Fic: The Hateful Eye (1/1)
Title: The Hateful Eye
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Jacob/Sayid
Word Count: 592
Summary: It’s all his fault. For knopflergroupie, who requested “Antagonism + Rare Pairings” at The lostsquee 2010 Lost Summer Luau. General Spoilers through Season Six.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For knopflergroupie: to say that I have any idea where this came from would be giving me way too much credit. The idea struck, though, and refused to die; hopefully it’s not to cracked out for you to enjoy it. Happy Belated Queen Day!
The Hateful Eye
His hand is made of shadows and ash, flickers of light from the fire as his fingers on that throat twitch, tighten; he sees the blood on pavement and a spill of blonde against the soil, the trees -- he sees grave markers fashioned of branches and twine, and the script of his mother tongue carved in pine; feels sweat where it runs, traces down his spine as he digs, feels tears on his cheek as the kafan wrinkles around stony features, as the corpse is lowered, facing the Qibla, and it all comes down to this: the scent of salt and smoke burning, coursing through his veins as his pulse drums too slow, too steady, too hard.
It’s your fault, Sayid growls, the hate in his heart finally rising, spewing, searing in the dark, caught against the caverns where they stand, where his chest heaves heavy against the steady rise and fall beneath him, pinned to the wall.
Of course it is, Jacob says, and there’s something chilling, something dead in his eyes, and it kills something in Sayid in kind; because he knows how to quell terror, how to quash loathing -- he knows how to twist the ugliest of emotions and set them against their source, turn them into poison and watch the victim writhe. He knows this.
Apathy, though -- apathy, for all that he’s tried, he’s never quite managed to grasp, because there’s nothing there to vanquish, nothing there to destroy. It is nothing, and the lack is lethal.
Sayid’s hand, his grip is hard at the base of Jacob’s throat; he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t give when Jacob arches against him, eyes alight with condescension as the tightness, the tension between his thighs meets the strain at Jacob’s groin -- and even as Jacob gasps against the pressure, he doesn’t fight, doesn’t pant for breath: he is still in control, even as his lips strain and his eyes lose color, lose shade. Jacob is still holding all of the cards, still calling every bluff from afar, from far too near.
Sayid presses down harder, and as he watches the muscles in Jacob’s throat struggle against the way his fingers break vessels, stop veins, crush the skin and bruise; even as he sees the pulse at Jacob’s throat thrum violent, thrum desperate, stutter in defeat, there’s no struggle, no despair; and he should know better, should realize, except that he doesn’t -- can’t.
Jacob surges up before Sayid can stop him, before he can blink; sealing their lips and drinking oxygen hard, unforgiving from Sayid’s lungs -- retribution falling swift, burning a holocaust, an offering from the pit of his gut, up through his chest and out, razing him with a thought as he feels light, weightless, unhinged; blame and guilt and vehement, aching rage all that’s left now to tie him here, to keep him.
His knees give way, and the tides turn -- he slumps, falls, and Jacob follows, still sucking the breath from him with a passion and a need that speaks to something bigger, useless; Sayid feels consciousness ebb, and all he sees is the glint of teeth -- a predatory smirk, wolfish and cruel -- caught in the waning flames before everything dies, fades to black.
This is your fault, comes the voice of some ageless condemnation, panting at his side, ushering him into dark, and it’s true.
It’s always been true.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Jacob/Sayid
Word Count: 592
Summary: It’s all his fault. For knopflergroupie, who requested “Antagonism + Rare Pairings” at The lostsquee 2010 Lost Summer Luau. General Spoilers through Season Six.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For knopflergroupie: to say that I have any idea where this came from would be giving me way too much credit. The idea struck, though, and refused to die; hopefully it’s not to cracked out for you to enjoy it. Happy Belated Queen Day!
The Hateful Eye
His hand is made of shadows and ash, flickers of light from the fire as his fingers on that throat twitch, tighten; he sees the blood on pavement and a spill of blonde against the soil, the trees -- he sees grave markers fashioned of branches and twine, and the script of his mother tongue carved in pine; feels sweat where it runs, traces down his spine as he digs, feels tears on his cheek as the kafan wrinkles around stony features, as the corpse is lowered, facing the Qibla, and it all comes down to this: the scent of salt and smoke burning, coursing through his veins as his pulse drums too slow, too steady, too hard.
It’s your fault, Sayid growls, the hate in his heart finally rising, spewing, searing in the dark, caught against the caverns where they stand, where his chest heaves heavy against the steady rise and fall beneath him, pinned to the wall.
Of course it is, Jacob says, and there’s something chilling, something dead in his eyes, and it kills something in Sayid in kind; because he knows how to quell terror, how to quash loathing -- he knows how to twist the ugliest of emotions and set them against their source, turn them into poison and watch the victim writhe. He knows this.
Apathy, though -- apathy, for all that he’s tried, he’s never quite managed to grasp, because there’s nothing there to vanquish, nothing there to destroy. It is nothing, and the lack is lethal.
Sayid’s hand, his grip is hard at the base of Jacob’s throat; he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t give when Jacob arches against him, eyes alight with condescension as the tightness, the tension between his thighs meets the strain at Jacob’s groin -- and even as Jacob gasps against the pressure, he doesn’t fight, doesn’t pant for breath: he is still in control, even as his lips strain and his eyes lose color, lose shade. Jacob is still holding all of the cards, still calling every bluff from afar, from far too near.
Sayid presses down harder, and as he watches the muscles in Jacob’s throat struggle against the way his fingers break vessels, stop veins, crush the skin and bruise; even as he sees the pulse at Jacob’s throat thrum violent, thrum desperate, stutter in defeat, there’s no struggle, no despair; and he should know better, should realize, except that he doesn’t -- can’t.
Jacob surges up before Sayid can stop him, before he can blink; sealing their lips and drinking oxygen hard, unforgiving from Sayid’s lungs -- retribution falling swift, burning a holocaust, an offering from the pit of his gut, up through his chest and out, razing him with a thought as he feels light, weightless, unhinged; blame and guilt and vehement, aching rage all that’s left now to tie him here, to keep him.
His knees give way, and the tides turn -- he slumps, falls, and Jacob follows, still sucking the breath from him with a passion and a need that speaks to something bigger, useless; Sayid feels consciousness ebb, and all he sees is the glint of teeth -- a predatory smirk, wolfish and cruel -- caught in the waning flames before everything dies, fades to black.
This is your fault, comes the voice of some ageless condemnation, panting at his side, ushering him into dark, and it’s true.
It’s always been true.