Fic: Afterglow (Sawyer/Sayid, AU)
Title: Afterglow
Pairing: Sawyer/Sayid
Rating: take a wild guess (and hit 'back' if you're under 18)
Summary: This is in the same AU as my Jack/Sawyer story Foreplay (no I did NOT make Sayid a musician), not that it matters a damn bit if you've read that story. Suffice it to say, Sawyer's still Sawyer, just a bartender, and you can probably shave about 5 years off his current age.
Note: For luau Queen zelda_zee, which means I wrote this today, so forgive it if it's uneven. Warning, darling: I have never written Sayid in an AU. But if you can put him in a purple silk shirt and make him a cock-teasing millionaire, I can do whatever I want. :p
Afterglow
It was one of those nights, dark and more smoky than usual in the bar, the band playing some languid music that Sawyer occasionally found himself totally caught up in, nodding his head long with the low, steady beat, falling under to the sound of the lead singer's clear voice, tinged with a hint of pain. It was a dismal night, as nights went--the rain was a drizzle outside, the people inside were meandering aimlessly, most of them too drunk to be all that depressed anymore. But they might have been drunk enough to let their fists find the face of the brooding, gorgeous brown-skinned man in the corner.
Sawyer was curious. Sandy had been pouring the man straight gin, the best they had, and he'd been sitting in that corner for at least three hours, chain smoking and looking out at the world through eyes so large and dark that Sawyer couldn't stop staring. But that was the only part of him that seemed to open to the world: something in his very posture looked closed, drawn in, protective. Sawyer didn't half blame him, although he did wonder what brought such a man out in the first place, much less to a bar in Tennessee. Luckily, nobody had noticed him yet, nobody except Sawyer, who watched entranced as the man kept his eyes on the stage and held cigarette after cigarette tensely between his fingers, contrasting with the slow, even inhalations and exhalations of the smoke.
The man didn't seem to notice him, which was odd because the bar wasn't exactly full and he was surely the brightest thing in it, even if he was far from feeling particularly dazzling. Actually, though, the man must've have noticed him because he seemed to be avoiding Sawyer on purpose, only going to Sandy for more gin, even though Sandy would have gladly wiggled her ass across the room to bring him refills. Ordinarily, it would have made Sawyer try harder, make himself obnoxious to get attention or at least put himself in the man's path, to gague him, if he hadn't already deduced his sexual preference. But this man made him pause. It didn't matter a bit wether he was gay or straight or somewhere in that gray area in between. There was some sort of darkness there that told Sawyer this man knew exactly what he wanted and didn't want, and apparently tonight he wanted to be left alone. He was like Sawyer, watching the world drift by, but he didn't bother to frame his observations with a smirk; he simply left all that darkness out on display without revealing one iota of what it might be except dangerous and apparently able to nearly drown a person, water closing over him before he took a breath. But this man--he stayed just on the edge of drowning, not even fighting it, really; he was simply strong enough that it couldn't pull him under. Sawyer wasn't entirely confident he was that strong, not tonight.
So Sawyer left him alone. He stood behind the bar, washing glasses and keeping a close eye on the gaggle of 22-year-old girls in the corner, listening to the music until the band faded away and the bar became what it always did on a weeknight like this: stark, dirty, dark, and empty. Sawyer couldn't think of a lonelier place in the world than a bar at 1 a.m. on a Tuesday. It even got to him--made him contemplative and mopey--unless someone came along worth working up the energy to flirt with. The man in the corner, the dark man braving ignorance or simply not giving even half a shit if he found it, the man with eyes that pulled you in but were unreadable at the same time--ordinarily, he would've been the only one worth the effort, under any circumstances, and even with the bar crowded with other possibilities, but tonight Sawyer doubted as if going after him would be anything more than irresistible force meets immovable object, give or take which of them was which.
Sawyer went into the back to get a new bottle of kahluha, and when he came back out, the man was sitting at the bar, right in front of where he'd been standing. Cigarette in hand, he watched Sawyer shuffle up with a blank face. He was amost imperceptibly hunched over on the stool, holding himself up impressively but obviously drunk. Sawyer wished he'd seen him walking-he had no good idea of what his body looked like or how he moved, not to mention he was curious to know how a man could hold that much liquor and be so steady-but he had to content himself with staring at his chest and shoulders, watching the glowing brown of his skin emerge from the neckline of his blue t-shirt.
Suddenly, just after he released a long stream of smoke from his lungs, he said, "Of course, it is generally against my religion to smoke and drink, but I do it anyway."
Sawyer must've looked at him with both confusion and a little shock, because he almost smiled. Then he added in that same clipped but soft vaguely middle eastern accent, "In case you wondered."
"Now, why would I wonder anything about you?"
"Now, why would you stare at me all night and then act as though you weren't."
Frowning, he tossed his towel on the bar and walked a few paces away, saying, "I didn't mean anything by it. I don't give a rat's ass if you're a Muslim, man. I thought maybe some of them would, but-"
The man's laugh cut him off. Even though it was a bitter laugh, it still forced his face into a lazy smile. He said, "If they only knew."
"Do I want to?" Sawyer asked him.
"Probably not. Let us say I am no threat to you, and I am neither Indian nor Irani nor Saudi."
"Well, hell, it all amounts to the same thing where most people around here are concerned. Unless you're…"
The man gave him a long look, and Sawyer exhaled sharply. "Well, now I think you're maybe more stupid than brave."
"It is possible to be both at once. But what I find interesting is that you haven't denied you have been staring at me all night."
"And I’m beginning to think you don't mind a damn bit."
"No, I mind. Very much. It makes my mind a great deal harder to understand."
"I'd think the bottle of gin wouldn't exactly help in that department."
"Maybe I wanted to be confused."
"Maybe you're never confused."
The man's eyes narrowed, and he said with a sigh, "You are a strange man. Do you always talk this much?"
"Just when I have to make conversation with the drunks."
"So this isn't flirting?"
He was taken aback with such an open reference, but he shook it off. "Let me see… Do I usually discuss politics and philosophy when I'm flirting? No."
"Interesting that you'd call it philosophy," he said, tipping his cigarette into the ashtray. "And fortunate that you aren't flirting, because looking at a man the way you're looking at me is also against my religion."
Sawyer swore he saw a smile at that, visible only in a softening of his face. His eyes suddenly warmed, just before he closed them and slid off the stool. Taking his drink in hand, he turned to go back toward his table, but then he stopped and looked back and said, "I haven't seen you smoking behind the bar."
"Against the rules."
"Would you join me outside, then? A break."
"It's cold and rainy."
"We will find a way to keep warm," he said, raising his eyebrows slightly before floating toward the side door, his tight, compact body moving loosely with the alcohol. Sawyer felt himself stopped there, staring at the closing door the same way he'd been mesmerized by the music earlier, and his mind was equally on something else entirely, except this time it wasn't dark but warm and the promise of something solid and maybe tonight he'd let himself be fucked. It had been a long time, and if he got what he hadn't even been looking for with this man, it would have to be on the man's terms. Luckily, he seemed the type to be quite comfortable being in charge.
Sawyer slid through the door to find that the rain had stopped, but the dampness still chilled him through his black button-down shirt. The man didn't seem in the slightest bit cold. After watching curiously as Sawyer pulled out his pack of Newports and took his first long drag, he said, "They call you Sawyer?"
"Yeah."
"But that is not your real name."
"No."
"I sometimes use the name Raj. I do have times when I am much more willing to seem Pakistani or Indian."
"Not that most people know the difference anyway. A towel head is just a towel head. Not to me, you understand. I don't use those words."
"I see." He leaned into the cold stone beside the door. "Do you ever wish to hide?"
"Hide what?"
"For one thing, your accent."
"I don't do that very well."
"You shouldn't. It's charming."
"You're full of shit. I know exactly what my accent makes you think."
"What?"
"What it makes everybody who ain't from down here think: that I'm stupid."
Sawyer had no idea what made him say that, why he would volunteer one of his insecurities like that. But the man waved his hand, trailing smoke out into the strange glow coming from the streetlight at the end of the alley. "I don't listen to that as much as to your tone, but, yes, perhaps that's an ignorant person's first impression, one you don't bother to contradict at times, am I correct?"
Sawyer just nodded, suddenly feeling the cold in his bones. The cigarette had leveled his nerves a bit, but he couldn't quite get his equilibrium back since he'd been given possibilities. The man was no longer bothering to hide his fascination with Sawyer, with every move he made, especially when he pursed the cigarette between his lips. He wasn't exactly open now, just clearer about how much he wasn't letting come to the surface. Sawyer saw it there, coiled and tight, almost as much as he felt it, now that the man was slowly but surely moving into his personal space, not touching him but not-touching him, the energy in his hands and the breath between his lips drawing Sawyer like heat.
After he stomped out his cigarette, he waited for Sawyer to finish and do likewise, and he said, "Are you comfortable here?"
"In what way?"
Stepping in front of him, his head tilted as he held his gaze, he said, "In the dark. In an alley. In the cold."
"I seem to remember a promise about warming up."
He felt like his words were as good as a switch, because the man's face did light up, just like that, a smooth smile and, once again, the eyes closing against a blaze of heat. The man said, "It took me a long time and a lot of liquor to decide that I would allow myself to have this tonight. And now I fear you will make me want to kiss you."
"You don't kiss?"
"Not typically. But I cannot help but think you taste sweet."
Sawyer snorted. "I'll taste like Newports and Guinness draft."
With a predatory face, the man lay a hand on his chest and pushed him into the wall, hard enough for him to feel it but not hard enough to hurt. He said, "What makes you think I was talking about your mouth?" Then he gave a sly smile and deftly pulled back the collar of Sawyer's shirt so he could close his lips over Sawyer's neck, hot and wet and sending a sharp, quick spike of adrenaline through him just before he felt himself go desperately hard. His body reeled with all the new smells, something besides alcohol and smoke: coconut, in his hair, and underneath it the spicy scent of his body. He let out a gasp as he felt the man's hands on his neck, then falling down his chest, stopping at the button of his fly, hesitating until he whispered in his ear, "You should call me Sayid."
Sawyer wanted to hate seeing him go to his knees there on the damp pavement, but looking down to see his dick hanging there, Sayid mouthing the head, pulling with his lips and flicking his tongue, he somehow forgot about the alley altogether, only seeing that head of curly black hair shining in the dim light and his pink mouth sliding up and down his shaft, so hot and wet, and when he swept his lips back down to the head, the chill air blew across the damp skin of his cock just before it was engulfed in that heat again, such steady, amazing pressure. Sawyer let his hands rest on Sayid's head, tangling into the curls there, and quickly they found a rhythm, his hips and his hands in his hair and Sayid's bobbing head, but when Sawyer pulled at his curls just a little more sharply than he meant to, and he heard a groan and felt Sayid take him in deeper, pulling his hips forward more sharply, he just let it all go. The harder he pulled Sayid's hair, the hotter it seemed to make him, and it became a glorious push-pull-Sawyer's hips thrusting into his mouth as he pulled Sayid's head toward him, then the dull banging of his body back into the concrete as Sayid groaned and licked at the head of his cock, already eager to take him back in again.
"Fuck," Sawyer mumbled. "Oh, fuck." Then he flattened himself into the wall and pulled Sayid with him, "God, now. Fuck." He closed his eyes and Sayid worked him over hard, and his hips made one final push as he shot off in Sayid's mouth, feeling the wet, sticky heat of it.
Instantly, he released his grip on Sayid's hair, and that was enough cue, he supposed, because Sayid was standing and pressing him into the wall so hard it would leave bruises, and he thrust his tongue into Sawyer's mouth so he could taste himself on Sayid's full, parted lips. Sayid was a good six inches shorter than he was, and it was almost too much seeing him stretch himself to Sawyer's height, bending and clutching to get him where he wanted him. Sayid's cock ground into his thigh and then suddenly Sayid was pulling back, gasping and doing his damndest to calm himself. His pupils were blown, as though he only now seemed as drunk as he was, and as if he suddenly didn't mind completely dropping that shield that had been up all night.
Against his neck, in an even but thick voice, he said, "I would very much like to fuck you senseless, but we need something for lubrication."
"Store room. Lotion."
Sayid simply nodded at the door, so he tucked himself back into his pants and slid back inside, hoping like hell he hadn’t been missed and wouldn't be seen. But Sandy was at the bar, and she only glared at him as he weaved his way through the tables. She plucked a ten dollar bill from his tip jar and waved it at him, her occasional and snarky price for turning a blind eye to his habit of running away from his job to go fuck in the storeroom. He simply smiled, flipped her off, and let himself into the tiny back room to wait.
When Sayid opened the door, he smiled. "You do this often, I see."
"I've got condoms, if that's what you're worried about."
Sawyer pulled one out from the bottom of a case of olives, handing it over in such a way that must've told Sayid he wasn't exactly accustomed to being the one not wearing it.
Sayid said, "Not worried, but thank you. Now, how careful do I need to be?"
"About as careful as I was with your hair."
That drew a chuckle from Sayid, but he didn't see it because he'd already turned around and braced himself against the sturdiest shelf in the room. He let Sayid take off his pants again, and it felt just as good as it had the first time, feeling his hand slide under his boxers and grasp his cock before he pulled down his boxers and jeans. The lotion was cold, colder somehow than the sex in the alley had been, but Sayid was still warm, leaned in tight over his back with just that one hand crooked down between them and a finger inside him; the other pulled lightly at his cock. Despite what Sawyer had said, he worked him open slowly, painstakingly, up to three fingers, but after Sawyer heard the condom wrapper crinkle, it wasn't long before Sayid was holding him open and shoving in, all the way, with one long slide.
He didn't at all fuck like he talked. Some people did. Sawyer did: smooth and relaxed until he needed to be really hard with it, quick and powerful. Maybe it was the excess of alcohol, but Sayid wasn't gentle and he wasn't slow and although he was concentrating on his movements and doing everything he could to make Sawyer hard again--and almost succeeding--they seemed erratic almost, fierce and sloppy like his kissing had been. But he slammed into him so purposefully and so hard that Sawyer had to bite back groans and simply listen to the man's deep grunts of pleasure each time he pulled out.
He let his whole body drape over Sawyer's, as though he wanted this to seem intimate somehow, or at least make him feel his body's heat and tension. Sliding his hand around Sawyer's waist and finding him only half hard, he said, breathless, "What do you want me to do for you?"
"Don't worry about it. Just fuck me."
It didn't surprise Sawyer a minute or two later to hear him let loose with a mumbled string of Arabic words, and it was so damn erotic, mostly because it was foreign but partly because it made his voice sound like it had before, lilting and soft. As Sayid pounded into him, he suddenly felt like he could come again, and soon and hard, so he said, "Touch me."
"Will you…?"
"Just-" Sayid's small hand closed over him, squeezing. "Fuck. Shit, you're-- God. Sayid."
His hand worked him as expertly as his mouth had, not bothering to draw it out anymore, only pushing him toward orgasm. When Sawyer came again, moaning with it as it coursed through his system and made his heart hammer in his chest, Sayid's thrusts suddenly slowed and lengthened and he made noises loud enough to probably be heard over the jukebox. Then one, two, three thrusts and he came clutching Sawyer's body to him, with his mouth open against Sawyer's back. He was pretty sure there would be another bruise there, in the shape of teeth.
After they'd set their clothes straight again, Sawyer leaned back into the table to regard Sayid, who was looking at him as if he were trying to find words for something, which was odd because neither man seemed to type to do a lot of talking after. Maybe that was the point. Finally, he said, "I've never known a white man to call me by my name like that before."
Sawyer smirked to hide the strangest flutter in his heart that he'd ever felt. He said, "Well, maybe it's because I ain't white: I'm a redneck."
For a moment, Sayid looked like he might kiss him, but he didn't. He simply shook his head, amused and smiling, then he nodded at him, said, "Good night, Sawyer," and went out through the door, not quite letting it close behind him.
Sawyer knew he would be sore the next day, but that was good. He liked feeling things, and he liked the taste of gin and cigarettes and the smell of coconut on his hands. He breathed it in slowly, knowing he must've smelled like that now, like coconut and sex and Sayid. When he came out of the storeroom, he flipped on the light at the sink, and the sudden harsh fluorescence blinded him; he thought he looked tired and sad. He brought his hands to his face once more before he washed them, and he was surprised to see how much a smile could make his face seem more satisfied than tired, more wise than sad.
Pairing: Sawyer/Sayid
Rating: take a wild guess (and hit 'back' if you're under 18)
Summary: This is in the same AU as my Jack/Sawyer story Foreplay (no I did NOT make Sayid a musician), not that it matters a damn bit if you've read that story. Suffice it to say, Sawyer's still Sawyer, just a bartender, and you can probably shave about 5 years off his current age.
Note: For luau Queen zelda_zee, which means I wrote this today, so forgive it if it's uneven. Warning, darling: I have never written Sayid in an AU. But if you can put him in a purple silk shirt and make him a cock-teasing millionaire, I can do whatever I want. :p
Afterglow
It was one of those nights, dark and more smoky than usual in the bar, the band playing some languid music that Sawyer occasionally found himself totally caught up in, nodding his head long with the low, steady beat, falling under to the sound of the lead singer's clear voice, tinged with a hint of pain. It was a dismal night, as nights went--the rain was a drizzle outside, the people inside were meandering aimlessly, most of them too drunk to be all that depressed anymore. But they might have been drunk enough to let their fists find the face of the brooding, gorgeous brown-skinned man in the corner.
Sawyer was curious. Sandy had been pouring the man straight gin, the best they had, and he'd been sitting in that corner for at least three hours, chain smoking and looking out at the world through eyes so large and dark that Sawyer couldn't stop staring. But that was the only part of him that seemed to open to the world: something in his very posture looked closed, drawn in, protective. Sawyer didn't half blame him, although he did wonder what brought such a man out in the first place, much less to a bar in Tennessee. Luckily, nobody had noticed him yet, nobody except Sawyer, who watched entranced as the man kept his eyes on the stage and held cigarette after cigarette tensely between his fingers, contrasting with the slow, even inhalations and exhalations of the smoke.
The man didn't seem to notice him, which was odd because the bar wasn't exactly full and he was surely the brightest thing in it, even if he was far from feeling particularly dazzling. Actually, though, the man must've have noticed him because he seemed to be avoiding Sawyer on purpose, only going to Sandy for more gin, even though Sandy would have gladly wiggled her ass across the room to bring him refills. Ordinarily, it would have made Sawyer try harder, make himself obnoxious to get attention or at least put himself in the man's path, to gague him, if he hadn't already deduced his sexual preference. But this man made him pause. It didn't matter a bit wether he was gay or straight or somewhere in that gray area in between. There was some sort of darkness there that told Sawyer this man knew exactly what he wanted and didn't want, and apparently tonight he wanted to be left alone. He was like Sawyer, watching the world drift by, but he didn't bother to frame his observations with a smirk; he simply left all that darkness out on display without revealing one iota of what it might be except dangerous and apparently able to nearly drown a person, water closing over him before he took a breath. But this man--he stayed just on the edge of drowning, not even fighting it, really; he was simply strong enough that it couldn't pull him under. Sawyer wasn't entirely confident he was that strong, not tonight.
So Sawyer left him alone. He stood behind the bar, washing glasses and keeping a close eye on the gaggle of 22-year-old girls in the corner, listening to the music until the band faded away and the bar became what it always did on a weeknight like this: stark, dirty, dark, and empty. Sawyer couldn't think of a lonelier place in the world than a bar at 1 a.m. on a Tuesday. It even got to him--made him contemplative and mopey--unless someone came along worth working up the energy to flirt with. The man in the corner, the dark man braving ignorance or simply not giving even half a shit if he found it, the man with eyes that pulled you in but were unreadable at the same time--ordinarily, he would've been the only one worth the effort, under any circumstances, and even with the bar crowded with other possibilities, but tonight Sawyer doubted as if going after him would be anything more than irresistible force meets immovable object, give or take which of them was which.
Sawyer went into the back to get a new bottle of kahluha, and when he came back out, the man was sitting at the bar, right in front of where he'd been standing. Cigarette in hand, he watched Sawyer shuffle up with a blank face. He was amost imperceptibly hunched over on the stool, holding himself up impressively but obviously drunk. Sawyer wished he'd seen him walking-he had no good idea of what his body looked like or how he moved, not to mention he was curious to know how a man could hold that much liquor and be so steady-but he had to content himself with staring at his chest and shoulders, watching the glowing brown of his skin emerge from the neckline of his blue t-shirt.
Suddenly, just after he released a long stream of smoke from his lungs, he said, "Of course, it is generally against my religion to smoke and drink, but I do it anyway."
Sawyer must've looked at him with both confusion and a little shock, because he almost smiled. Then he added in that same clipped but soft vaguely middle eastern accent, "In case you wondered."
"Now, why would I wonder anything about you?"
"Now, why would you stare at me all night and then act as though you weren't."
Frowning, he tossed his towel on the bar and walked a few paces away, saying, "I didn't mean anything by it. I don't give a rat's ass if you're a Muslim, man. I thought maybe some of them would, but-"
The man's laugh cut him off. Even though it was a bitter laugh, it still forced his face into a lazy smile. He said, "If they only knew."
"Do I want to?" Sawyer asked him.
"Probably not. Let us say I am no threat to you, and I am neither Indian nor Irani nor Saudi."
"Well, hell, it all amounts to the same thing where most people around here are concerned. Unless you're…"
The man gave him a long look, and Sawyer exhaled sharply. "Well, now I think you're maybe more stupid than brave."
"It is possible to be both at once. But what I find interesting is that you haven't denied you have been staring at me all night."
"And I’m beginning to think you don't mind a damn bit."
"No, I mind. Very much. It makes my mind a great deal harder to understand."
"I'd think the bottle of gin wouldn't exactly help in that department."
"Maybe I wanted to be confused."
"Maybe you're never confused."
The man's eyes narrowed, and he said with a sigh, "You are a strange man. Do you always talk this much?"
"Just when I have to make conversation with the drunks."
"So this isn't flirting?"
He was taken aback with such an open reference, but he shook it off. "Let me see… Do I usually discuss politics and philosophy when I'm flirting? No."
"Interesting that you'd call it philosophy," he said, tipping his cigarette into the ashtray. "And fortunate that you aren't flirting, because looking at a man the way you're looking at me is also against my religion."
Sawyer swore he saw a smile at that, visible only in a softening of his face. His eyes suddenly warmed, just before he closed them and slid off the stool. Taking his drink in hand, he turned to go back toward his table, but then he stopped and looked back and said, "I haven't seen you smoking behind the bar."
"Against the rules."
"Would you join me outside, then? A break."
"It's cold and rainy."
"We will find a way to keep warm," he said, raising his eyebrows slightly before floating toward the side door, his tight, compact body moving loosely with the alcohol. Sawyer felt himself stopped there, staring at the closing door the same way he'd been mesmerized by the music earlier, and his mind was equally on something else entirely, except this time it wasn't dark but warm and the promise of something solid and maybe tonight he'd let himself be fucked. It had been a long time, and if he got what he hadn't even been looking for with this man, it would have to be on the man's terms. Luckily, he seemed the type to be quite comfortable being in charge.
Sawyer slid through the door to find that the rain had stopped, but the dampness still chilled him through his black button-down shirt. The man didn't seem in the slightest bit cold. After watching curiously as Sawyer pulled out his pack of Newports and took his first long drag, he said, "They call you Sawyer?"
"Yeah."
"But that is not your real name."
"No."
"I sometimes use the name Raj. I do have times when I am much more willing to seem Pakistani or Indian."
"Not that most people know the difference anyway. A towel head is just a towel head. Not to me, you understand. I don't use those words."
"I see." He leaned into the cold stone beside the door. "Do you ever wish to hide?"
"Hide what?"
"For one thing, your accent."
"I don't do that very well."
"You shouldn't. It's charming."
"You're full of shit. I know exactly what my accent makes you think."
"What?"
"What it makes everybody who ain't from down here think: that I'm stupid."
Sawyer had no idea what made him say that, why he would volunteer one of his insecurities like that. But the man waved his hand, trailing smoke out into the strange glow coming from the streetlight at the end of the alley. "I don't listen to that as much as to your tone, but, yes, perhaps that's an ignorant person's first impression, one you don't bother to contradict at times, am I correct?"
Sawyer just nodded, suddenly feeling the cold in his bones. The cigarette had leveled his nerves a bit, but he couldn't quite get his equilibrium back since he'd been given possibilities. The man was no longer bothering to hide his fascination with Sawyer, with every move he made, especially when he pursed the cigarette between his lips. He wasn't exactly open now, just clearer about how much he wasn't letting come to the surface. Sawyer saw it there, coiled and tight, almost as much as he felt it, now that the man was slowly but surely moving into his personal space, not touching him but not-touching him, the energy in his hands and the breath between his lips drawing Sawyer like heat.
After he stomped out his cigarette, he waited for Sawyer to finish and do likewise, and he said, "Are you comfortable here?"
"In what way?"
Stepping in front of him, his head tilted as he held his gaze, he said, "In the dark. In an alley. In the cold."
"I seem to remember a promise about warming up."
He felt like his words were as good as a switch, because the man's face did light up, just like that, a smooth smile and, once again, the eyes closing against a blaze of heat. The man said, "It took me a long time and a lot of liquor to decide that I would allow myself to have this tonight. And now I fear you will make me want to kiss you."
"You don't kiss?"
"Not typically. But I cannot help but think you taste sweet."
Sawyer snorted. "I'll taste like Newports and Guinness draft."
With a predatory face, the man lay a hand on his chest and pushed him into the wall, hard enough for him to feel it but not hard enough to hurt. He said, "What makes you think I was talking about your mouth?" Then he gave a sly smile and deftly pulled back the collar of Sawyer's shirt so he could close his lips over Sawyer's neck, hot and wet and sending a sharp, quick spike of adrenaline through him just before he felt himself go desperately hard. His body reeled with all the new smells, something besides alcohol and smoke: coconut, in his hair, and underneath it the spicy scent of his body. He let out a gasp as he felt the man's hands on his neck, then falling down his chest, stopping at the button of his fly, hesitating until he whispered in his ear, "You should call me Sayid."
Sawyer wanted to hate seeing him go to his knees there on the damp pavement, but looking down to see his dick hanging there, Sayid mouthing the head, pulling with his lips and flicking his tongue, he somehow forgot about the alley altogether, only seeing that head of curly black hair shining in the dim light and his pink mouth sliding up and down his shaft, so hot and wet, and when he swept his lips back down to the head, the chill air blew across the damp skin of his cock just before it was engulfed in that heat again, such steady, amazing pressure. Sawyer let his hands rest on Sayid's head, tangling into the curls there, and quickly they found a rhythm, his hips and his hands in his hair and Sayid's bobbing head, but when Sawyer pulled at his curls just a little more sharply than he meant to, and he heard a groan and felt Sayid take him in deeper, pulling his hips forward more sharply, he just let it all go. The harder he pulled Sayid's hair, the hotter it seemed to make him, and it became a glorious push-pull-Sawyer's hips thrusting into his mouth as he pulled Sayid's head toward him, then the dull banging of his body back into the concrete as Sayid groaned and licked at the head of his cock, already eager to take him back in again.
"Fuck," Sawyer mumbled. "Oh, fuck." Then he flattened himself into the wall and pulled Sayid with him, "God, now. Fuck." He closed his eyes and Sayid worked him over hard, and his hips made one final push as he shot off in Sayid's mouth, feeling the wet, sticky heat of it.
Instantly, he released his grip on Sayid's hair, and that was enough cue, he supposed, because Sayid was standing and pressing him into the wall so hard it would leave bruises, and he thrust his tongue into Sawyer's mouth so he could taste himself on Sayid's full, parted lips. Sayid was a good six inches shorter than he was, and it was almost too much seeing him stretch himself to Sawyer's height, bending and clutching to get him where he wanted him. Sayid's cock ground into his thigh and then suddenly Sayid was pulling back, gasping and doing his damndest to calm himself. His pupils were blown, as though he only now seemed as drunk as he was, and as if he suddenly didn't mind completely dropping that shield that had been up all night.
Against his neck, in an even but thick voice, he said, "I would very much like to fuck you senseless, but we need something for lubrication."
"Store room. Lotion."
Sayid simply nodded at the door, so he tucked himself back into his pants and slid back inside, hoping like hell he hadn’t been missed and wouldn't be seen. But Sandy was at the bar, and she only glared at him as he weaved his way through the tables. She plucked a ten dollar bill from his tip jar and waved it at him, her occasional and snarky price for turning a blind eye to his habit of running away from his job to go fuck in the storeroom. He simply smiled, flipped her off, and let himself into the tiny back room to wait.
When Sayid opened the door, he smiled. "You do this often, I see."
"I've got condoms, if that's what you're worried about."
Sawyer pulled one out from the bottom of a case of olives, handing it over in such a way that must've told Sayid he wasn't exactly accustomed to being the one not wearing it.
Sayid said, "Not worried, but thank you. Now, how careful do I need to be?"
"About as careful as I was with your hair."
That drew a chuckle from Sayid, but he didn't see it because he'd already turned around and braced himself against the sturdiest shelf in the room. He let Sayid take off his pants again, and it felt just as good as it had the first time, feeling his hand slide under his boxers and grasp his cock before he pulled down his boxers and jeans. The lotion was cold, colder somehow than the sex in the alley had been, but Sayid was still warm, leaned in tight over his back with just that one hand crooked down between them and a finger inside him; the other pulled lightly at his cock. Despite what Sawyer had said, he worked him open slowly, painstakingly, up to three fingers, but after Sawyer heard the condom wrapper crinkle, it wasn't long before Sayid was holding him open and shoving in, all the way, with one long slide.
He didn't at all fuck like he talked. Some people did. Sawyer did: smooth and relaxed until he needed to be really hard with it, quick and powerful. Maybe it was the excess of alcohol, but Sayid wasn't gentle and he wasn't slow and although he was concentrating on his movements and doing everything he could to make Sawyer hard again--and almost succeeding--they seemed erratic almost, fierce and sloppy like his kissing had been. But he slammed into him so purposefully and so hard that Sawyer had to bite back groans and simply listen to the man's deep grunts of pleasure each time he pulled out.
He let his whole body drape over Sawyer's, as though he wanted this to seem intimate somehow, or at least make him feel his body's heat and tension. Sliding his hand around Sawyer's waist and finding him only half hard, he said, breathless, "What do you want me to do for you?"
"Don't worry about it. Just fuck me."
It didn't surprise Sawyer a minute or two later to hear him let loose with a mumbled string of Arabic words, and it was so damn erotic, mostly because it was foreign but partly because it made his voice sound like it had before, lilting and soft. As Sayid pounded into him, he suddenly felt like he could come again, and soon and hard, so he said, "Touch me."
"Will you…?"
"Just-" Sayid's small hand closed over him, squeezing. "Fuck. Shit, you're-- God. Sayid."
His hand worked him as expertly as his mouth had, not bothering to draw it out anymore, only pushing him toward orgasm. When Sawyer came again, moaning with it as it coursed through his system and made his heart hammer in his chest, Sayid's thrusts suddenly slowed and lengthened and he made noises loud enough to probably be heard over the jukebox. Then one, two, three thrusts and he came clutching Sawyer's body to him, with his mouth open against Sawyer's back. He was pretty sure there would be another bruise there, in the shape of teeth.
After they'd set their clothes straight again, Sawyer leaned back into the table to regard Sayid, who was looking at him as if he were trying to find words for something, which was odd because neither man seemed to type to do a lot of talking after. Maybe that was the point. Finally, he said, "I've never known a white man to call me by my name like that before."
Sawyer smirked to hide the strangest flutter in his heart that he'd ever felt. He said, "Well, maybe it's because I ain't white: I'm a redneck."
For a moment, Sayid looked like he might kiss him, but he didn't. He simply shook his head, amused and smiling, then he nodded at him, said, "Good night, Sawyer," and went out through the door, not quite letting it close behind him.
Sawyer knew he would be sore the next day, but that was good. He liked feeling things, and he liked the taste of gin and cigarettes and the smell of coconut on his hands. He breathed it in slowly, knowing he must've smelled like that now, like coconut and sex and Sayid. When he came out of the storeroom, he flipped on the light at the sink, and the sudden harsh fluorescence blinded him; he thought he looked tired and sad. He brought his hands to his face once more before he washed them, and he was surprised to see how much a smile could make his face seem more satisfied than tired, more wise than sad.