Fic: The Waiting
Title: The Waiting
Fandom: Lost
Pairing: Jacob/Richard
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Facial
Spoilers: 6x09
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: Jacob meets Richard's anger with quietness.
AN: Written for giventofly37 for the Five Acts meme
Jacob meets Richard's anger with quietness.
He leaves him to disappear across the beach, a slowly diminishing figure, stiff with anger all the way out of sight.
Because, once the anger burns itself out, there will be guilt underneath.
The silence is empty but Jacob is used to that. He spends a time finding every piece of a bowl flung against the wall. Every tiny shard. Because there's no such thing as an empty task. And most broken things can be mended.
By the time he finishes, the sun is low and the walls are closer in the fading light. Richard is a far different shade of tightness and misery at his back, watching Jacob gather the broken things.
He doesn't stay there for long though. Something, some part of his turmoil, brings him close, sends him down on his knees before him, murmuring words too soft and too quiet to catch.
Richard's fingers push rough and impatient at Jacob's shirt to find the ties underneath, drawing it open in harsh movements, eyes lifting like he expects at any moment to be stopped. When Jacob does nothing, his fingers fold in the loosened edge of cloth and draw it down his thighs, leaving it to fall. Hands damp and warm on the bare skin underneath. Richard inhales, one long slice of air at the nakedness of him. Like he's pushed himself too far, too fast, to continue.
Jacob thinks he makes a noise, though he doesn't mean to. It's been an impossible stretch of time since he felt this. This low, strange clench and catch of desire. He reacts to the faint press of fingers into his skin, to the warm slide of breath and to the unfamiliar sight of Richard kneeling in mute desperation for forgiveness, for absolution, and some tangled unexpected sort of want. Wonders if he even knows it's there.
People are complicated, and Jacob never saw this, never intended this for Richard, never intended to use him. But it would be a lie to say that he has no desire for it.
He doesn’t encourage, but neither does he resist when Richard lifts a hand and touches him. When he holds him in tight, shaking fingers, leans in on a sigh, and opens his mouth around him.
There's a clumsiness, a desperation in the awkward, wet slide. Where Richard tries to find how best to do this, fingers spreading and moving to grasp a little higher.
Jacob thinks he's left it too late to stop this. Though he still could, he still could.
Should.
Won't.
Because, he watches the slow, shallow rush of breath and the flutter of eyelashes. The way everything is shaken and new but determined. He understands that this is something that's been thought about, but never dared.
Jacob's fingers lift and trail the stretched curve of Richard's mouth, every slick push leaving it wetter and more obscene. He lets them slip in alongside himself, feels the warmth of Richard's mouth and the wet slide of his tongue. And he has to take in a breath, hold it, hold on to the fierce and sudden urge press up and in, to become part of this.
His fingers ease free, thumb skidding and slipping across the rough, wet edge of Richard's chin. The bruised mess that Jacob has made of him, is still making of him. He thinks he wants to ruin the red curve of his mouth. To make it his, in some greedy and indefinable way. He feels himself react in a barely-there twitch of his hips. He slides across Richard's tongue, pushes deeper, feels the softness of his throat, feels Richard shudder and open and take more. Careful and uncertain but willing to give Jacob whatever he demands.
Jacob shouldn't find that so - he inhales, hand lifting and digging into Richard's hair. His fingers catch, and tighten. Just enough to hold, to manipulate, to turn and tilt him up to look at him, eyes wide and dark. It's a strange sort of power, new and unexpected and visceral. This demand that's all flesh and blood. Strange intimacy and bright red obscenity.
He's never quite understood until now.
Jacob's encouragement is, perhaps, a betrayal, or an abuse of his power. But there's something about the sight, about the sensation, that demands greed. He never means for his fingers to catch tight, for them to pull, steady but firm. There's a moment of uncertainty, a shudder and the thick flex of a swallow, and then...obedience. The long wet slide of Richard's mouth is in his control.
It's intoxicating.
Temptation is too close and too hot to resist and he takes that control and uses it. Long, unsteady pulls, not always slow and not always careful. Until he can feel the shudder and catch of every breath, the messy desperation of them, and Jacob thinks he wants Richard's mouth open and slick wet and panting.
He wants to see it, is compelled to see it. The edge so close it feels like drowning every time he slips and catches too deep in Richard's mouth, hearing the hard, awkward little noises when Richard struggles to please.
He slides free and Richard makes a low, quiet sound of breathless loss.
The touch of Jacob's own hand is strange, fingers slipping on the sensitive wet length of his own erection. But he's too close for it to matter, too close to do anything but breathe and tilt Richard's face and watch his eyes flutter shut and his throat flex.
Like he knows, like he wants this in some way too.
And then Jacob's drowning in the sensation of his own release. Close and hot and against Richard's skin. It hits the curve of his mouth and the flat of his tongue and the sloping edge of his chin. Pale and shockingly obscene on him.
Richard makes a noise that sounds helpless and broken, body jerking and shaking like Jacob has left him in pieces.
Jacob can still feel his own trembling echoes of pleasure when his fingers lift and slide into the wetness of Richard's mouth, drag stickiness across the warm flat of his tongue. Richard groans weakly and twitches, and closes his mouth around them.
Fandom: Lost
Pairing: Jacob/Richard
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Facial
Spoilers: 6x09
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: Jacob meets Richard's anger with quietness.
AN: Written for giventofly37 for the Five Acts meme
Jacob meets Richard's anger with quietness.
He leaves him to disappear across the beach, a slowly diminishing figure, stiff with anger all the way out of sight.
Because, once the anger burns itself out, there will be guilt underneath.
The silence is empty but Jacob is used to that. He spends a time finding every piece of a bowl flung against the wall. Every tiny shard. Because there's no such thing as an empty task. And most broken things can be mended.
By the time he finishes, the sun is low and the walls are closer in the fading light. Richard is a far different shade of tightness and misery at his back, watching Jacob gather the broken things.
He doesn't stay there for long though. Something, some part of his turmoil, brings him close, sends him down on his knees before him, murmuring words too soft and too quiet to catch.
Richard's fingers push rough and impatient at Jacob's shirt to find the ties underneath, drawing it open in harsh movements, eyes lifting like he expects at any moment to be stopped. When Jacob does nothing, his fingers fold in the loosened edge of cloth and draw it down his thighs, leaving it to fall. Hands damp and warm on the bare skin underneath. Richard inhales, one long slice of air at the nakedness of him. Like he's pushed himself too far, too fast, to continue.
Jacob thinks he makes a noise, though he doesn't mean to. It's been an impossible stretch of time since he felt this. This low, strange clench and catch of desire. He reacts to the faint press of fingers into his skin, to the warm slide of breath and to the unfamiliar sight of Richard kneeling in mute desperation for forgiveness, for absolution, and some tangled unexpected sort of want. Wonders if he even knows it's there.
People are complicated, and Jacob never saw this, never intended this for Richard, never intended to use him. But it would be a lie to say that he has no desire for it.
He doesn’t encourage, but neither does he resist when Richard lifts a hand and touches him. When he holds him in tight, shaking fingers, leans in on a sigh, and opens his mouth around him.
There's a clumsiness, a desperation in the awkward, wet slide. Where Richard tries to find how best to do this, fingers spreading and moving to grasp a little higher.
Jacob thinks he's left it too late to stop this. Though he still could, he still could.
Should.
Won't.
Because, he watches the slow, shallow rush of breath and the flutter of eyelashes. The way everything is shaken and new but determined. He understands that this is something that's been thought about, but never dared.
Jacob's fingers lift and trail the stretched curve of Richard's mouth, every slick push leaving it wetter and more obscene. He lets them slip in alongside himself, feels the warmth of Richard's mouth and the wet slide of his tongue. And he has to take in a breath, hold it, hold on to the fierce and sudden urge press up and in, to become part of this.
His fingers ease free, thumb skidding and slipping across the rough, wet edge of Richard's chin. The bruised mess that Jacob has made of him, is still making of him. He thinks he wants to ruin the red curve of his mouth. To make it his, in some greedy and indefinable way. He feels himself react in a barely-there twitch of his hips. He slides across Richard's tongue, pushes deeper, feels the softness of his throat, feels Richard shudder and open and take more. Careful and uncertain but willing to give Jacob whatever he demands.
Jacob shouldn't find that so - he inhales, hand lifting and digging into Richard's hair. His fingers catch, and tighten. Just enough to hold, to manipulate, to turn and tilt him up to look at him, eyes wide and dark. It's a strange sort of power, new and unexpected and visceral. This demand that's all flesh and blood. Strange intimacy and bright red obscenity.
He's never quite understood until now.
Jacob's encouragement is, perhaps, a betrayal, or an abuse of his power. But there's something about the sight, about the sensation, that demands greed. He never means for his fingers to catch tight, for them to pull, steady but firm. There's a moment of uncertainty, a shudder and the thick flex of a swallow, and then...obedience. The long wet slide of Richard's mouth is in his control.
It's intoxicating.
Temptation is too close and too hot to resist and he takes that control and uses it. Long, unsteady pulls, not always slow and not always careful. Until he can feel the shudder and catch of every breath, the messy desperation of them, and Jacob thinks he wants Richard's mouth open and slick wet and panting.
He wants to see it, is compelled to see it. The edge so close it feels like drowning every time he slips and catches too deep in Richard's mouth, hearing the hard, awkward little noises when Richard struggles to please.
He slides free and Richard makes a low, quiet sound of breathless loss.
The touch of Jacob's own hand is strange, fingers slipping on the sensitive wet length of his own erection. But he's too close for it to matter, too close to do anything but breathe and tilt Richard's face and watch his eyes flutter shut and his throat flex.
Like he knows, like he wants this in some way too.
And then Jacob's drowning in the sensation of his own release. Close and hot and against Richard's skin. It hits the curve of his mouth and the flat of his tongue and the sloping edge of his chin. Pale and shockingly obscene on him.
Richard makes a noise that sounds helpless and broken, body jerking and shaking like Jacob has left him in pieces.
Jacob can still feel his own trembling echoes of pleasure when his fingers lift and slide into the wetness of Richard's mouth, drag stickiness across the warm flat of his tongue. Richard groans weakly and twitches, and closes his mouth around them.