this almost against my will
Funny you should say that, because I find myself writing it almost against my will. It's been in my head since I read Kathy's fic, though, so I just had to get it out. I'm SO glad you're enjoying it, and I hope you'll continue to now that we're down to the last (promise!) chapter. :)
♥
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Date: 2008-09-16 11:13 am (UTC)I really loved the previous chapter, that part with Jack reading to Sawyer and the ending part were just gorgeous. While here, I surely won't complain if you gave this scene a whole chapter. Apart from the fact that it was some hot sex, but the emotion behind it was so raw and palpable, which is what I like best in sex scenes anyway ;)
I haven't read that book but I knew the plot and this does indeed work here, it's a connection that I can really see Sawyer making. I loved how the progression mirrored their usual dynamic and how IC the both of them were. Sawyer's line about Jack loving broken things really did hit the main point, but it was just beautiful to see how he gave in just after that. And I'm probably losing track here but anyway, I love this and I can't wait to see how it plays out *crosses fingers* ♥.
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Date: 2008-09-16 09:35 pm (UTC)Oh, thank you so much for saying that! I worried, because, well, how to keep our mouthy, snarky Sawyer IC when he won't talk? When I started this series I didn't realize what a challenge that would be, so I'm so glad you think I got it right. ♥ ♥ ♥
I'm SO GLAD that you're reading and liking this! :D
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Date: 2008-09-17 05:24 pm (UTC)That part brought tears to my eyes.
This was just lovely. And still painful. But Jack is trying just so damn hard, it makes my heart ache. I'm holding out for the last part, hoping there's a way to fix Sawyer, because even with Jack, even if he felt a little better at the end of this part, I don't think it'll last long.
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