Lost slash - Sayid/Sawyer, Adulteration - NC-17
Title: Adulteration
Fandom: Lost
Pairing: Sayid/Sawyer, implied Shannon/Sayid
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: set mid-Season 2, no real spoilers but hints at The Long Con and One of Them
Summary: um, a teeny bit of smut...and maybe some angst if you've got the inclination, written especially for newday__ and kmousie adulteration: The alteration, especially the debasement, of a substance by deliberately adding something not ordinarily a part of it. and yes, I know I should be working on the three SGA fics that are due within the next 48 hours or so, but *shrugs*
He’s come here every night since he buried Shannon. Sayid’s always quiet, a living ghost that creeps out of the shadows and stakes a claim without saying a word. It’s like those first weeks on the island where they couldn’t speak without fighting and couldn’t touch without fucking. They’re still fighting, but a different kind of fight. Kisses so rough that lips split open. Bites that break the skin and bruises from hands that grip too hard. Sometimes Sayid pins him down and presses hard against the healing bullet wound in his shoulder while his hand plays Sawyer’s cock with strokes and twists, and the flick of his thumb against the head until Sawyer’s swallowing a cry half pain/half pleasure and spilling himself across clever fingers.
It’s a struggle for dominance, a need for release, and gentleness doesn’t enter into the picture. Tonight it’s Sayid pressed back into the blankets, body stripped bare for rough caresses. Sweat-slicked skin straining against Sawyer’s hands before yielding, thighs spreading open as Sawyer moves between them. Sharp exhale as he sinks inside tight heat, moving slower than he wanted but faster than he should.
Sayid’s hands settle on his ass, pulling him closer. Sawyer would have fingerprint shaped bruises in the morning, a sprinkling across his hips and butt. Sayid’s bruises would be on his thighs and the curve of his biceps. He pulls back and thrusts forward, seeking that familiar rhythm. His only warning is the liquid gleam of Sayid’s eyes in the darkness and then Sawyer is the one on his back, Sayid moving above him as he fucks himself on Sawyer’s cock.
It’s quick and ruthless, the clench of Sayid around him, slick heat as Sayid pushes down and bucks up until Sawyer is an inch from begging. His hands go to Sayid’s hips to rock him forward and Sawyer arches up. Sayid’s hand strokes along his own cock, a blur of skin and movement. Then, with a whispered, “Fuck,” the first word said between them tonight, Sawyer comes. A moment later there’s the splash of heat across his belly and Sayid’s answering grunt.
Sayid rolls off him, movements careful as he shifts to the empty bit of blanket at Sawyer’s side. With half-closed eyes Sawyer watches the play of muscle underneath bronze skin, lets his hand drift across Sayid’s chest. They’re both still breathing heavy, and he can feel Sayid’s heart beating fast underneath his palm.
They’ve come full-circle in less than two months, both outcasts again, different reasons but the same results. Blame it on human nature, or something deeper, but the fuck ups always drift together eventually. It’s the same thing that keeps Freckles coming round.
Sawyer’s never denied the vein of darkness that runs through him. The need buried down deep underneath dimpled grins and smart-ass remarks. He used to blame it on his father, on his mother’s death, and on the real Sawyer, but lately he thinks the darkness was always there. Sometimes the need is all there is, the only thing that makes him keep going, makes him keep playing this game day after day instead of taking a short walk off a tall cliff or eating a bullet.
Sayid fights it though, even though he must know by now that it’s a losing battle. His need lies dormant under a façade of politeness, under the smooth roll of an accented voice, under a veil of compassion. Sayid’s always looking for someone to rescue, in the hopes that he can rescue himself. The thought of it makes Sawyer smile…the kind of smile that makes his own blood run cold when he sees it reflected in the mirror. Shannon’s death still eats at Sayid, and his dark eyes are more shadowed than ever when he turns on his side to face Sawyer.
Sawyer’s breath catches, and for just a minute he thinks Sayid’s about to say something, some profound revelation safely shielded by darkness and the smell of sex. Instead Sayid gives him a nod, the façade already falling back into place. He leaves as quietly as he came, still pulling his shirt over his head as he ducks out of Sawyer’s tent.
The End
x-posted to lost_slash
Fandom: Lost
Pairing: Sayid/Sawyer, implied Shannon/Sayid
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: set mid-Season 2, no real spoilers but hints at The Long Con and One of Them
Summary: um, a teeny bit of smut...and maybe some angst if you've got the inclination, written especially for newday__ and kmousie adulteration: The alteration, especially the debasement, of a substance by deliberately adding something not ordinarily a part of it. and yes, I know I should be working on the three SGA fics that are due within the next 48 hours or so, but *shrugs*
He’s come here every night since he buried Shannon. Sayid’s always quiet, a living ghost that creeps out of the shadows and stakes a claim without saying a word. It’s like those first weeks on the island where they couldn’t speak without fighting and couldn’t touch without fucking. They’re still fighting, but a different kind of fight. Kisses so rough that lips split open. Bites that break the skin and bruises from hands that grip too hard. Sometimes Sayid pins him down and presses hard against the healing bullet wound in his shoulder while his hand plays Sawyer’s cock with strokes and twists, and the flick of his thumb against the head until Sawyer’s swallowing a cry half pain/half pleasure and spilling himself across clever fingers.
It’s a struggle for dominance, a need for release, and gentleness doesn’t enter into the picture. Tonight it’s Sayid pressed back into the blankets, body stripped bare for rough caresses. Sweat-slicked skin straining against Sawyer’s hands before yielding, thighs spreading open as Sawyer moves between them. Sharp exhale as he sinks inside tight heat, moving slower than he wanted but faster than he should.
Sayid’s hands settle on his ass, pulling him closer. Sawyer would have fingerprint shaped bruises in the morning, a sprinkling across his hips and butt. Sayid’s bruises would be on his thighs and the curve of his biceps. He pulls back and thrusts forward, seeking that familiar rhythm. His only warning is the liquid gleam of Sayid’s eyes in the darkness and then Sawyer is the one on his back, Sayid moving above him as he fucks himself on Sawyer’s cock.
It’s quick and ruthless, the clench of Sayid around him, slick heat as Sayid pushes down and bucks up until Sawyer is an inch from begging. His hands go to Sayid’s hips to rock him forward and Sawyer arches up. Sayid’s hand strokes along his own cock, a blur of skin and movement. Then, with a whispered, “Fuck,” the first word said between them tonight, Sawyer comes. A moment later there’s the splash of heat across his belly and Sayid’s answering grunt.
Sayid rolls off him, movements careful as he shifts to the empty bit of blanket at Sawyer’s side. With half-closed eyes Sawyer watches the play of muscle underneath bronze skin, lets his hand drift across Sayid’s chest. They’re both still breathing heavy, and he can feel Sayid’s heart beating fast underneath his palm.
They’ve come full-circle in less than two months, both outcasts again, different reasons but the same results. Blame it on human nature, or something deeper, but the fuck ups always drift together eventually. It’s the same thing that keeps Freckles coming round.
Sawyer’s never denied the vein of darkness that runs through him. The need buried down deep underneath dimpled grins and smart-ass remarks. He used to blame it on his father, on his mother’s death, and on the real Sawyer, but lately he thinks the darkness was always there. Sometimes the need is all there is, the only thing that makes him keep going, makes him keep playing this game day after day instead of taking a short walk off a tall cliff or eating a bullet.
Sayid fights it though, even though he must know by now that it’s a losing battle. His need lies dormant under a façade of politeness, under the smooth roll of an accented voice, under a veil of compassion. Sayid’s always looking for someone to rescue, in the hopes that he can rescue himself. The thought of it makes Sawyer smile…the kind of smile that makes his own blood run cold when he sees it reflected in the mirror. Shannon’s death still eats at Sayid, and his dark eyes are more shadowed than ever when he turns on his side to face Sawyer.
Sawyer’s breath catches, and for just a minute he thinks Sayid’s about to say something, some profound revelation safely shielded by darkness and the smell of sex. Instead Sayid gives him a nod, the façade already falling back into place. He leaves as quietly as he came, still pulling his shirt over his head as he ducks out of Sawyer’s tent.
The End
x-posted to lost_slash