(no subject)
Shadowboxing
Lost fandom
Jack/Sawyer
R
Summary: Jack gives up the ghost.
Spoilers: “White Rabbit”
Disclaimer: The usual onslaught of lies.
Feedback: Love it! Will feed it with a cookie.
Beta: None. I am a fool. Concrit welcome.
Notes: It’s foxxcub’s fault that I would even consider this pairing. ;)
(*pets poor neglected Charlie and sticks finger in his mouth to pacify him*)
Okay, lady, it ain’t Foxshy. But it’s close, yeah? And I figure I ought to put this fic to bed
so I can finally get started on your official, certified (stamped and everything) ficathon piece.
Also, I realize a better writer would flesh this out, but I kind of prefer the unresolved quality of vignettes. *makes excuses*
Shadowboxing
Focus on something/anything.
Jack used to tell himself this whenever his father felt the need to slice his day in half with another cold life lesson. The implicit, silent imperative being: do not focus on him. Ever since he could remember, his father's workdays would end in a stiff drink and even stiffer speeches directed at the Lauded Surgeon's son. And the words of duty and strength and bravery slowly sloughed away Jack's resolve. So, new resolution: don't let him inside. Focus on the line of wallpaper, the nick in the doorknob, the potted ficus bowing in the corner. Focus on something. Anything.
It rarely worked.
But Jack kept trying. Years of life had been put on and packed away, done. His father was done too, finished off by the failing of a heart that could not be warmed by any amount of burning bourbon. And still he fought the father inside his head. He fought himself, bobbing and weaving around the self-doubting, the scrutinizing, the perpetually dissatisfied internal antagonist. The ghost fear.
~
Into the limbo between Australia and North America, Jack fell: a haunted man on a seemingly haunted island.
~
White fingers suspended then disappeared in his peripheral view. Murmurs rumbled and lingered in his ears.
"You think you’re too big for your own britches. But what I wanna know is: are you good enough for me?”
Jack stared at the sliver of misty ocean peeking back at him through a gap in the heavy brush and smiled from one corner of his mouth.
“Huh, chief?” Teeth slid sharply over the scalloped cartilage of his ear. “Jack?”
“Ass.”
“Exactly, darlin’.”
Sawyer continued to drawl into Jack’s ear, against his neck, below his jaw, likely berating him in all manner of lazy Southern slang. But the words blurred into a white noise of growl and inhale/exhale. His breathing commingled with Jack's breathing until they were sucking the oxygen from each other instead of the air around them, the plants tickling their elbows and shins, curling soft green blades against their ankles. The rushing of air crested and quelled in Jack's head, drowning Sawyer's sound to a purring drone, broken at measure by the rasping scrape of nail against flesh.
Jack was kissed like he was being fought. A tooth for a tooth, Sawyer matched him. Tongue for tongue, bite for bite. Sawyer pinched Jack's nipples, twisting them hard, digging with jagged fingernails.
Jack blinked against the sky. A low star in a constellation he didn't recognize strobed under his eyelids. And he lost his focus. He closed his eyes and decided to raise the stakes.
Sawyer pinched again and Jack lunged forward, blind and breathless. He took Sawyer by the balls, pushed him to the earth with the single vision of his open wet mouth. Two symmetrical stripes, one then the other, were marked and matched by Jack's tongue up the inner creases of Sawyer's thighs. Jack felt the jump of Sawyer's pulse, felt the slow beads of sweat pool onto his own skin. He dipped down and dug his pointed tongue hard behind Sawyer's balls, dipped lower still to feel him tremble. Sawyer was warm, so warm.
Jack opened his eyes. He looked down, focused on the lines of muscle in Sawyer's abdomen, focused on the scar of a cut above Sawyer's eye, focused on the bow of Sawyer's lips as he arched his neck and sighed. He swirled his thumb between Sawyer's legs.
"Do you want-"
"Aw, fuck. Yes. Yes, already."
Jack lifted his fingers to Sawyer's lips, slid three inside. He was sucked in.
He whispered. "Just breathe. Focus on something."
"Anything." Sawyer's thighs slid around Jack's, gripping-solid and real and there. "Anything."
Lost fandom
Jack/Sawyer
R
Summary: Jack gives up the ghost.
Spoilers: “White Rabbit”
Disclaimer: The usual onslaught of lies.
Feedback: Love it! Will feed it with a cookie.
Beta: None. I am a fool. Concrit welcome.
Notes: It’s foxxcub’s fault that I would even consider this pairing. ;)
(*pets poor neglected Charlie and sticks finger in his mouth to pacify him*)
Okay, lady, it ain’t Foxshy. But it’s close, yeah? And I figure I ought to put this fic to bed
so I can finally get started on your official, certified (stamped and everything) ficathon piece.
Also, I realize a better writer would flesh this out, but I kind of prefer the unresolved quality of vignettes. *makes excuses*
Shadowboxing
Focus on something/anything.
Jack used to tell himself this whenever his father felt the need to slice his day in half with another cold life lesson. The implicit, silent imperative being: do not focus on him. Ever since he could remember, his father's workdays would end in a stiff drink and even stiffer speeches directed at the Lauded Surgeon's son. And the words of duty and strength and bravery slowly sloughed away Jack's resolve. So, new resolution: don't let him inside. Focus on the line of wallpaper, the nick in the doorknob, the potted ficus bowing in the corner. Focus on something. Anything.
It rarely worked.
But Jack kept trying. Years of life had been put on and packed away, done. His father was done too, finished off by the failing of a heart that could not be warmed by any amount of burning bourbon. And still he fought the father inside his head. He fought himself, bobbing and weaving around the self-doubting, the scrutinizing, the perpetually dissatisfied internal antagonist. The ghost fear.
~
Into the limbo between Australia and North America, Jack fell: a haunted man on a seemingly haunted island.
~
White fingers suspended then disappeared in his peripheral view. Murmurs rumbled and lingered in his ears.
"You think you’re too big for your own britches. But what I wanna know is: are you good enough for me?”
Jack stared at the sliver of misty ocean peeking back at him through a gap in the heavy brush and smiled from one corner of his mouth.
“Huh, chief?” Teeth slid sharply over the scalloped cartilage of his ear. “Jack?”
“Ass.”
“Exactly, darlin’.”
Sawyer continued to drawl into Jack’s ear, against his neck, below his jaw, likely berating him in all manner of lazy Southern slang. But the words blurred into a white noise of growl and inhale/exhale. His breathing commingled with Jack's breathing until they were sucking the oxygen from each other instead of the air around them, the plants tickling their elbows and shins, curling soft green blades against their ankles. The rushing of air crested and quelled in Jack's head, drowning Sawyer's sound to a purring drone, broken at measure by the rasping scrape of nail against flesh.
Jack was kissed like he was being fought. A tooth for a tooth, Sawyer matched him. Tongue for tongue, bite for bite. Sawyer pinched Jack's nipples, twisting them hard, digging with jagged fingernails.
Jack blinked against the sky. A low star in a constellation he didn't recognize strobed under his eyelids. And he lost his focus. He closed his eyes and decided to raise the stakes.
Sawyer pinched again and Jack lunged forward, blind and breathless. He took Sawyer by the balls, pushed him to the earth with the single vision of his open wet mouth. Two symmetrical stripes, one then the other, were marked and matched by Jack's tongue up the inner creases of Sawyer's thighs. Jack felt the jump of Sawyer's pulse, felt the slow beads of sweat pool onto his own skin. He dipped down and dug his pointed tongue hard behind Sawyer's balls, dipped lower still to feel him tremble. Sawyer was warm, so warm.
Jack opened his eyes. He looked down, focused on the lines of muscle in Sawyer's abdomen, focused on the scar of a cut above Sawyer's eye, focused on the bow of Sawyer's lips as he arched his neck and sighed. He swirled his thumb between Sawyer's legs.
"Do you want-"
"Aw, fuck. Yes. Yes, already."
Jack lifted his fingers to Sawyer's lips, slid three inside. He was sucked in.
He whispered. "Just breathe. Focus on something."
"Anything." Sawyer's thighs slid around Jack's, gripping-solid and real and there. "Anything."