fic. of sorts. *hides*
Title: Steak Tartar (or How Jack Got His Sea Legs)
Pairing: ...is there any other?
Rating: R-ish.
Synopsis: Rescue is not as instantaneous as you might think.
Wordcount: 2,652 (ohgod)
Prompt: fanfic100 014. Green.
Caution: OK, um. Don't read this if you're afraid of vomit. Or intensely bothered by mentions of insects. Um. Stop looking at me like that.
Notes: A "gift" (connotation dubious) for halfdutch, yesterday's queen at lostsquee, who might have requested something about grooming, so I thought TOOTHBRUSH and then this story happened. Out of laziness efficiency, I also proclaim that it fits foxxcub's current request, as it also features two boys kissing! Huge heaps of love to my beta arabella_hope, whose comments and title suggestions were invaluable, and who somehow has kept me just on this side of sane during the production of this weirdness. (ETA: Oh, also, she named the roaches, which means she wins at life.)
Futher Notes: This was the hardest story to title, ever. It may actually be worthy of a bad title contest. Anyway, on with the show:
Steak Tartar (or How Jack Got His Sea Legs)
In the end, it isn’t a rescue ship that finds them, but some sort of South Asian trade vessel carrying thousands of Louis Vuitton handbags and a colossal selection of ladies’ leather sandals. No one says anything, but Jack is sure they’re all thinking the same thing: it’s a damn shame that Shannon never lived to see it.
Those who did survive mill around on-deck, wind-tossed and jittery. They watch their island fade into a fuzzy green dot and then drop into the fiery red of the darkening ocean. Jack doesn’t look a single one of them in the eye.
Twenty minutes later, he’s bent painfully over the railing, spitting chunks of slightly used mango into the surf. Someone yanks his elbow and drags him below deck just as it starts to drizzle. It’s the last time he breathes unfiltered air for days.
The seasickness lasts the better part of a week and, humiliatingly, affects no one but Jack.
Still, despite the dizzy, confused haze that blurs his vision, despite the fact that he exists largely in the corridor between their collective sleeping quarters and the ship’s head, Jack absorbs a fair bit of information.
For instance, he learns that the ship was making its efficient way from Taiwan to New Zealand when it inexplicably veered off-course and paid them a visit. He learns that constant storms and one hell of a language barrier have been making it hard for the survivors to explain the severity of their situation to the ship’s occupants.. And he learns that the cockroaches that hang around the bathroom fixtures are the size of his entire hand, and that they don’t scatter when you turn on the light. Actually, they don’t scatter no matter what you do. He learns this last one the hard way.
Mostly, Hurley brings him water and sits with him, spewing one-sided gossip. Two or three times, Kate does the honours and Jack spends the entire time hiccupping and blushing like an idiot. Once, and only once, Charlie drops by and tries to cheer Jack up by singing famous songs about boats. Jack makes it through two choruses of The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald before taking a wild swing at Charlie’s head, and that’s the end of that.
Sawyer, though. Sawyer barely shows his face. Except that’s not entirely true. Sawyer is always around, always making sure Jack is watching him, usually across the greatest possible distance. He sets up his bedroll diagonally across from Jack’s. Each night, Jack watches the beam of Sawyer’s flashlight play over a printed page, across a vast expanse of sleeping bodies.
And when Jack happens to be slumped against a dingy sea-green-painted wall between bouts of being violently ill, Sawyer saunters to the very last urinal and makes a show out of unbuttoning his pants and taking a long, slow piss, one hand braced against the wall. It looks so damn satisfying, such a simple thing, that Jack even lets out a tiny moan, one that passes as inaudible until Sawyer’s gaze finds his for a split second. Then he’s buttoned up and out of there without even washing his hands.
Jack tries to push the whole incident, especially the hand-washing thing, right out of his mind, but it bothers him. It bothers him exponentially. It keeps him up at night, keeps him staring at that stubborn flashlight across the room while his stomach churns with the rocking of the giant ship.
Then, as abruptly as it began, it’s over. Jack wakes up on their fifth morning at sea to the sound of his stomach screaming for food and nothing but. His head is clear and empty, and his body feels well-rested, if a little weak. Considering the cold, hard floor he’s been sleeping on, cushioned by an inch-thick musty mattress, that’s pretty impressive.
When he gets to his feet and stretches sleepily, he wonders if it’s morning after all. Everyone else is huddled together, a mass of bodies, snoring softly. Jack marvels at their unconscious closeness, and feels a familiar pang. While the rest of the survivors have become so interlinked that he often thinks of them as one organism, Jack still remains at a distance. On the island, he told himself it was deliberate: if he was to lead them effectively, objectivity was crucial. But now he’s not so sure it was his decision at all.
He looks down at them and wonders how this human knot will untangle itself when they reach dry land. How they’re going to go their separate ways and pretend they’re not part of a symbiotic relationship. Maybe Jack should be counting his lucky stars. No such heartbreak in his future. Not even with Kate, much as he would like there to be something between them. Something beyond a vague acknowledgement of their respective genders whenever they’re together.
“Bout time you got your sea legs, Doc,” Sawyer says from behind Jack, quiet enough so that Jack isn’t startled, just pulled from his thoughts back to reality. “All that spewing and drooling doesn’t become you. Sort of an embarrassment for the rest of us, actually.”
Jack lets out a humourless chuckle. “Sorry for your inconvenience.”
“I swiped something for you,” Sawyer says, even quieter. Jack turns then and faces him, startled by his bright grin. Dimples like headlights in the wide, windowless room.
“What?” Jack says, blinking the last few blurs of sleep from his eyes.
“Got ‘em from one of the sailor’s bags while he was on deck. Damn hard to do with fifty pairs of eyes watching, but I had to save them for you.”
“What are you talking about?” He’s fully awake now and Sawyer still isn’t making sense. Instead, he’s holding both hands behind his back and looking far too happy for someone who’s up this early and probably hasn’t seen actual daylight in days.
“Which hand you want, Doc?”
Jack stares at him and counts to twenty, waiting for those dimples to disappear. They don’t. He picks the left, and Sawyer produces a near-virgin tube of toothpaste with a flourish. Jack lets out a too-loud laugh, immediately regretting such an emotional reaction. Sawyer shows off the toothbrush clutched in his other hand.
“Only slightly pre-owned,” he says, managing to look sheepish somehow despite the steady 100-watt grin. It’s his eyes, Jack thinks. Downcast and shaded by heavy lids.
“This is…” Jack says, grabbing the items as if Sawyer’s about to snatch them back at any second. “Thanks. Really. Uh… even though you stole it.”
Sawyer shrugs as if to say I do what I can, which strikes Jack as kind of funny, but he resists the temptation to laugh this time. Instead he steps over a sleeping form and walks the familiar path to the head. Sawyer follows him, which he finds a bit unsettling.
“Kinda kooky, huh?” Sawyer says from close behind him. “We spend a year and a half trying everything we can think of to get away from that hellhole, and these guys just motor on by like it ain’t nothing special.”
“Yeah,” Jack says. “Kooky.” Why is he getting the impression Sawyer hasn’t spoken to anyone in days?
“You think we can still sue Oceanic if we know what caused the plane crash?”
Jack checks one of the sinks for lurking roaches before leaning his butt against it and folding his arms across his chest. “Probably not, and you shouldn’t be suing anybody. What do you think you’re going to do when we get back?”
Sawyer shrugs, his eyes wandering around the wet floor. “Don’t know. Probably just get some work, lay low. Try not to make too many waves.”
Jack nods. According to the passenger manifest and Jack’s records, James Ford died seven months ago.
“Yeah, but… what do you think you’ll do first? When we get back to the world?”
“Easy.” Sawyer grins and meets Jack’s gaze again, stepping closer. “I’m going to order an 18-ounce steak. Bloody as hell. And I’m gonna eat it naked. You?”
Jack chuckles uneasily, Sawyer suddenly seeming a bit too close, a bit wolf-like.
“I’m probably going to obsessively check all the baseball scores I missed. That sounds like me.”
“Yeah, it kinda does,” Sawyer says with a smirk, leaning in closer. “Doc?”
“Yeah?”
“You gonna brush those teeth?”
“I…”
“Cause I sort of intend to kiss you… you know, in the next couple of minutes.”
“Oh.”
“And you kinda smell like stomach right now.”
“Oh.” Jack thinks he might still be reacting to that first thing, the kiss thing. He thinks he could say, “Oh,” a few more dozen times before he was done.
“Teeth,” Sawyer says, and Jack says, “Yeah,” and somehow he turns around and runs the brush under the faucet. He slops on some toothpaste, and as soon as it enters his mouth, the minty freshness makes him smile. He starts off fast, toothpaste foaming up and tingling all over, a sensation he’d nearly forgotten. He wants to laugh, but instead he listens to the hollow sound the toothbrush makes, how the pitch changes when he opens his mouth wider, shifts his grip. Sawyer’s standing behind him, watching him in the mirror with mild amusement.
Jack spits and makes an accusing gesture with the foamy toothbrush. “Don’t say a word. This is fucking fantastic.” It’s probably the first time he’s ever actually relished such a menial task.
“I know,” Sawyer says. “I used it before you.”
Jack spits out another mouthful of foam. “Not too worried about counting your chicks, are you?” He bends down and slurps water straight from the faucet, then straightens, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm. Sawyer waits until he shuts off the faucet before saying anything.
“Not too concerned about chicks right now,” he says, his hands suddenly grazing Jack’s hips.
“Right…” Jack says, his brain still struggling to catch up to what’s happening. Somehow Sawyer is even closer now, almost pinning him to the sink, and when Jack turns to face him, Sawyer’s hands slip under the hem of his t-shirt. His fingers are warm, his thumbs tracing symmetrical lines just above Jack’s hipbones.
“Ready or not,” Sawyer mutters just before his lips slide against Jack’s. And Jack thinks truer words were never spoken, because although he knew it was coming, it takes him completely out of himself. Sawyer’s smell, and Sawyer’s heat, and just… Sawyer. Sawyer running his hand up Jack’s shirt and over his back, travelling over the groove of his spine. Sawyer sighing as if breathing has suddenly become painful, letting out a rush of hot air against Jack’s cheek. Sawyer’s tongue tasting Jack’s bottom lip, warming it after the cool water. He wasn’t ready for any of it.
Then Jack leans back against the sink, and his hands find their way into Sawyer’s hair. When he digs his fingers in, Sawyer lets out a breathless “Mmph” sound against his mouth, and that’s all it takes for Jack to part his lips, opening up to Sawyer, taking in his lower lip and sucking hard, things suddenly taking a turn for the not-so-gentle.
For a moment it looks like the whole thing is about to become a battle for dominance, and then Sawyer’s hand is sneaking down the front of Jack’s pants, and Jack is returning the favour, and the issue of whose hand wraps around whose erect cock first seems sort of beside the point, so Jack falls forward into Sawyer, forehead against his shoulder, breaking their kiss.
“So…” Jack says, breathless. He cups the warm flesh in his palm, slowly turns his wrist, enjoying the friction that makes Sawyer shudder and sigh.
“Yeah,” Sawyer says, and gives as good as he gets. He leans in to kiss Jack again, who’s writhing slightly under Sawyer’s touch, and not very steady on his feet at the moment.
Jack lets it go on for a delicious moment, the cool menthol sensation of toothpaste making him intensely aware of every little detail. Then he pulls away, a hand on Sawyer’s shoulder, keeping himself steady. Sawyer’s looking off to one side, staring intently at a mildew stain on the floor and breathing rather heavily to the rhythm of Jack’s thumb stroking him.
“How long?” Jack says, and Sawyer doesn’t shift his glance.
“Too long,” he mutters, and it looks physically painful for him to say.
Suddenly, Sawyer is squeezing him, working him fast and hard, pushing him toward completion. Jack lets out a startled grunt and nearly bites his own tongue. He struggles to pick up the pace himself, but Sawyer’s fingers, slick with precum and sliding expertly along his shaft, make it impossible for Jack to concentrate on the actions of his own hands. His surgeon’s fingers, once steady and precise, tremble and jerk as he runs them up Sawyer’s cock, tightening his grip involuntarily when a dizzying wave of arousal hits him. He digs his free hand into Sawyer’s neck where it meets his shoulder, and closes his eyes, trying to last, willing the building heat in his gut to slow down.
“Jesus,” Jack gasps, mouth against Sawyer’s shoulder. Sawyer, who’s pulling softly at Jack’s cock now, sending shivers up his spine and down into his legs. It’s a wonder he’s still standing, Jack thinks.
“What do you say, Doc…” Sawyer mutters. “You up for some naked steak?”
And before he has a chance to answer, Sawyer flicks his thumb back and forth over the head of Jack’s cock, and he’s done for, hips jerking forward, crying out ohgodthat’sit in the empty room, all his senses folding perfectly into one sensation. And for the first time, the rocking of the ship makes sense, falls into a flawless rhythm with the waves of pleasure pulsing through him. Sawyer’s spitting out single-syllable words (Doc… Jack… Fuck…) and Jack leans back against the sink before his knees have a chance to give out.
Sawyer keeps stroking him. Even after Jack comes, even after the tremors have passed and he’s limp and spent, Sawyer keeps one hand on Jack’s cock and one firm on his back.
It takes Jack a while to get his bearings, before he notices that his own hand is warm and wet, that Sawyer finished as well although Jack was so caught up in his own orgasm, he was hardly aware of it.
“You came…” Jack says, lips loosened by the current dopey state of his brain.
“Hell yeah, I came. Hard. Harder than you, maybe,” Sawyer says, and he’s looking straight at Jack when he says it, not at the mirror behind him, not at the floor. His focus flickers between Jack’s eyes like he can’t quite decide which one to address. A second later, Jack solves the issue for him by kissing him again, moist lips connecting with a stubbly cheek. Sawyer smiles and Jack dips his tongue into a dimple, which makes them both laugh.
“Good, I’m glad,” Jack says, as if it’s a matter of politeness. He doesn’t voice his next thought, which is: Next time I’ll try to notice.
And Sawyer might be a mind reader, because he gives Jack’s cock one last squeeze before letting it go, and says, “Next time, we should try it without an audience.” Jack looks, and there’s a pair of fat roaches lounging in the basin of the next sink over, antennae swaying hypnotically from side to side. He nearly swallows his tongue with the effort of expressing appropriate disgust:
“Uhrhgh.”
But Sawyer just shrugs. “I’m gonna head up top,” he says, as if nothing earth-shattering just happened. “Sun’s coming up soon.”
He’s down the hallway and almost out of Jack’s sight before he turns and says, “I bet you take yours well done.”
“Take my what?” Jack asks.
“Steak, Doc. Steak.”
And he leaves Jack with the roaches.
Pairing: ...is there any other?
Rating: R-ish.
Synopsis: Rescue is not as instantaneous as you might think.
Wordcount: 2,652 (ohgod)
Prompt: fanfic100 014. Green.
Caution: OK, um. Don't read this if you're afraid of vomit. Or intensely bothered by mentions of insects. Um. Stop looking at me like that.
Notes: A "gift" (connotation dubious) for halfdutch, yesterday's queen at lostsquee, who might have requested something about grooming, so I thought TOOTHBRUSH and then this story happened. Out of laziness efficiency, I also proclaim that it fits foxxcub's current request, as it also features two boys kissing! Huge heaps of love to my beta arabella_hope, whose comments and title suggestions were invaluable, and who somehow has kept me just on this side of sane during the production of this weirdness. (ETA: Oh, also, she named the roaches, which means she wins at life.)
Futher Notes: This was the hardest story to title, ever. It may actually be worthy of a bad title contest. Anyway, on with the show:
Steak Tartar (or How Jack Got His Sea Legs)
In the end, it isn’t a rescue ship that finds them, but some sort of South Asian trade vessel carrying thousands of Louis Vuitton handbags and a colossal selection of ladies’ leather sandals. No one says anything, but Jack is sure they’re all thinking the same thing: it’s a damn shame that Shannon never lived to see it.
Those who did survive mill around on-deck, wind-tossed and jittery. They watch their island fade into a fuzzy green dot and then drop into the fiery red of the darkening ocean. Jack doesn’t look a single one of them in the eye.
Twenty minutes later, he’s bent painfully over the railing, spitting chunks of slightly used mango into the surf. Someone yanks his elbow and drags him below deck just as it starts to drizzle. It’s the last time he breathes unfiltered air for days.
The seasickness lasts the better part of a week and, humiliatingly, affects no one but Jack.
Still, despite the dizzy, confused haze that blurs his vision, despite the fact that he exists largely in the corridor between their collective sleeping quarters and the ship’s head, Jack absorbs a fair bit of information.
For instance, he learns that the ship was making its efficient way from Taiwan to New Zealand when it inexplicably veered off-course and paid them a visit. He learns that constant storms and one hell of a language barrier have been making it hard for the survivors to explain the severity of their situation to the ship’s occupants.. And he learns that the cockroaches that hang around the bathroom fixtures are the size of his entire hand, and that they don’t scatter when you turn on the light. Actually, they don’t scatter no matter what you do. He learns this last one the hard way.
Mostly, Hurley brings him water and sits with him, spewing one-sided gossip. Two or three times, Kate does the honours and Jack spends the entire time hiccupping and blushing like an idiot. Once, and only once, Charlie drops by and tries to cheer Jack up by singing famous songs about boats. Jack makes it through two choruses of The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald before taking a wild swing at Charlie’s head, and that’s the end of that.
Sawyer, though. Sawyer barely shows his face. Except that’s not entirely true. Sawyer is always around, always making sure Jack is watching him, usually across the greatest possible distance. He sets up his bedroll diagonally across from Jack’s. Each night, Jack watches the beam of Sawyer’s flashlight play over a printed page, across a vast expanse of sleeping bodies.
And when Jack happens to be slumped against a dingy sea-green-painted wall between bouts of being violently ill, Sawyer saunters to the very last urinal and makes a show out of unbuttoning his pants and taking a long, slow piss, one hand braced against the wall. It looks so damn satisfying, such a simple thing, that Jack even lets out a tiny moan, one that passes as inaudible until Sawyer’s gaze finds his for a split second. Then he’s buttoned up and out of there without even washing his hands.
Jack tries to push the whole incident, especially the hand-washing thing, right out of his mind, but it bothers him. It bothers him exponentially. It keeps him up at night, keeps him staring at that stubborn flashlight across the room while his stomach churns with the rocking of the giant ship.
Then, as abruptly as it began, it’s over. Jack wakes up on their fifth morning at sea to the sound of his stomach screaming for food and nothing but. His head is clear and empty, and his body feels well-rested, if a little weak. Considering the cold, hard floor he’s been sleeping on, cushioned by an inch-thick musty mattress, that’s pretty impressive.
When he gets to his feet and stretches sleepily, he wonders if it’s morning after all. Everyone else is huddled together, a mass of bodies, snoring softly. Jack marvels at their unconscious closeness, and feels a familiar pang. While the rest of the survivors have become so interlinked that he often thinks of them as one organism, Jack still remains at a distance. On the island, he told himself it was deliberate: if he was to lead them effectively, objectivity was crucial. But now he’s not so sure it was his decision at all.
He looks down at them and wonders how this human knot will untangle itself when they reach dry land. How they’re going to go their separate ways and pretend they’re not part of a symbiotic relationship. Maybe Jack should be counting his lucky stars. No such heartbreak in his future. Not even with Kate, much as he would like there to be something between them. Something beyond a vague acknowledgement of their respective genders whenever they’re together.
“Bout time you got your sea legs, Doc,” Sawyer says from behind Jack, quiet enough so that Jack isn’t startled, just pulled from his thoughts back to reality. “All that spewing and drooling doesn’t become you. Sort of an embarrassment for the rest of us, actually.”
Jack lets out a humourless chuckle. “Sorry for your inconvenience.”
“I swiped something for you,” Sawyer says, even quieter. Jack turns then and faces him, startled by his bright grin. Dimples like headlights in the wide, windowless room.
“What?” Jack says, blinking the last few blurs of sleep from his eyes.
“Got ‘em from one of the sailor’s bags while he was on deck. Damn hard to do with fifty pairs of eyes watching, but I had to save them for you.”
“What are you talking about?” He’s fully awake now and Sawyer still isn’t making sense. Instead, he’s holding both hands behind his back and looking far too happy for someone who’s up this early and probably hasn’t seen actual daylight in days.
“Which hand you want, Doc?”
Jack stares at him and counts to twenty, waiting for those dimples to disappear. They don’t. He picks the left, and Sawyer produces a near-virgin tube of toothpaste with a flourish. Jack lets out a too-loud laugh, immediately regretting such an emotional reaction. Sawyer shows off the toothbrush clutched in his other hand.
“Only slightly pre-owned,” he says, managing to look sheepish somehow despite the steady 100-watt grin. It’s his eyes, Jack thinks. Downcast and shaded by heavy lids.
“This is…” Jack says, grabbing the items as if Sawyer’s about to snatch them back at any second. “Thanks. Really. Uh… even though you stole it.”
Sawyer shrugs as if to say I do what I can, which strikes Jack as kind of funny, but he resists the temptation to laugh this time. Instead he steps over a sleeping form and walks the familiar path to the head. Sawyer follows him, which he finds a bit unsettling.
“Kinda kooky, huh?” Sawyer says from close behind him. “We spend a year and a half trying everything we can think of to get away from that hellhole, and these guys just motor on by like it ain’t nothing special.”
“Yeah,” Jack says. “Kooky.” Why is he getting the impression Sawyer hasn’t spoken to anyone in days?
“You think we can still sue Oceanic if we know what caused the plane crash?”
Jack checks one of the sinks for lurking roaches before leaning his butt against it and folding his arms across his chest. “Probably not, and you shouldn’t be suing anybody. What do you think you’re going to do when we get back?”
Sawyer shrugs, his eyes wandering around the wet floor. “Don’t know. Probably just get some work, lay low. Try not to make too many waves.”
Jack nods. According to the passenger manifest and Jack’s records, James Ford died seven months ago.
“Yeah, but… what do you think you’ll do first? When we get back to the world?”
“Easy.” Sawyer grins and meets Jack’s gaze again, stepping closer. “I’m going to order an 18-ounce steak. Bloody as hell. And I’m gonna eat it naked. You?”
Jack chuckles uneasily, Sawyer suddenly seeming a bit too close, a bit wolf-like.
“I’m probably going to obsessively check all the baseball scores I missed. That sounds like me.”
“Yeah, it kinda does,” Sawyer says with a smirk, leaning in closer. “Doc?”
“Yeah?”
“You gonna brush those teeth?”
“I…”
“Cause I sort of intend to kiss you… you know, in the next couple of minutes.”
“Oh.”
“And you kinda smell like stomach right now.”
“Oh.” Jack thinks he might still be reacting to that first thing, the kiss thing. He thinks he could say, “Oh,” a few more dozen times before he was done.
“Teeth,” Sawyer says, and Jack says, “Yeah,” and somehow he turns around and runs the brush under the faucet. He slops on some toothpaste, and as soon as it enters his mouth, the minty freshness makes him smile. He starts off fast, toothpaste foaming up and tingling all over, a sensation he’d nearly forgotten. He wants to laugh, but instead he listens to the hollow sound the toothbrush makes, how the pitch changes when he opens his mouth wider, shifts his grip. Sawyer’s standing behind him, watching him in the mirror with mild amusement.
Jack spits and makes an accusing gesture with the foamy toothbrush. “Don’t say a word. This is fucking fantastic.” It’s probably the first time he’s ever actually relished such a menial task.
“I know,” Sawyer says. “I used it before you.”
Jack spits out another mouthful of foam. “Not too worried about counting your chicks, are you?” He bends down and slurps water straight from the faucet, then straightens, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm. Sawyer waits until he shuts off the faucet before saying anything.
“Not too concerned about chicks right now,” he says, his hands suddenly grazing Jack’s hips.
“Right…” Jack says, his brain still struggling to catch up to what’s happening. Somehow Sawyer is even closer now, almost pinning him to the sink, and when Jack turns to face him, Sawyer’s hands slip under the hem of his t-shirt. His fingers are warm, his thumbs tracing symmetrical lines just above Jack’s hipbones.
“Ready or not,” Sawyer mutters just before his lips slide against Jack’s. And Jack thinks truer words were never spoken, because although he knew it was coming, it takes him completely out of himself. Sawyer’s smell, and Sawyer’s heat, and just… Sawyer. Sawyer running his hand up Jack’s shirt and over his back, travelling over the groove of his spine. Sawyer sighing as if breathing has suddenly become painful, letting out a rush of hot air against Jack’s cheek. Sawyer’s tongue tasting Jack’s bottom lip, warming it after the cool water. He wasn’t ready for any of it.
Then Jack leans back against the sink, and his hands find their way into Sawyer’s hair. When he digs his fingers in, Sawyer lets out a breathless “Mmph” sound against his mouth, and that’s all it takes for Jack to part his lips, opening up to Sawyer, taking in his lower lip and sucking hard, things suddenly taking a turn for the not-so-gentle.
For a moment it looks like the whole thing is about to become a battle for dominance, and then Sawyer’s hand is sneaking down the front of Jack’s pants, and Jack is returning the favour, and the issue of whose hand wraps around whose erect cock first seems sort of beside the point, so Jack falls forward into Sawyer, forehead against his shoulder, breaking their kiss.
“So…” Jack says, breathless. He cups the warm flesh in his palm, slowly turns his wrist, enjoying the friction that makes Sawyer shudder and sigh.
“Yeah,” Sawyer says, and gives as good as he gets. He leans in to kiss Jack again, who’s writhing slightly under Sawyer’s touch, and not very steady on his feet at the moment.
Jack lets it go on for a delicious moment, the cool menthol sensation of toothpaste making him intensely aware of every little detail. Then he pulls away, a hand on Sawyer’s shoulder, keeping himself steady. Sawyer’s looking off to one side, staring intently at a mildew stain on the floor and breathing rather heavily to the rhythm of Jack’s thumb stroking him.
“How long?” Jack says, and Sawyer doesn’t shift his glance.
“Too long,” he mutters, and it looks physically painful for him to say.
Suddenly, Sawyer is squeezing him, working him fast and hard, pushing him toward completion. Jack lets out a startled grunt and nearly bites his own tongue. He struggles to pick up the pace himself, but Sawyer’s fingers, slick with precum and sliding expertly along his shaft, make it impossible for Jack to concentrate on the actions of his own hands. His surgeon’s fingers, once steady and precise, tremble and jerk as he runs them up Sawyer’s cock, tightening his grip involuntarily when a dizzying wave of arousal hits him. He digs his free hand into Sawyer’s neck where it meets his shoulder, and closes his eyes, trying to last, willing the building heat in his gut to slow down.
“Jesus,” Jack gasps, mouth against Sawyer’s shoulder. Sawyer, who’s pulling softly at Jack’s cock now, sending shivers up his spine and down into his legs. It’s a wonder he’s still standing, Jack thinks.
“What do you say, Doc…” Sawyer mutters. “You up for some naked steak?”
And before he has a chance to answer, Sawyer flicks his thumb back and forth over the head of Jack’s cock, and he’s done for, hips jerking forward, crying out ohgodthat’sit in the empty room, all his senses folding perfectly into one sensation. And for the first time, the rocking of the ship makes sense, falls into a flawless rhythm with the waves of pleasure pulsing through him. Sawyer’s spitting out single-syllable words (Doc… Jack… Fuck…) and Jack leans back against the sink before his knees have a chance to give out.
Sawyer keeps stroking him. Even after Jack comes, even after the tremors have passed and he’s limp and spent, Sawyer keeps one hand on Jack’s cock and one firm on his back.
It takes Jack a while to get his bearings, before he notices that his own hand is warm and wet, that Sawyer finished as well although Jack was so caught up in his own orgasm, he was hardly aware of it.
“You came…” Jack says, lips loosened by the current dopey state of his brain.
“Hell yeah, I came. Hard. Harder than you, maybe,” Sawyer says, and he’s looking straight at Jack when he says it, not at the mirror behind him, not at the floor. His focus flickers between Jack’s eyes like he can’t quite decide which one to address. A second later, Jack solves the issue for him by kissing him again, moist lips connecting with a stubbly cheek. Sawyer smiles and Jack dips his tongue into a dimple, which makes them both laugh.
“Good, I’m glad,” Jack says, as if it’s a matter of politeness. He doesn’t voice his next thought, which is: Next time I’ll try to notice.
And Sawyer might be a mind reader, because he gives Jack’s cock one last squeeze before letting it go, and says, “Next time, we should try it without an audience.” Jack looks, and there’s a pair of fat roaches lounging in the basin of the next sink over, antennae swaying hypnotically from side to side. He nearly swallows his tongue with the effort of expressing appropriate disgust:
“Uhrhgh.”
But Sawyer just shrugs. “I’m gonna head up top,” he says, as if nothing earth-shattering just happened. “Sun’s coming up soon.”
He’s down the hallway and almost out of Jack’s sight before he turns and says, “I bet you take yours well done.”
“Take my what?” Jack asks.
“Steak, Doc. Steak.”
And he leaves Jack with the roaches.