Am majorly over James Bond themes.
Title: Forget What You Don’t Know
Fandom: Lost
Pairing: Jack/Sawyer
Challenge/Prompt: 7snogs, #6. Argument
Rating: PG
Genre: Slash
Summary: I have no idea. I never do with these ones.
Author’s Notes: *snicker*
All day long he’s been…
You’re not sure how to describe it. Giving you looks. Those kinda looks that he’s all too good at giving you. They’re not the kinda looks that he gives Kate but that ain’t a problem in the slightest. You don’t want him to look at you the way he looks at Kate, you ain’t a woman in the slightest and it ain’t flowers and candy between you.
But there are these looks.
And then you find yourselves playing cards. You lose; of course you’re going to lose, you’re distracted by the attention he’s paying you for once; attention that’s tinged with amusement, tinged with something that could almost taste like friendship for a moment. Maybe. For a moment you wonder what it would have been like if the plane had crashed and you had left Sawyer burning in the wreckage. Introduced yourself as James and smiled once in a while.
But you killed an innocent man and He’s still out there, not knowing what he did to you, what he made you become (daddy, daddy, oh please, oh please don’t be- ), and you’ve gotten so used to this role that you play that you ain’t playing it so much any more. You can’t change things. This island could have been a fresh start but it’s way too fucking late for that, and you trapped yourself into playing the bastard because it’s safe and cosy in that shell.
Kate’s smiles and Kate’s tits and Kate’s legs and the way Kate tastes have been tying you up in knots for altogether too long; you’re sick to death of what she does to you, and what you’re forced to endure just because you’ve been forced into this little box where everyone thinks that you and Jack are rivals or something stupid; you know that’s all a load of fucking nonsense, Kate would pick you if she had to, but she doesn’t have to pick because you’re not possessive enough to force her to choose.
Doctor Perfect on the other hand; oh, with every single one of those cruel looks, the way he makes you dizzy and more than that, he makes you horny, and you hate those thoughts because you can’t win with him. There’s something about him that just makes you feel insane and somewhat sulky, like a child.
You ain’t a child but it’s becoming increasingly clear that you’re the only one who knows that.
And his eyes are still on you.
Playing cards flutter between your hands; you could suggest a game of strip poker, peel your clothes off step by step and yet get that elusive full house when you need it; watch Dr Prettyboy flush and strip anyway, muscled tanned skin under your hands; maybe you could just fight for a while over who gets to top. But that’s obvious to a level you ain’t prepared for. Vulnerability is one of the many things on your taboo list. Most emotions are on your taboo list, come to think of it; it’s easier to focus on the con when there are no feelings poking their noses in where they’ll never be wanted.
It’s when emotion enters things that the world goes to shit and things get more complicated than anyone’s actually ready for. Least of all you. You’ve tried living according to your own feelings and that hasn’t ended all that well.
Second chance. Fuck that. You love the fact you’ve screwed it all up again, with the only people left in your world hating you like you’re the antichrist. That’s a little too far, admittedly; you like to think of yourself as Judas: will sell anyone (or anything) as long as you get what you want in the end, and it usually works out ok. You get what you want or a version of it.
Which is all anyone can ask for, really.
His shadow blends with yours on the sand before you’ve even contemplated looking up, and you calmly shuffle playing cards and smile to yourself and decide to see where this is going.
“Sawyer.”
“Jack,” you drawl, all polite niceties, laying the cards down on the sand beside your tent, and looking up, squinting against the sun. Fuck you or kill you, he’s got a choice, but you’ve always thought the good doc ain’t quite the murdering kind.
“You played to lose, didn’t you.” Not a question, you don’t have to answer it, and you just grin, sea breeze blowing your hair into your eyes. He’s got the medication, you’ve got under his skin. All you really wanted out of an afternoon’s entertainment.
You shrug. It’s none of his business, but you’re mildly interested in what he’ll do next. He could kill you at any moment but you’ve got all the guns and you’ve also got all the guts too.
His lips crush your mouth and you smirk.
“If this is losing, I’d hate to see what winning is like.”
But Jack isn’t listening to you, and on the whole you have to think that maybe that’s a good thing.
Fandom: Lost
Pairing: Jack/Sawyer
Challenge/Prompt: 7snogs, #6. Argument
Rating: PG
Genre: Slash
Summary: I have no idea. I never do with these ones.
Author’s Notes: *snicker*
All day long he’s been…
You’re not sure how to describe it. Giving you looks. Those kinda looks that he’s all too good at giving you. They’re not the kinda looks that he gives Kate but that ain’t a problem in the slightest. You don’t want him to look at you the way he looks at Kate, you ain’t a woman in the slightest and it ain’t flowers and candy between you.
But there are these looks.
And then you find yourselves playing cards. You lose; of course you’re going to lose, you’re distracted by the attention he’s paying you for once; attention that’s tinged with amusement, tinged with something that could almost taste like friendship for a moment. Maybe. For a moment you wonder what it would have been like if the plane had crashed and you had left Sawyer burning in the wreckage. Introduced yourself as James and smiled once in a while.
But you killed an innocent man and He’s still out there, not knowing what he did to you, what he made you become (daddy, daddy, oh please, oh please don’t be- ), and you’ve gotten so used to this role that you play that you ain’t playing it so much any more. You can’t change things. This island could have been a fresh start but it’s way too fucking late for that, and you trapped yourself into playing the bastard because it’s safe and cosy in that shell.
Kate’s smiles and Kate’s tits and Kate’s legs and the way Kate tastes have been tying you up in knots for altogether too long; you’re sick to death of what she does to you, and what you’re forced to endure just because you’ve been forced into this little box where everyone thinks that you and Jack are rivals or something stupid; you know that’s all a load of fucking nonsense, Kate would pick you if she had to, but she doesn’t have to pick because you’re not possessive enough to force her to choose.
Doctor Perfect on the other hand; oh, with every single one of those cruel looks, the way he makes you dizzy and more than that, he makes you horny, and you hate those thoughts because you can’t win with him. There’s something about him that just makes you feel insane and somewhat sulky, like a child.
You ain’t a child but it’s becoming increasingly clear that you’re the only one who knows that.
And his eyes are still on you.
Playing cards flutter between your hands; you could suggest a game of strip poker, peel your clothes off step by step and yet get that elusive full house when you need it; watch Dr Prettyboy flush and strip anyway, muscled tanned skin under your hands; maybe you could just fight for a while over who gets to top. But that’s obvious to a level you ain’t prepared for. Vulnerability is one of the many things on your taboo list. Most emotions are on your taboo list, come to think of it; it’s easier to focus on the con when there are no feelings poking their noses in where they’ll never be wanted.
It’s when emotion enters things that the world goes to shit and things get more complicated than anyone’s actually ready for. Least of all you. You’ve tried living according to your own feelings and that hasn’t ended all that well.
Second chance. Fuck that. You love the fact you’ve screwed it all up again, with the only people left in your world hating you like you’re the antichrist. That’s a little too far, admittedly; you like to think of yourself as Judas: will sell anyone (or anything) as long as you get what you want in the end, and it usually works out ok. You get what you want or a version of it.
Which is all anyone can ask for, really.
His shadow blends with yours on the sand before you’ve even contemplated looking up, and you calmly shuffle playing cards and smile to yourself and decide to see where this is going.
“Sawyer.”
“Jack,” you drawl, all polite niceties, laying the cards down on the sand beside your tent, and looking up, squinting against the sun. Fuck you or kill you, he’s got a choice, but you’ve always thought the good doc ain’t quite the murdering kind.
“You played to lose, didn’t you.” Not a question, you don’t have to answer it, and you just grin, sea breeze blowing your hair into your eyes. He’s got the medication, you’ve got under his skin. All you really wanted out of an afternoon’s entertainment.
You shrug. It’s none of his business, but you’re mildly interested in what he’ll do next. He could kill you at any moment but you’ve got all the guns and you’ve also got all the guts too.
His lips crush your mouth and you smirk.
“If this is losing, I’d hate to see what winning is like.”
But Jack isn’t listening to you, and on the whole you have to think that maybe that’s a good thing.