(no subject)
This has been sitting on my hard drive, finished and basically forgotten, since July. Then I remembered it last week and thought I'd post it prior to Sayid's episode, but didn't get to it. So, how about now on another Lostday....
Nautilus
Fandom: Lost
Pairing: Sayid/Charlie; Sayid/Shannon implied
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Moving on is easier when you don’t look back.
Spoilers: through ep. 2.8, “Collision”
Word Count: 1,010
Disclaimer: Not owned, only borrowed.
Feedback: Love it! Will feed it with cookies. Concrit welcome.
Thank you to themoononastick for the read-through and encouragement.
Nautilus
What he remembers most is the way his hands slid. Like they were under water, his hands slipped over the sweat-drenched skin of Charlie's stomach. He expected Charlie to feel lightweight, his bones thin and delicate like the carcass of a fowl nearly picked clean. Instead, his skin gave way, swollen and wet in the heat, like something Sayid could drown in.
Although he moved forward, everything seemed to pivot so that he feared he might collapse or vomit or continue.
Whatever will people believed he possessed, Sayid doubted constantly. Determination, often mistaken for strength, was more truthfully defined as one's ability to put blinders on. Keeping them on could be considered a kind of strength of perseverance, an intrepidity. It could.
Sayid fumbled-something rare for him. But just as rare were the open lips below him. Charlie's mask slipped, and Sayid bore witness to it, brought it and bore down upon it. Round and moist and thick, a perfect circle sucking in the air like a beached fish. Clinging close to Charlie's thighs, Sayid's knees drove into the sand, propelling him forward, cutting sluggishly through the dense air between them, closing in as fast as he could. With his eyes flapping shut, he went down to eat the air from Charlie's mouth. It was acrid and sticky. Remnants of fruit spiked the saliva on the inside of Charlie's lips, and Sayid licked them, his tongue probing the cavity between lip and teeth in a drunken? desperation. This would sate no one. The ring of Charlie's lips tightened and tightened, like a spot in the distance Sayid wanted to get to, yet found himself father and farther away from. Seeing nothing else, he kept going, dove into that dot on the horizon. His tongue pushed aside the plush lip flesh and plunged inside meeting the tiny, trembling tip of Charlie's tongue and Sayid thought of Shannon's labia and the small, wriggling bait of her clit.
He stopped.
Charlie did not, and that is why Sayid only stopped long enough to let the ghost inside him have her say. His head reeled, his stomach roiled and there was nothing to do but follow the movement. He ploughed Charlie's skin with cursed hands, pulling life into him the whole time he was thinking of death. Layers peeled off-damp clump of shirt, heavy tentacles of jeans, no underclothes-to reveal the pulsing, tannish pink animal beneath, sweating and wanting and panting back into Sayid every opportunity their mouths had to meet. Sayid thought he could keep them both alive as long as he kept moving. So he screwed his thumbs into the grooves along Charlie's abdomen, pushing them parallel to each other up alongside the matted hairs beneath Charlie's navel, watching as his stomach rippled with a frantic need for breath and touch and more.
This underbelly, Sayid flipped to the sand. Turning Charlie over, his hands slid and slid. Over the curve of his side, in a circle up and back down the flightless wings of his back. His middle finger slid deliberate and slow-but never slow enough-down his spine, over his tailbone and into the place where Charlie split in half, disappearing into him. Charlie moaned and bucked, and Sayid spit. It pooled above Charlie's arsehole where Sayid pushed his tongue and dragged it low, drawing circles and lines. The trail glistened then dried, marking and unmarking the path from tailbone to the taut tug of skin leading up to Charlie's balls. So like the inside of one's mouth, Sayid thought, and bit down. All of Charlie was like a mouth opened inside out. Too wet, too hot, too jolted by shallow breath after shallow breath. Sayid wanted to come inside that mouth. He gathered Charlie to him, and Charlie rolled up like a ball, giving easily to the knead of Sayid's hands on his hips, dragging him back. Charlie slid onto him more than Sayid slipped inside, layers of skin and muscle pushing and pulling and locking into place.
Sayid did not stop. But he didn't want to move either.
For a moment, this was enough. Then it wasn't, and his hips sloped backward and slapped forward. He struck Charlie over and over, as if he could get more of himself inside the harder he pushed, though already his balls collided with Charlie's backside and there was no more inside, just more of the same.
Not remembering when he had closed his eyes, Sayid opened them. He saw the blond head bobbing, hair flopping like limp strands of seaweed stuck with sand. The color of sun on sand, beige but brilliant in quick bursts of light reflecting off pale, translucent granules. It reminded him of Shannon: her hair just like this, her body-darkened by the sun-the shade of wet beach, her eyes like the fragments of brown and gold shell. He grabbed a fistful of sand-blond hair and pulled the head back toward him. Charlie’s long neck strained and his grey-blue eyes skittered around, struggling to meet Sayid's. His eyes were the color of storms in the sky, of swells of deep water. He might wash someone away.
Sayid yanked Charlie's hair again, shortly. He would keep his head pulled back, pulled so that his eyes stayed open, to reassure himself that this was not Shannon, to remind himself that she was gone. Still, he closed his own eyes.
When it was over, Charlie said it wasn't. Sayid drew Charlie to his chest and squeezed Charlie's cock as quickly as he could, as quickly as he did when he woke up hard from dreams about Shannon, his fist tight like a cunt.
Charlie came then, and did not stop coming.
The strangest thing about it was the easiness of it. Or maybe it wasn't strange at all. Someday everyone would be gone. Sayid kept his blinders, and moved onward. If Charlie wanted to tag along, there was no reason to turn away the only thing that slipped through his hands yet still remained.
Nautilus
Fandom: Lost
Pairing: Sayid/Charlie; Sayid/Shannon implied
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Moving on is easier when you don’t look back.
Spoilers: through ep. 2.8, “Collision”
Word Count: 1,010
Disclaimer: Not owned, only borrowed.
Feedback: Love it! Will feed it with cookies. Concrit welcome.
Thank you to themoononastick for the read-through and encouragement.
Nautilus
What he remembers most is the way his hands slid. Like they were under water, his hands slipped over the sweat-drenched skin of Charlie's stomach. He expected Charlie to feel lightweight, his bones thin and delicate like the carcass of a fowl nearly picked clean. Instead, his skin gave way, swollen and wet in the heat, like something Sayid could drown in.
Although he moved forward, everything seemed to pivot so that he feared he might collapse or vomit or continue.
Whatever will people believed he possessed, Sayid doubted constantly. Determination, often mistaken for strength, was more truthfully defined as one's ability to put blinders on. Keeping them on could be considered a kind of strength of perseverance, an intrepidity. It could.
Sayid fumbled-something rare for him. But just as rare were the open lips below him. Charlie's mask slipped, and Sayid bore witness to it, brought it and bore down upon it. Round and moist and thick, a perfect circle sucking in the air like a beached fish. Clinging close to Charlie's thighs, Sayid's knees drove into the sand, propelling him forward, cutting sluggishly through the dense air between them, closing in as fast as he could. With his eyes flapping shut, he went down to eat the air from Charlie's mouth. It was acrid and sticky. Remnants of fruit spiked the saliva on the inside of Charlie's lips, and Sayid licked them, his tongue probing the cavity between lip and teeth in a drunken? desperation. This would sate no one. The ring of Charlie's lips tightened and tightened, like a spot in the distance Sayid wanted to get to, yet found himself father and farther away from. Seeing nothing else, he kept going, dove into that dot on the horizon. His tongue pushed aside the plush lip flesh and plunged inside meeting the tiny, trembling tip of Charlie's tongue and Sayid thought of Shannon's labia and the small, wriggling bait of her clit.
He stopped.
Charlie did not, and that is why Sayid only stopped long enough to let the ghost inside him have her say. His head reeled, his stomach roiled and there was nothing to do but follow the movement. He ploughed Charlie's skin with cursed hands, pulling life into him the whole time he was thinking of death. Layers peeled off-damp clump of shirt, heavy tentacles of jeans, no underclothes-to reveal the pulsing, tannish pink animal beneath, sweating and wanting and panting back into Sayid every opportunity their mouths had to meet. Sayid thought he could keep them both alive as long as he kept moving. So he screwed his thumbs into the grooves along Charlie's abdomen, pushing them parallel to each other up alongside the matted hairs beneath Charlie's navel, watching as his stomach rippled with a frantic need for breath and touch and more.
This underbelly, Sayid flipped to the sand. Turning Charlie over, his hands slid and slid. Over the curve of his side, in a circle up and back down the flightless wings of his back. His middle finger slid deliberate and slow-but never slow enough-down his spine, over his tailbone and into the place where Charlie split in half, disappearing into him. Charlie moaned and bucked, and Sayid spit. It pooled above Charlie's arsehole where Sayid pushed his tongue and dragged it low, drawing circles and lines. The trail glistened then dried, marking and unmarking the path from tailbone to the taut tug of skin leading up to Charlie's balls. So like the inside of one's mouth, Sayid thought, and bit down. All of Charlie was like a mouth opened inside out. Too wet, too hot, too jolted by shallow breath after shallow breath. Sayid wanted to come inside that mouth. He gathered Charlie to him, and Charlie rolled up like a ball, giving easily to the knead of Sayid's hands on his hips, dragging him back. Charlie slid onto him more than Sayid slipped inside, layers of skin and muscle pushing and pulling and locking into place.
Sayid did not stop. But he didn't want to move either.
For a moment, this was enough. Then it wasn't, and his hips sloped backward and slapped forward. He struck Charlie over and over, as if he could get more of himself inside the harder he pushed, though already his balls collided with Charlie's backside and there was no more inside, just more of the same.
Not remembering when he had closed his eyes, Sayid opened them. He saw the blond head bobbing, hair flopping like limp strands of seaweed stuck with sand. The color of sun on sand, beige but brilliant in quick bursts of light reflecting off pale, translucent granules. It reminded him of Shannon: her hair just like this, her body-darkened by the sun-the shade of wet beach, her eyes like the fragments of brown and gold shell. He grabbed a fistful of sand-blond hair and pulled the head back toward him. Charlie’s long neck strained and his grey-blue eyes skittered around, struggling to meet Sayid's. His eyes were the color of storms in the sky, of swells of deep water. He might wash someone away.
Sayid yanked Charlie's hair again, shortly. He would keep his head pulled back, pulled so that his eyes stayed open, to reassure himself that this was not Shannon, to remind himself that she was gone. Still, he closed his own eyes.
When it was over, Charlie said it wasn't. Sayid drew Charlie to his chest and squeezed Charlie's cock as quickly as he could, as quickly as he did when he woke up hard from dreams about Shannon, his fist tight like a cunt.
Charlie came then, and did not stop coming.
The strangest thing about it was the easiness of it. Or maybe it wasn't strange at all. Someday everyone would be gone. Sayid kept his blinders, and moved onward. If Charlie wanted to tag along, there was no reason to turn away the only thing that slipped through his hands yet still remained.