Fic: Lower Cases And Capitals (1/1)
Title: Lower Cases And Capitals
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sawyer/Miles
Word Count: 1,124
Summary: This is the quick and dirty sort of thing that you never mention after it happens. For gottalovev, who requested “1st time” at The lostsquee 2009 Lost Summer Luau, and for the 15pairings Prompt #6 - Morning After. Spoilers through 5.13 - Some Like It Hoth.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Title belongs to Brand New.
Author’s Notes: For gottalovev: I’m hoping, since you mentioned you were keen on both characters, and that you’d read Sawyer/anyone, that this works for you! And hopefully the mild-insomnia that spurred this quick response didn’t make this way too fragmented to follow :)
Lower Cases And Capitals
It’s wordless, there are no words, but if there were words, they’d be short ones; short ones with lots of capital letters and exclamation points and spelling mistakes because whatever’s happening here defies the laws of physics, the very terms of engagement, the rules of fucking grammar.
It’s amazing what the jumpsuit can do, what it can hide, the way the uniform hangs off his frame so loose that Miles doesn't even notice Jim’s hard until the zipper’s half down his thigh. The denim he’s wearing underneath, though, leaves little to the imagination, if in fact Miles had ever bothered to think about what the illustrious Mr. LaFleur’s cock looked like, strained against his jeans.
Which he hadn’t, for the record, thought of. Ever.
Miles has the button through its hole with a quick flip of his thumb before either of them can stop to wonder why this is such a fucking terrible idea (and why the hell have they not done this shit sooner?), and the zipper cracks in half without much coaxing; the well-worn Levi’s slide down tanned legs, bunched with damp boxers, and James’s erection barely has time to twitch at the quick chill of the midnight breeze before Miles’s mouth is on top of it, all around it, drinking him in and swallowing him down.
It’s not about teasing or drawing it out, not about pleasure, really, or making it real fucking good for either one of them - this is the quick and dirty sort of thing that you never mention after it happens, the sort that involves Miles’s hands pressed against Jim’s ankles instead of teasing his balls as he sucks around his length, the sort that doesn’t lick along throbbing veins or moan as wet, rushing warmth spill ssmooth and bitter down his throat and trickles out from lips moving like a fucking fish out of water around that slowly-shrinking cock; but instead it’s the sort that keeps a lid on all that shit and leaves the only sounds exchanged to be the sucking - whether of breath or of flesh, it’s all relative.
Miles is on his feet, heat heavy in his gut as LaFleur palms him through the khaki fabric of his still-very-much-on security getup, and Miles gets off on the friction between all the layers, the way Jim handles him through the fabric without subtlety, without consideration - a fucking man’s hands jerking him off, rough and angry and quick because this isn’t about kissing and touching or the stubble on Jim’s chin or the curve of Miles’s hairline or any of that fucking female bullshit; and that simple fact gets him hotter than he’s been in a really long time.
Everything’s dark, blacks and whites are all he sees, but that might just be the tension between his thighs building up and fucking with his brain, his vision, scrambling the rods or cones or whatever like eggs over easy or some shit; he can’t be sure, but it doesn’t matter, anyway - nothing matters. They’re hidden by the shadow cast in the overhang of Daddy Chang’s back porch, and fuck all if this wouldn’t be so very, very wrong under normal circumstances, except that this is anything but normal - they’re anything but normal and here is anything but normal - and for all he cares his own mother can walk out the door he’s braced against and knock him to his knees, dick hard and pants down, so long as James fucking LaFleur’s hand doesn’t let go of him as they hit the floor.
Miles lets his head bang back against the doorframe, half-hoping his little baby self would do him a favor and make some noise inside to cover up the impact, and he knows the base of his skull’s going to bruise, but it’s all he can do to keep from growling, keep from screaming because this is fucking insane, is what this is - this is fire and burning and tension and rubbing and kneading, and needing, and goddamn but this is the best hand job Miles has ever gotten. Ever.
And that’s saying something.
He bites his lip, his tongue, and he can taste the blood like acid, even over the lingering, souring taste of Jim - he comes hard without so much as a squeal, not so much as an audible gasp, but his taste buds are fucking torn off the one half of his tongue by the time he’s rode it out, colors slowly bleeding back in waves as he takes in the red of his skin in the moonlight, the yellow of the half-cocked lamp shining above him, mounted by the door, the blue of the veins in his arms.
Jim stares him down, eyes hooded and something like hate, like fury spinning harsh in his gaze; Miles reaches down to finger the growing wet spot soaking through his jumpsuit on instinct, his fingers slick as he pulls back, even through the material. Jim doesn’t so much as smirk his satisfaction, just pauses, looking at him, through him, before taking a step back, zipping himself up the rest of the way, and wiping his hand once, twice against the side of his uniform before running restless fingers through his hair, mussing the sweat through the locks so it isn’t even noticeable any more. Fuck him, Miles thinks; just, fuck him - fuck him and the way he can cover it all up, fuck him when Miles has a damn cum stain in his only clean jumpsuit, and fuck him when he’s leaving Miles wet and soggy, steeped in his own fucking orgasm in his own fucking pants, drying to the crotch as the minutes pass, the bastard.
Just - fuck him.
They go their separate ways, the sticky residue of his own seed still flat against his fingertips, and Miles figures if he sleeps an extra hour before reporting in the morning (and if he wears the uniform with the chemical burn all down the left sleeve), Jim doesn’t have any room to complain.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sawyer/Miles
Word Count: 1,124
Summary: This is the quick and dirty sort of thing that you never mention after it happens. For gottalovev, who requested “1st time” at The lostsquee 2009 Lost Summer Luau, and for the 15pairings Prompt #6 - Morning After. Spoilers through 5.13 - Some Like It Hoth.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. Title belongs to Brand New.
Author’s Notes: For gottalovev: I’m hoping, since you mentioned you were keen on both characters, and that you’d read Sawyer/anyone, that this works for you! And hopefully the mild-insomnia that spurred this quick response didn’t make this way too fragmented to follow :)
Lower Cases And Capitals
It’s wordless, there are no words, but if there were words, they’d be short ones; short ones with lots of capital letters and exclamation points and spelling mistakes because whatever’s happening here defies the laws of physics, the very terms of engagement, the rules of fucking grammar.
It’s amazing what the jumpsuit can do, what it can hide, the way the uniform hangs off his frame so loose that Miles doesn't even notice Jim’s hard until the zipper’s half down his thigh. The denim he’s wearing underneath, though, leaves little to the imagination, if in fact Miles had ever bothered to think about what the illustrious Mr. LaFleur’s cock looked like, strained against his jeans.
Which he hadn’t, for the record, thought of. Ever.
Miles has the button through its hole with a quick flip of his thumb before either of them can stop to wonder why this is such a fucking terrible idea (and why the hell have they not done this shit sooner?), and the zipper cracks in half without much coaxing; the well-worn Levi’s slide down tanned legs, bunched with damp boxers, and James’s erection barely has time to twitch at the quick chill of the midnight breeze before Miles’s mouth is on top of it, all around it, drinking him in and swallowing him down.
It’s not about teasing or drawing it out, not about pleasure, really, or making it real fucking good for either one of them - this is the quick and dirty sort of thing that you never mention after it happens, the sort that involves Miles’s hands pressed against Jim’s ankles instead of teasing his balls as he sucks around his length, the sort that doesn’t lick along throbbing veins or moan as wet, rushing warmth spill ssmooth and bitter down his throat and trickles out from lips moving like a fucking fish out of water around that slowly-shrinking cock; but instead it’s the sort that keeps a lid on all that shit and leaves the only sounds exchanged to be the sucking - whether of breath or of flesh, it’s all relative.
Miles is on his feet, heat heavy in his gut as LaFleur palms him through the khaki fabric of his still-very-much-on security getup, and Miles gets off on the friction between all the layers, the way Jim handles him through the fabric without subtlety, without consideration - a fucking man’s hands jerking him off, rough and angry and quick because this isn’t about kissing and touching or the stubble on Jim’s chin or the curve of Miles’s hairline or any of that fucking female bullshit; and that simple fact gets him hotter than he’s been in a really long time.
Everything’s dark, blacks and whites are all he sees, but that might just be the tension between his thighs building up and fucking with his brain, his vision, scrambling the rods or cones or whatever like eggs over easy or some shit; he can’t be sure, but it doesn’t matter, anyway - nothing matters. They’re hidden by the shadow cast in the overhang of Daddy Chang’s back porch, and fuck all if this wouldn’t be so very, very wrong under normal circumstances, except that this is anything but normal - they’re anything but normal and here is anything but normal - and for all he cares his own mother can walk out the door he’s braced against and knock him to his knees, dick hard and pants down, so long as James fucking LaFleur’s hand doesn’t let go of him as they hit the floor.
Miles lets his head bang back against the doorframe, half-hoping his little baby self would do him a favor and make some noise inside to cover up the impact, and he knows the base of his skull’s going to bruise, but it’s all he can do to keep from growling, keep from screaming because this is fucking insane, is what this is - this is fire and burning and tension and rubbing and kneading, and needing, and goddamn but this is the best hand job Miles has ever gotten. Ever.
And that’s saying something.
He bites his lip, his tongue, and he can taste the blood like acid, even over the lingering, souring taste of Jim - he comes hard without so much as a squeal, not so much as an audible gasp, but his taste buds are fucking torn off the one half of his tongue by the time he’s rode it out, colors slowly bleeding back in waves as he takes in the red of his skin in the moonlight, the yellow of the half-cocked lamp shining above him, mounted by the door, the blue of the veins in his arms.
Jim stares him down, eyes hooded and something like hate, like fury spinning harsh in his gaze; Miles reaches down to finger the growing wet spot soaking through his jumpsuit on instinct, his fingers slick as he pulls back, even through the material. Jim doesn’t so much as smirk his satisfaction, just pauses, looking at him, through him, before taking a step back, zipping himself up the rest of the way, and wiping his hand once, twice against the side of his uniform before running restless fingers through his hair, mussing the sweat through the locks so it isn’t even noticeable any more. Fuck him, Miles thinks; just, fuck him - fuck him and the way he can cover it all up, fuck him when Miles has a damn cum stain in his only clean jumpsuit, and fuck him when he’s leaving Miles wet and soggy, steeped in his own fucking orgasm in his own fucking pants, drying to the crotch as the minutes pass, the bastard.
Just - fuck him.
They go their separate ways, the sticky residue of his own seed still flat against his fingertips, and Miles figures if he sleeps an extra hour before reporting in the morning (and if he wears the uniform with the chemical burn all down the left sleeve), Jim doesn’t have any room to complain.