Fic: Lukewarm (1/1)
Title: Lukewarm
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sayid/Sawyer
Word Count: 355
Summary: He never grew up with no White Christmases; suspects that Al Jazeera didn’t, neither. For haldoor, who requested “Summery Sawyer/Sayid” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. Spoilers through 5.16 - The Incident, Parts 1 & 2; Speculative Spoilers for Season 6.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For haldoor: I don't even know what this is, except a massive abuse of poorly-written dialect and overuse of Sawyer's penchant for insulting and politically-incorrect nicknames. But it does involve Sawyer and Sayid making sexytimes, so hopefully you won't hate it too much.
Lukewarm
He never grew up with no White Christmases; suspects that Al Jazeera didn’t, neither.
Fact is, they’re more alike than either of them likes to think about, likes to admit, and they’re hurtin’ for it; that thing that neither of them’ll ask for but both of ‘em need like air to breathe.
And Sawyer, he’s a practical man; so he figures it’s time to bring Mohammed down from the mountain himself, seeing’s no one else’s volunteering.
And Mr. Hummus, for all his pretty sheen of suffering, penitent virtue - that shiny morality only runs skin deep; gives, shatters, shucks away the first time Sawyer so much as pushes, the first time Sawyer dares to put his mind to frying that falafel nice ‘n crisp, taking a big goddamn bite.
Between the two of them, proud bastards that they are, it’s a battle of wills - when one arches hard, straining against the other, it’s almost an admission of weakness, except for how gorgeous it feels, like rain in the desert, on the plains; friction like glorious, blessed release rolling down between them, drop by drop as they leak, moan, pant against the jungle like a coupl’a Tarzan motherfuckers, getting their rocks off ‘til the soil gathers hard beneath their fingernails, ‘til they bleed sweat and come like the River fuckin’ Styx.
Their fingerprints are bruised against each other’s skin, the broken vessels deadened, dark - Sawyer’s never felt more alive, though, and Sayid’s never looked more murderous, more lethal; he figures that’s a good sign.
The rush of the world’s never felt so sweet as it does, heat against heat in a jungle of mysteries better, deper than he’d ever guessed, and the sound of a heart outside his own skin, jack-hammering away, s’like the quick-fire of machine guns, of bombs over Baghdad, where Sawyer’s just hits hard, swift, staccato-like, execution-style. They’re like goddamn casualties of war, waiting for the sentence to catch up with them - dead weight, where it blows in the wind.
The world’s falling down around ‘em, always is; don’t make no difference if it’s Christmas, so long as it’s warm.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sayid/Sawyer
Word Count: 355
Summary: He never grew up with no White Christmases; suspects that Al Jazeera didn’t, neither. For haldoor, who requested “Summery Sawyer/Sayid” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. Spoilers through 5.16 - The Incident, Parts 1 & 2; Speculative Spoilers for Season 6.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For haldoor: I don't even know what this is, except a massive abuse of poorly-written dialect and overuse of Sawyer's penchant for insulting and politically-incorrect nicknames. But it does involve Sawyer and Sayid making sexytimes, so hopefully you won't hate it too much.
Lukewarm
He never grew up with no White Christmases; suspects that Al Jazeera didn’t, neither.
Fact is, they’re more alike than either of them likes to think about, likes to admit, and they’re hurtin’ for it; that thing that neither of them’ll ask for but both of ‘em need like air to breathe.
And Sawyer, he’s a practical man; so he figures it’s time to bring Mohammed down from the mountain himself, seeing’s no one else’s volunteering.
And Mr. Hummus, for all his pretty sheen of suffering, penitent virtue - that shiny morality only runs skin deep; gives, shatters, shucks away the first time Sawyer so much as pushes, the first time Sawyer dares to put his mind to frying that falafel nice ‘n crisp, taking a big goddamn bite.
Between the two of them, proud bastards that they are, it’s a battle of wills - when one arches hard, straining against the other, it’s almost an admission of weakness, except for how gorgeous it feels, like rain in the desert, on the plains; friction like glorious, blessed release rolling down between them, drop by drop as they leak, moan, pant against the jungle like a coupl’a Tarzan motherfuckers, getting their rocks off ‘til the soil gathers hard beneath their fingernails, ‘til they bleed sweat and come like the River fuckin’ Styx.
Their fingerprints are bruised against each other’s skin, the broken vessels deadened, dark - Sawyer’s never felt more alive, though, and Sayid’s never looked more murderous, more lethal; he figures that’s a good sign.
The rush of the world’s never felt so sweet as it does, heat against heat in a jungle of mysteries better, deper than he’d ever guessed, and the sound of a heart outside his own skin, jack-hammering away, s’like the quick-fire of machine guns, of bombs over Baghdad, where Sawyer’s just hits hard, swift, staccato-like, execution-style. They’re like goddamn casualties of war, waiting for the sentence to catch up with them - dead weight, where it blows in the wind.
The world’s falling down around ‘em, always is; don’t make no difference if it’s Christmas, so long as it’s warm.