Has anyone misplaced a slash muse? 'Cause I think I found it...
elise_509 recently needed Jack!porn, and I needed to do something nice for her, since she did something nice for me not so very long ago, (thanks again, darlin'!), but I don't write prOn, so what's a girl to do? Enter someone's misplaced slash muse, who snuggled up next to a shy little plot bunny of mine and began to whisper in its ear... The resulting 1000 words are my very first, very soft-core slash ficlet. Blame it on that wayward slash muse, which I sent packing. I shall be under this rock until further notice.
Thanks to my dear friend hereswith for going beyond the normal call of duty. &hearts
NOTHING VENTURED, NOTHING GAINED
He had been unconscious for days, he was aware of that, bitten by a spider the color of tangerines and smaller than the nail of his little finger. He had known instantly that it was bad, that there would be serious medical consequences, and he held onto consciousness long enough to tell Kate what would need to be done. Nononono, she had cried, it was just a little spider you will be all right we won’t know what to do. He told her again, and then slipped away.
***
The dream was always the same. Details varied slightly from one time to another, but the essence never wavered; the feather light touch of fingertips ghosting across his forehead, curving around to his temple then along the sunken plane of his cheek, caressing the line of his jaw while a thumb passed slowly across his lips. There were no sounds in the dream, no colors or scents, just blackness and this whisper of contact, the movement repeated over and over, soothing him, holding him here, keeping him safe.
***
People come. People go.
They wipe his brow, give him water, make him take a pill. Tell him a story. Sing him a song. Pray for his recovery.
People come. People go.
He does not wake, but lies in limbo, waiting for the dream.
***
Fingertips skim his forehead and slip down his cheek to rest against his mouth, hesitate for a moment and then move on, marking a path from his lips to his chin and over the rise of his Adam’s apple, finally stopping in the hollow of his throat. The unexpected weight of a hand splayed across his chest, thumb stroking gently back and forth, back and forth along his collar bone, then a voice, so low and thick that, had it not been a dream, he might not have heard.
You’ve got to come back to us now, Jack. You’ve been gone too long. Come on back now.
The weight leaves his chest and he is sorry, missing the warmth of it the moment it is gone, replaced by the chill of loss and longing. In his dream, he sighs. Now the hand returns to take one of his, entwining fingers and squeezing so hard that it hurts. In the way of dreams, he is able to stir just enough to press a finger in response. From far away there is the sound of a muffled sob, and he drifts down into the darkness...
...only to be drawn back by the voice, louder now, almost harsh. Come back to us, Doc. A second hand is on him, sliding across the cool of the cotton sheet, pausing just below his ribcage, then moving lower.
You’ve gotta come back to me.
His cock twitches. Jack thinks of high school and wet dreams and, inexplicably, of Sawyer. Sawyer’s hands, which are large and calloused and would never be gentle; Sawyer’s voice, running smooth as velvet when he conned, low and raw when he cared.
Come back to me.
His cock twitches again; he doesn’t want the dream hand to belong to Sawyer and he doesn’t want it to belong to anyone but Sawyer. This is a dream, a conscious metaphor embedded in his unconscious mind. The third twitch is in response to the heel of that imagined hand sliding up over the tip of his all too eager member, fingers stretched out along its length, pressing lightly through the sheet. Jack would moan if he thought he could, but his dream throat is too dry, and all he can do is gasp, a small sound in a black and silent room.
Come back for me.
The pressure intensifies as the hand glides down...then up, down...then up, slow and sure. He can hear breathing, his and someone else’s, ragged around the edges. He wishes he could open his dream eyes, but doesn’t really want to see. He just wants to go on breathing, and feeling and listening to the voice, now like the sound of street-worn tires on a summered-down road, all gravel and grit.
Jack, the voice pleads, we need you with us, and he knows that what it really means is, I need you with me.
So good.
Come back to me.
So right.
Come back for me.
The grip tightens as the speed increases, words matching strokes. Come to me. Come for me. Cometome. Comeforme. To me. For me. Tomeformetomeforme! Pleasure building, senses screaming - if he could, Jack would lift his hips and use his own hand to end what the dream had started. If he could, he would cry out the name that fills the void that is his mind.
“Sawyer.”
His dream voice rasps out the name, and the hand that is not there instantly goes still. It is such a shock, such a bereavement, that his dream eyes fly open...to see the hatch and the light and the blue-green of Sawyer’s eyes gone to midnight in a face that is pale and damp.
The dream is reality, or reality is the dream, Jack isn’t sure which. He has been gone a long time, that remains clear, and his mind seems to have been solving a thousand piece puzzle while he was away. Now all other thoughts are blocked by an overwhelming need that, before, had never been considered.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
With great effort, he lifts the hand that is still in Sawyer’s grasp and squeezes, faint but firm. Sawyer blinks, glances down, and makes to pull away, color flooding his face. Jack holds tight, struggling to bring his other hand up to his own stomach, then easing it down to where Sawyer holds him through the sheet, his hand frozen in place along Jack's suddenly neglected cock, which is anything but frozen. It pulses and jerks, not caring about the politics or the who and the why, waiting only for the resolution to the standoff.
“I came back to you,” Jack said, moving his hand against Sawyer’s, moving Sawyer’s hand against himself. “I came back for you.”
fini
Thanks to my dear friend hereswith for going beyond the normal call of duty. &hearts
NOTHING VENTURED, NOTHING GAINED
He had been unconscious for days, he was aware of that, bitten by a spider the color of tangerines and smaller than the nail of his little finger. He had known instantly that it was bad, that there would be serious medical consequences, and he held onto consciousness long enough to tell Kate what would need to be done. Nononono, she had cried, it was just a little spider you will be all right we won’t know what to do. He told her again, and then slipped away.
***
The dream was always the same. Details varied slightly from one time to another, but the essence never wavered; the feather light touch of fingertips ghosting across his forehead, curving around to his temple then along the sunken plane of his cheek, caressing the line of his jaw while a thumb passed slowly across his lips. There were no sounds in the dream, no colors or scents, just blackness and this whisper of contact, the movement repeated over and over, soothing him, holding him here, keeping him safe.
***
People come. People go.
They wipe his brow, give him water, make him take a pill. Tell him a story. Sing him a song. Pray for his recovery.
People come. People go.
He does not wake, but lies in limbo, waiting for the dream.
***
Fingertips skim his forehead and slip down his cheek to rest against his mouth, hesitate for a moment and then move on, marking a path from his lips to his chin and over the rise of his Adam’s apple, finally stopping in the hollow of his throat. The unexpected weight of a hand splayed across his chest, thumb stroking gently back and forth, back and forth along his collar bone, then a voice, so low and thick that, had it not been a dream, he might not have heard.
You’ve got to come back to us now, Jack. You’ve been gone too long. Come on back now.
The weight leaves his chest and he is sorry, missing the warmth of it the moment it is gone, replaced by the chill of loss and longing. In his dream, he sighs. Now the hand returns to take one of his, entwining fingers and squeezing so hard that it hurts. In the way of dreams, he is able to stir just enough to press a finger in response. From far away there is the sound of a muffled sob, and he drifts down into the darkness...
...only to be drawn back by the voice, louder now, almost harsh. Come back to us, Doc. A second hand is on him, sliding across the cool of the cotton sheet, pausing just below his ribcage, then moving lower.
You’ve gotta come back to me.
His cock twitches. Jack thinks of high school and wet dreams and, inexplicably, of Sawyer. Sawyer’s hands, which are large and calloused and would never be gentle; Sawyer’s voice, running smooth as velvet when he conned, low and raw when he cared.
Come back to me.
His cock twitches again; he doesn’t want the dream hand to belong to Sawyer and he doesn’t want it to belong to anyone but Sawyer. This is a dream, a conscious metaphor embedded in his unconscious mind. The third twitch is in response to the heel of that imagined hand sliding up over the tip of his all too eager member, fingers stretched out along its length, pressing lightly through the sheet. Jack would moan if he thought he could, but his dream throat is too dry, and all he can do is gasp, a small sound in a black and silent room.
Come back for me.
The pressure intensifies as the hand glides down...then up, down...then up, slow and sure. He can hear breathing, his and someone else’s, ragged around the edges. He wishes he could open his dream eyes, but doesn’t really want to see. He just wants to go on breathing, and feeling and listening to the voice, now like the sound of street-worn tires on a summered-down road, all gravel and grit.
Jack, the voice pleads, we need you with us, and he knows that what it really means is, I need you with me.
So good.
Come back to me.
So right.
Come back for me.
The grip tightens as the speed increases, words matching strokes. Come to me. Come for me. Cometome. Comeforme. To me. For me. Tomeformetomeforme! Pleasure building, senses screaming - if he could, Jack would lift his hips and use his own hand to end what the dream had started. If he could, he would cry out the name that fills the void that is his mind.
“Sawyer.”
His dream voice rasps out the name, and the hand that is not there instantly goes still. It is such a shock, such a bereavement, that his dream eyes fly open...to see the hatch and the light and the blue-green of Sawyer’s eyes gone to midnight in a face that is pale and damp.
The dream is reality, or reality is the dream, Jack isn’t sure which. He has been gone a long time, that remains clear, and his mind seems to have been solving a thousand piece puzzle while he was away. Now all other thoughts are blocked by an overwhelming need that, before, had never been considered.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
With great effort, he lifts the hand that is still in Sawyer’s grasp and squeezes, faint but firm. Sawyer blinks, glances down, and makes to pull away, color flooding his face. Jack holds tight, struggling to bring his other hand up to his own stomach, then easing it down to where Sawyer holds him through the sheet, his hand frozen in place along Jack's suddenly neglected cock, which is anything but frozen. It pulses and jerks, not caring about the politics or the who and the why, waiting only for the resolution to the standoff.
“I came back to you,” Jack said, moving his hand against Sawyer’s, moving Sawyer’s hand against himself. “I came back for you.”
fini