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janie_tangerineTitle: I'll never be right beyond tonight
Pairing: Sam/Sayid
Rating: NC17
Words: 2350
Spoilers: general S6 for Lost (goes AU after ep. 14) and up until 6x07 for SPN.
Warnings: uhm, look at the prompt. Actually if you didn't see 6x07 or the preview, don't read the summary/notes.
Summary: Sayid might not remember much of the time when he still knew what emotions were on a practical level, but he can recognize his own eyes when they stare back at him. Or, where Sam doesn't have a soul and Sayid doesn't feel.
A/N: written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
invisiblelove at the comment fic meme! at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spnlost_otp . The prompt was soulless!Sam/not-feeling!Sayid porn. I COMPLIED, DAMMIT. IT WAS TOO PERFECT NOT TO. Then it became too long for comment fic so I'm just posting it here. Title stolen from John Frusciante. Now I'll go back to that meme. XD
Sometimes, Sayid wonders if he shouldn’t have died instead.
Maybe the last thing he would have remembered would have been those glorious, ten seconds in which he decided that his life still was worthy of some kind of redemption.
He has survived the explosion because he had thrown the bomb on the other side of the submarine. At times he thinks he should have brought it with him.
Because after those ten seconds (and the talk with Desmond in that well), everything was just the same, except that he wasn’t following anyone’s orders anymore.
He had disappeared as quickly as possible as soon as the plane landed. He doesn’t know where the others are. He doesn’t think he wants to know. They’re better off without someone who just doesn’t feel anything anymore around.
This should probably upset him, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t because he just doesn’t care. Period. It’s just that easy. Everything washes away and nothing stays, and he spends his time taking buses and going from small town to small town and from motel to motel. The United States are big enough that it will take him time to run out of places.
The fact that he doesn’t even remember them two days after he leaves isn’t really an issue.
At times he wishes he could have another handful of seconds like those ones, but by now he can barely remember the feeling. How can you remember a feeling when everything is dull and nothing effects you, anyway?
--
He’s in a bar somewhere in Illinois when someone sits next to him. Sayid doesn’t pay attention, really. Why should he? It’s not like he remembers how curiosity feels, after all.
He gives the man a glance just because he orders the same whiskey Sayid ordered.
(Feeling or not, MacClutcheon’s is still his choice. It burns down his throat like no other does.)
The man looks younger than thirty, even if something in his stance suggests that he’s much older. He wears a flannel shirt (different from Sayid’s smart, black one), his hair needs a cut and his body language screams pain.
Sayid doesn’t feel concern or pity or the slightest need to ask him what’s wrong, but then the man turns towards him for a second and they stare at each other.
Also Sayid might not remember much of the time when he still knew what emotions were on a practical level, but he can recognize his own eyes when they stare back at him.
--
“I’m Sam.”
“Sayid.”
“Do you want to know something?”
Sayid just nods and sips his whiskey.
“I found out I don’t have a soul yesterday. And I’m telling you just because I think you wouldn’t raise an eyebrow at hearing it.”
“I believe that I haven’t had mine for a very long time.”
Being in front of someone else with his exact same problem should probably mean something. It should bring a reaction. Any reaction.
Sayid just doesn’t think he’s having a particular one. Sam’s tone is even, his face blank.
“How did you lose it?” Sayid asks, just because it sounds like the next thing he should ask.
“I went to Hell. What about you?”
“I did, too.”
They finish the rest of their drinks in silence.
--
“I tried everything,” Sam says, “but nothing really worked. It’s just… nothing. At times I just don’t even get what’s the point or why I should even try at all. I just… I don’t care.”
“It’s the same for me,” Sayid replies, wishing he could sound like he regretted it.
Sam looks at him, bowing his head slightly.
“But others just don’t get it. Right?”
“No, they don’t.”
They stare at each other for a handful of seconds and Sayid can read the question in Sam’s eyes.
They don’t feel. Period. They don’t feel anything with anyone else. But… maybe if they tried with each other?
Sayid nods. Sam gets out of the bar and Sayid follows.
--
He tells Sam he can choose the motel; the room they end up in is anonymous and the flowered wallpaper is an insult to aesthetics, but it’s not like either of them would care right now, and then Sam starts taking his shirt off and while Sayid is tempted to let him…
They’re doing this for a reason and even if it doesn’t change anything he still knows that, in theory, this isn’t how it’s done.
“Wait,” he says, and comes closer, and brings his hands forward.
He pulls off one button after another, slipping each of them off, neatly. Sam looks down at his hands, his breath even, his eyes focused, nothing more. The shirt falls down and then Sam just shakes his head and the next thing Sayid knows is that he has been thrown back on the king sized bed and that Sam is ripping his smart, black shirt off.
He can sense that there’s no desperation behind the act. It’s probably the way Sam usually does things, and it’s fine, because it’s not like he feels cornered or anything. Clothes fall off the bed, piece by piece. Sam just tears them off him and Sayid takes his time because that’s the way he always did, and then they’re naked and breathing deeply, slowly, staring into each others’ eyes. Like they’re both waiting for something. Sayid can feel Sam’s half-hard cock against his thigh, but he’s half-hard, too, and that’s… well, a reaction. Not feeling things doesn’t mean that your body doesn’t react.
There are a few seconds in which time is almost frozen. Sayid takes his time to stare at Sam. He knows that his brain shouldn’t provide information like, he’s objectively very attractive, but that’s all, and they will never get anywhere if they keep on staring.
So he nods.
Sam leans down and he moves forward and they kiss.
There’s lips against lips and there’s tongue running along his teeth and meeting his own tongue and it’s hot and wet and long and thorough, and Sayid feels himself getting harder, but there’s no connection. He doesn’t feel a jolt of pleasure running down from his brain until his groin, but…
But Sam kisses hard and fast, other than long and thorough, and it’s something he can related to, because he gets hard, he always got it, and he reciprocates without much hesitation.
He pushes his hips up and starts grinding against Sam, trying to make it so that their erections slide against each other, and Sam nods into the kiss and pins him down on the mattress, grinding harder.
He should feel at least uncomfortable, Sam could easily crush him like this, but he doesn’t, he doesn’t care, it doesn’t matter, and so he grinds up again and there’s a rush of something, but… it isn’t still what they’re aiming for, here. It’s still better than nothing, so, and when the kiss breaks he looks at Sam, who is still leaning over him, impossibly close.
“That… that was something, right?” Sam asks, like he wants Sayid to confirm him that he isn’t making things up.
“I think it was,” Sayid agrees, and then Sam’s lips are on his again and Sayid is spreading his legs on automatic. He concentrates on the feeling of Sam’s skin sliding against his, and then… then there’s some kind of click.
He doesn’t know what it is that is happening, he doesn’t know how, he doesn’t know if this is what he’s going after, but suddenly Sam’s body against his feels good in a way no other body has felt against his since he stuck a knife into that faux Locke’s chest. He grinds up frantically, his nails digging into Sam’s skin and then, then, then there’s a low noise coming from Sam’s throat and they’re rolling over and falling off the bed, bringing the sheets along. He spreads his legs farther and moves his head, biting into Sam’s shoulder, and he arches up when two of Sam’s fingers breach inside him after Sam sticks them inside his own mouth for a short while.
It’s painful but it’s something and it’s the good kind of painful, anyway, and he hooks one leg around Sam’s waist while pressing up. Sam adds a third and a fourth finger without waiting too much, but it doesn’t really hurt. If only, he wants more, and if it’s a question of satisfying his body more than his mind, then so be it.
He’s sure that Sam’s shoulder must be bleeding, from how much his nails are digging into it as he thrusts his hips up, against Sam’s fingers, while they move fast and rough and just so good inside him, and he can feel Sam’s dick pressing rock hard against his stomach.
He can’t help looking at Sam all the while, at how his body moves in a way that is graceful if only just a bit too regular for this, but Sayid is doing the exactly same thing. He’s getting harder now, though, a lot harder, and he doesn’t know what it is but he doesn’t care and it doesn’t matter, and he reaches up. His hand tangles into Sam’s hair and he yanks down so that Sam’s lips are on his again.
He bites down on Sam’s bottom lip as Sam’s fingers keep on scissoring; his cock is sliding against Sam’s again now, while he tastes blood on his tongue. Sam kisses him again, though, blood and everything, and they roll around on the floor another time before Sam starts moving his fingers faster. He’s there, he’s almost there, he knows; the air is warm and the friction feels good, but there’s something lacking, he’s still thinking too much, maybe it’s that, maybe –
He moves away and before Sam can protest he switches them on the floor (Sam might be taller and stronger and everything, but Sayid has been in more than a war, by this point). He tries not to think about what he’s doing, because that’s the point, and then he leans down and takes Sam’s cock inside his mouth in a smooth motion.
For a second it feels strange, too much at once, but it lasts that much time and then Sam’s rough, long fingers are inside his hair (and the ones on his right hand are sticky and of course they are), tugging, pushing his head down, hard, painful, and that’s exactly the way he wanted it. He can’t think like this, not when he can barely breathe, not when all he can do in order not to choke is moving his head up and down and breathe through his nose when his face isn’t pressed down on Sam’s crotch. He goes faster and faster, sucks on Sam’s cock as it grows impossibly harder, and he knows there’s probably saliva dripping from the corner of his mouth, but it’s fine, it’s more than fine. Sam’s saying something he can’t hear and Sam’s gripping on his hair so hard that it hurts, and then –
Then he’s coming inside Sayid’s mouth, hard and fast and too much, but he doesn’t care and works Sam through it as he swallows down, and it still doesn’t feel like anything much but it makes him feel strangely accomplished. He doesn’t have time to dwell about it though, because as soon as he moves his head Sam turns him over again and licks come off Sayid’s lips, and his hand wraps around Sayid’s cock. For a second it feels like it’s enveloping his erection almost completely; then Sam starts jerking him off, with short, practically strokes, and Sayid arches into the touch, wanting release. He hadn’t known how bad he had needed Sam to touch him there until he had it, but he needs the touch, he needs the friction, he needs to feel Sam’s rough fingertips moving over his erection, and when he comes he shakes and shivers and falls forward. His hips jerk forward until he doesn’t have motion in him anymore, and when he comes to they’re on the room’s floor with a torn, filthy sheet under their back and they’re as filthy as the sheet is.
All of a sudden he feels tired and he just wants to slump his shoulders down and stay there, but he meets Sam’s eyes again and they really don’t need to talk.
Something might have happened before, but now it’s just like before and he can read it in Sam’s stare.
“I… well, it was worth a try,” Sam mutters, propping himself up on one elbow.
“Yes, it was,” Sayid answers, and then Sam half-smiles apologetically at him, probably without even knowing he’s doing it. Sayid thinks he’s mirroring the expression as soon as he feels his lips slightly curl up, and there’s another second in which he feels just a bit warmer, but then it’s all gone.
It seems like they just can’t hold unto whatever it is that resurfaces once in a while enough to really grasp it.
--
He sleeps on the floor.
When he wakes up the next morning, he finds a note on the bed.
The room is paid for.
Sayid goes in the shower, grabs his clothes, puts them on again. It’s mandatory that he goes back to his hotel and gets himself a new shirt, but until then the jacket will do.
Then, just before he goes, he sees another note, on the only table inside the room.
The first was written neatly, this one is obviously written in a hurry.
Thanks, it reads.
Sayid folds it and puts it in his pocket. He doesn’t even know why (he left the other one on the ground), but he has stopped asking himself questions by now.
He closes the door carefully behind him and leaves the room. If a small voice in the back of his head is suggesting him that if they ever meet again he should try to talk to Sam again, he doesn’t pay attention to it.
End.
Pairing: Sam/Sayid
Rating: NC17
Words: 2350
Spoilers: general S6 for Lost (goes AU after ep. 14) and up until 6x07 for SPN.
Warnings: uhm, look at the prompt. Actually if you didn't see 6x07 or the preview, don't read the summary/notes.
Summary: Sayid might not remember much of the time when he still knew what emotions were on a practical level, but he can recognize his own eyes when they stare back at him. Or, where Sam doesn't have a soul and Sayid doesn't feel.
A/N: written for
invisiblelove at the comment fic meme! at spnlost_otp . The prompt was soulless!Sam/not-feeling!Sayid porn. I COMPLIED, DAMMIT. IT WAS TOO PERFECT NOT TO. Then it became too long for comment fic so I'm just posting it here. Title stolen from John Frusciante. Now I'll go back to that meme. XDSometimes, Sayid wonders if he shouldn’t have died instead.
Maybe the last thing he would have remembered would have been those glorious, ten seconds in which he decided that his life still was worthy of some kind of redemption.
He has survived the explosion because he had thrown the bomb on the other side of the submarine. At times he thinks he should have brought it with him.
Because after those ten seconds (and the talk with Desmond in that well), everything was just the same, except that he wasn’t following anyone’s orders anymore.
He had disappeared as quickly as possible as soon as the plane landed. He doesn’t know where the others are. He doesn’t think he wants to know. They’re better off without someone who just doesn’t feel anything anymore around.
This should probably upset him, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t because he just doesn’t care. Period. It’s just that easy. Everything washes away and nothing stays, and he spends his time taking buses and going from small town to small town and from motel to motel. The United States are big enough that it will take him time to run out of places.
The fact that he doesn’t even remember them two days after he leaves isn’t really an issue.
At times he wishes he could have another handful of seconds like those ones, but by now he can barely remember the feeling. How can you remember a feeling when everything is dull and nothing effects you, anyway?
--
He’s in a bar somewhere in Illinois when someone sits next to him. Sayid doesn’t pay attention, really. Why should he? It’s not like he remembers how curiosity feels, after all.
He gives the man a glance just because he orders the same whiskey Sayid ordered.
(Feeling or not, MacClutcheon’s is still his choice. It burns down his throat like no other does.)
The man looks younger than thirty, even if something in his stance suggests that he’s much older. He wears a flannel shirt (different from Sayid’s smart, black one), his hair needs a cut and his body language screams pain.
Sayid doesn’t feel concern or pity or the slightest need to ask him what’s wrong, but then the man turns towards him for a second and they stare at each other.
Also Sayid might not remember much of the time when he still knew what emotions were on a practical level, but he can recognize his own eyes when they stare back at him.
--
“I’m Sam.”
“Sayid.”
“Do you want to know something?”
Sayid just nods and sips his whiskey.
“I found out I don’t have a soul yesterday. And I’m telling you just because I think you wouldn’t raise an eyebrow at hearing it.”
“I believe that I haven’t had mine for a very long time.”
Being in front of someone else with his exact same problem should probably mean something. It should bring a reaction. Any reaction.
Sayid just doesn’t think he’s having a particular one. Sam’s tone is even, his face blank.
“How did you lose it?” Sayid asks, just because it sounds like the next thing he should ask.
“I went to Hell. What about you?”
“I did, too.”
They finish the rest of their drinks in silence.
--
“I tried everything,” Sam says, “but nothing really worked. It’s just… nothing. At times I just don’t even get what’s the point or why I should even try at all. I just… I don’t care.”
“It’s the same for me,” Sayid replies, wishing he could sound like he regretted it.
Sam looks at him, bowing his head slightly.
“But others just don’t get it. Right?”
“No, they don’t.”
They stare at each other for a handful of seconds and Sayid can read the question in Sam’s eyes.
They don’t feel. Period. They don’t feel anything with anyone else. But… maybe if they tried with each other?
Sayid nods. Sam gets out of the bar and Sayid follows.
--
He tells Sam he can choose the motel; the room they end up in is anonymous and the flowered wallpaper is an insult to aesthetics, but it’s not like either of them would care right now, and then Sam starts taking his shirt off and while Sayid is tempted to let him…
They’re doing this for a reason and even if it doesn’t change anything he still knows that, in theory, this isn’t how it’s done.
“Wait,” he says, and comes closer, and brings his hands forward.
He pulls off one button after another, slipping each of them off, neatly. Sam looks down at his hands, his breath even, his eyes focused, nothing more. The shirt falls down and then Sam just shakes his head and the next thing Sayid knows is that he has been thrown back on the king sized bed and that Sam is ripping his smart, black shirt off.
He can sense that there’s no desperation behind the act. It’s probably the way Sam usually does things, and it’s fine, because it’s not like he feels cornered or anything. Clothes fall off the bed, piece by piece. Sam just tears them off him and Sayid takes his time because that’s the way he always did, and then they’re naked and breathing deeply, slowly, staring into each others’ eyes. Like they’re both waiting for something. Sayid can feel Sam’s half-hard cock against his thigh, but he’s half-hard, too, and that’s… well, a reaction. Not feeling things doesn’t mean that your body doesn’t react.
There are a few seconds in which time is almost frozen. Sayid takes his time to stare at Sam. He knows that his brain shouldn’t provide information like, he’s objectively very attractive, but that’s all, and they will never get anywhere if they keep on staring.
So he nods.
Sam leans down and he moves forward and they kiss.
There’s lips against lips and there’s tongue running along his teeth and meeting his own tongue and it’s hot and wet and long and thorough, and Sayid feels himself getting harder, but there’s no connection. He doesn’t feel a jolt of pleasure running down from his brain until his groin, but…
But Sam kisses hard and fast, other than long and thorough, and it’s something he can related to, because he gets hard, he always got it, and he reciprocates without much hesitation.
He pushes his hips up and starts grinding against Sam, trying to make it so that their erections slide against each other, and Sam nods into the kiss and pins him down on the mattress, grinding harder.
He should feel at least uncomfortable, Sam could easily crush him like this, but he doesn’t, he doesn’t care, it doesn’t matter, and so he grinds up again and there’s a rush of something, but… it isn’t still what they’re aiming for, here. It’s still better than nothing, so, and when the kiss breaks he looks at Sam, who is still leaning over him, impossibly close.
“That… that was something, right?” Sam asks, like he wants Sayid to confirm him that he isn’t making things up.
“I think it was,” Sayid agrees, and then Sam’s lips are on his again and Sayid is spreading his legs on automatic. He concentrates on the feeling of Sam’s skin sliding against his, and then… then there’s some kind of click.
He doesn’t know what it is that is happening, he doesn’t know how, he doesn’t know if this is what he’s going after, but suddenly Sam’s body against his feels good in a way no other body has felt against his since he stuck a knife into that faux Locke’s chest. He grinds up frantically, his nails digging into Sam’s skin and then, then, then there’s a low noise coming from Sam’s throat and they’re rolling over and falling off the bed, bringing the sheets along. He spreads his legs farther and moves his head, biting into Sam’s shoulder, and he arches up when two of Sam’s fingers breach inside him after Sam sticks them inside his own mouth for a short while.
It’s painful but it’s something and it’s the good kind of painful, anyway, and he hooks one leg around Sam’s waist while pressing up. Sam adds a third and a fourth finger without waiting too much, but it doesn’t really hurt. If only, he wants more, and if it’s a question of satisfying his body more than his mind, then so be it.
He’s sure that Sam’s shoulder must be bleeding, from how much his nails are digging into it as he thrusts his hips up, against Sam’s fingers, while they move fast and rough and just so good inside him, and he can feel Sam’s dick pressing rock hard against his stomach.
He can’t help looking at Sam all the while, at how his body moves in a way that is graceful if only just a bit too regular for this, but Sayid is doing the exactly same thing. He’s getting harder now, though, a lot harder, and he doesn’t know what it is but he doesn’t care and it doesn’t matter, and he reaches up. His hand tangles into Sam’s hair and he yanks down so that Sam’s lips are on his again.
He bites down on Sam’s bottom lip as Sam’s fingers keep on scissoring; his cock is sliding against Sam’s again now, while he tastes blood on his tongue. Sam kisses him again, though, blood and everything, and they roll around on the floor another time before Sam starts moving his fingers faster. He’s there, he’s almost there, he knows; the air is warm and the friction feels good, but there’s something lacking, he’s still thinking too much, maybe it’s that, maybe –
He moves away and before Sam can protest he switches them on the floor (Sam might be taller and stronger and everything, but Sayid has been in more than a war, by this point). He tries not to think about what he’s doing, because that’s the point, and then he leans down and takes Sam’s cock inside his mouth in a smooth motion.
For a second it feels strange, too much at once, but it lasts that much time and then Sam’s rough, long fingers are inside his hair (and the ones on his right hand are sticky and of course they are), tugging, pushing his head down, hard, painful, and that’s exactly the way he wanted it. He can’t think like this, not when he can barely breathe, not when all he can do in order not to choke is moving his head up and down and breathe through his nose when his face isn’t pressed down on Sam’s crotch. He goes faster and faster, sucks on Sam’s cock as it grows impossibly harder, and he knows there’s probably saliva dripping from the corner of his mouth, but it’s fine, it’s more than fine. Sam’s saying something he can’t hear and Sam’s gripping on his hair so hard that it hurts, and then –
Then he’s coming inside Sayid’s mouth, hard and fast and too much, but he doesn’t care and works Sam through it as he swallows down, and it still doesn’t feel like anything much but it makes him feel strangely accomplished. He doesn’t have time to dwell about it though, because as soon as he moves his head Sam turns him over again and licks come off Sayid’s lips, and his hand wraps around Sayid’s cock. For a second it feels like it’s enveloping his erection almost completely; then Sam starts jerking him off, with short, practically strokes, and Sayid arches into the touch, wanting release. He hadn’t known how bad he had needed Sam to touch him there until he had it, but he needs the touch, he needs the friction, he needs to feel Sam’s rough fingertips moving over his erection, and when he comes he shakes and shivers and falls forward. His hips jerk forward until he doesn’t have motion in him anymore, and when he comes to they’re on the room’s floor with a torn, filthy sheet under their back and they’re as filthy as the sheet is.
All of a sudden he feels tired and he just wants to slump his shoulders down and stay there, but he meets Sam’s eyes again and they really don’t need to talk.
Something might have happened before, but now it’s just like before and he can read it in Sam’s stare.
“I… well, it was worth a try,” Sam mutters, propping himself up on one elbow.
“Yes, it was,” Sayid answers, and then Sam half-smiles apologetically at him, probably without even knowing he’s doing it. Sayid thinks he’s mirroring the expression as soon as he feels his lips slightly curl up, and there’s another second in which he feels just a bit warmer, but then it’s all gone.
It seems like they just can’t hold unto whatever it is that resurfaces once in a while enough to really grasp it.
--
He sleeps on the floor.
When he wakes up the next morning, he finds a note on the bed.
The room is paid for.
Sayid goes in the shower, grabs his clothes, puts them on again. It’s mandatory that he goes back to his hotel and gets himself a new shirt, but until then the jacket will do.
Then, just before he goes, he sees another note, on the only table inside the room.
The first was written neatly, this one is obviously written in a hurry.
Thanks, it reads.
Sayid folds it and puts it in his pocket. He doesn’t even know why (he left the other one on the ground), but he has stopped asking himself questions by now.
He closes the door carefully behind him and leaves the room. If a small voice in the back of his head is suggesting him that if they ever meet again he should try to talk to Sam again, he doesn’t pay attention to it.
End.
