Take My Minute Hand; This Breaking Point [jack/sawyer];[claire/sayid]
Title: Take My Minute Hand
Summary: Secretly, they both feel more than love.
Pairing: Jack/Sawyer
Rating: R
Notes: Filled for lostkinkmeme
Jack realizes one day that he has lost track of time. (as if counting the days would make him realize what's happened.) He used to mark on the walls how long they'd been there, been the way they were. Somewhere beneath those marks is where they fuck. And he'd call it something else, but it's just anger manifested into sex. (like it could be anything else with them.)
Sawyer walks slowly toward Jack's spot on the beach, his bare feet leaving trails behind him, ones Jack might follow later in the night, or the next one, just to get a taste of the jungle on Sawyer's tongue. I made fish, he says, holding out an old tin plate he scavenged from their old campsite.
I don't want your damn fish, Sawyer snaps, eyes stuck out beyond the horizon. Jack nods, expecting this sort of response. (prisoners are always hostile, even the ones you love.) He sets the plate down, moves closer. What are you thinking? This is a game. The first time Jack asks that, it's a freebie. He's forgiven for that one. When he persists, things escalate. (and secretly, he likes that part best.)
Shut up. Sawyer's fist collides with Jack's jaw and he's down, dark spots blinding him. It always starts with this. Blood on his lip, Sawyer's hands rough on his hips. And he lets it all happen. All the anger and the pushing, a sick-sweet eruption of hate and the downpour of something Jack wouldn't dare call love to Sawyer's face. (but whispers it in the dark when he knows Sawyer is sound asleep.)
Title: At This Breaking Point
Summary: Seeing is so much different than being.
Pairing: Claire/Sayid
Rating: R
Notes: Filled for lostkinkmeme
Silly little boy, she hisses. And her laugh is something hysterical and something beautiful, all at once. Death grips him like a shadow puppet, moving him around and making him do and be and hear things he just wouldn't normally do or be or hear at all. But seeing.
That's different.
We're the same, she whispers at night, sticky against him, covered in the jungle. He lies to himself that he does not like that her hands are covered in dust. He pretends he does not enjoy the small imprints of herself she leaves on his body. Oh Sayid. It's almost cute how you think he's not lying. He wants to tell her he knows the lie. Lives the lie.
For all she knows, he is the lie.
Matter and particles collide inside their little shelter, and in the morning is when he likes it best. When she's fresh from her sleep and her body almost feels clean and perfect. Covered in dew and maybe something else. He won't guess what. She's half asleep, but she wakes up when he fucks her, when he's above her and his eyes are closed.
Such a silly little boy, she coos when they're done, his sweaty head at her breasts, hands tangling in his hair. There, there. And she sings a sad, twisted lullaby to him as the sun begins to rise, gently rocking him back to sleep.
Summary: Secretly, they both feel more than love.
Pairing: Jack/Sawyer
Rating: R
Notes: Filled for lostkinkmeme
Jack realizes one day that he has lost track of time. (as if counting the days would make him realize what's happened.) He used to mark on the walls how long they'd been there, been the way they were. Somewhere beneath those marks is where they fuck. And he'd call it something else, but it's just anger manifested into sex. (like it could be anything else with them.)
Sawyer walks slowly toward Jack's spot on the beach, his bare feet leaving trails behind him, ones Jack might follow later in the night, or the next one, just to get a taste of the jungle on Sawyer's tongue. I made fish, he says, holding out an old tin plate he scavenged from their old campsite.
I don't want your damn fish, Sawyer snaps, eyes stuck out beyond the horizon. Jack nods, expecting this sort of response. (prisoners are always hostile, even the ones you love.) He sets the plate down, moves closer. What are you thinking? This is a game. The first time Jack asks that, it's a freebie. He's forgiven for that one. When he persists, things escalate. (and secretly, he likes that part best.)
Shut up. Sawyer's fist collides with Jack's jaw and he's down, dark spots blinding him. It always starts with this. Blood on his lip, Sawyer's hands rough on his hips. And he lets it all happen. All the anger and the pushing, a sick-sweet eruption of hate and the downpour of something Jack wouldn't dare call love to Sawyer's face. (but whispers it in the dark when he knows Sawyer is sound asleep.)
Title: At This Breaking Point
Summary: Seeing is so much different than being.
Pairing: Claire/Sayid
Rating: R
Notes: Filled for lostkinkmeme
Silly little boy, she hisses. And her laugh is something hysterical and something beautiful, all at once. Death grips him like a shadow puppet, moving him around and making him do and be and hear things he just wouldn't normally do or be or hear at all. But seeing.
That's different.
We're the same, she whispers at night, sticky against him, covered in the jungle. He lies to himself that he does not like that her hands are covered in dust. He pretends he does not enjoy the small imprints of herself she leaves on his body. Oh Sayid. It's almost cute how you think he's not lying. He wants to tell her he knows the lie. Lives the lie.
For all she knows, he is the lie.
Matter and particles collide inside their little shelter, and in the morning is when he likes it best. When she's fresh from her sleep and her body almost feels clean and perfect. Covered in dew and maybe something else. He won't guess what. She's half asleep, but she wakes up when he fucks her, when he's above her and his eyes are closed.
Such a silly little boy, she coos when they're done, his sweaty head at her breasts, hands tangling in his hair. There, there. And she sings a sad, twisted lullaby to him as the sun begins to rise, gently rocking him back to sleep.