Fic: Hazard Pay (1/1)
Title: Hazard Pay
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sawyer/Miles
Word Count: 1,000
Summary: In retrospect, he had it coming. For gottalovev, who requested “Miles and Sawyer” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. General Spoilers through Season Six of Lost.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Playing with these two in a new light was so much fun; I can’t thank you enough for prompting them. I hope you like this take on them, a little more tender, and little more lighthearted in the Sideways!verse than they are (in my head) anywhere else. Enjoy!
Hazard Pay
In retrospect, he had it coming.
They’re the last to leave the scene: perp apprehended, day saved -- they make a good fucking team, and they damn well know it -- and as soon as they’re stripped of their Kevlar and the doors of the squad car are locked; as soon as they’re around a corner, steeped in enough shadow to be just anyone, to be no one at all -- as soon as they’re in the clear and Jim’s not risking his neck on the promise of Miles being there to cover his ass every single time, Miles has got him cornered, pinned to the fucking alley wall.
“Jesus,” Jim groans against the friction as Miles grinds down onto him hard, gets him stiff and backs him up against the brick, and he’s pressed up so tight against him that the cut of the badge around his neck is digging into his skin as Miles rubs their crotches and nips at his neck.
“Eager much?” Jim sneers, and Miles bites just hard enough to bruise, hard enough that he can hear the skin move under the weight, and the air rushes from him quick as he arches at the spark of pain, ‘cause fuck, that’s good, but he can do one better.
He reaches down between them, tweaks one of Miles’ nipples through his shirt, rubs the edge of his hand down against the outline of Miles’ dick where it’s growing hard inside his jeans. “C’mon, Dipstick,” he sneers, fond in his way; “we ain’t got all night.”
Miles groans, chokes on a chuckle as he bucks into the rough press against his length, and Jim can feel him getting thicker, hotter through the denim. “Think I liked Enos better, man,” he says, breathy, low.
“I’d like your mouth better if it stopped flappin’ and did something a little more productive,” Jim says, shaping his palm to the solid weight of Miles’ cock and rubbing through the material, just enough to tease, kneading just a bit without giving any real satisfaction.
“Smooth,” Miles snorts, ruts into Jim’s hand as he leans in and takes Jim’s mouth, attacks with a vengeance, laps and drags and nips and sucks and sinks in teeth, drinks him in ‘til Jim’s dizzy with it, though he’d never say it. His hand leaves Miles’ groin when Miles starts snaking his own arm up Jim’s shirt, tugging until the neck’s loose around him and the sleeves are worked half to the elbows; he lifts up and Miles does away with the barrier, dips down and runs his lips down Jim’s sternum for a moment, an instant before he comes back up to his mouth.
“Jesus, Skippy,” Jim breathes out, thrusts hard against Miles’ groin, “I should’ve just kept my fuckin’ shirt off in the first place,” he thinks back to the motel, the sting; “You’re rowdier than the mark was.”
Miles laughs against his lips, inside his mouth, and Christ, it feels good, hot shivers following after the sound. “Being as she was likely an unsatisfied middle-aged woman with a thing for hate-fucking to one-up a cheating husband,” he murmurs between sucking on Jim’s tongue and scraping teeth across his lips; “I’m gonna go ahead and take that as a compliment.”
“You’re still talkin’ too much,” Jim counters, sucks back hard on Miles’ mouth with a smirk when he lets the suction drop with an audible smack; “must be doin’ something wrong.”
Miles smirks right back, dangerous: “Let’s fix that,” and without any further discussion, without warning, Miles has got leverage and pull, and he’s bending Jim down at the waist and sinking him low to his knees on the rain-damp ground of the city, Jim’s jeans soaked through good from the shins on up, right on impact.
“You’re shittin’ me,” Jim whines, gaze hot and tone petulant as he looks up at him, a little pathetic, but Miles is already unzipping his fly and working himself out of the opening between the metal teeth.
And Jim, well -- he might not like it, but turnabout’s fair play, so he wraps his lips and tucks his tongue down, lets the rough of it run along the underside of Miles’ cock as he takes him in full.
Miles writhes, doesn’t last long; he gets keyed up for runs like this, when Jim goes in undercover, when he cuts it closer every time, and Jim tries to take it for what it is: worry, and something they don’t put in words, something he lets come out in the way he tongue Miles’ slit, attentive, swallowing half before he lets what’s left spill down his chin unchecked, speckle his chest as it drips; tries to make it good, the best he can.
“Good thing I got your shirt off you,” Miles comments, breathless as he reaches, swirls a fingertip in the mess on Jim’s chest and sucks it quick between his lips, just so Jim can taste it when he kisses him next, soon.
Miles unhooks Jim’s cotton tee from around his neck with one hand as Jim gets to his feet, reaches down beneath the waistband of Jim’s jeans and thumbs him, mouth on Jim’s and bitter at the lips as he moans. Miles jerks him off quick and artless until he swears at the back of his throat and comes in his pants like a teenager, wasted, satisfied, and little sheepish.
“Don’t worry,” Miles says, a little full of himself, hand on his neck, “you’re wet enough from the ground that it doesn’t make a bit of difference.”
And Jim knocks him, only half joking, upside the head as they take back to the sidewalk and slip into the car; he’ll let Miles have this round, but next chance he gets, he’s putting in for fucking hazard pay on account of having to work with such a fucking prick.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sawyer/Miles
Word Count: 1,000
Summary: In retrospect, he had it coming. For gottalovev, who requested “Miles and Sawyer” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. General Spoilers through Season Six of Lost.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Playing with these two in a new light was so much fun; I can’t thank you enough for prompting them. I hope you like this take on them, a little more tender, and little more lighthearted in the Sideways!verse than they are (in my head) anywhere else. Enjoy!
Hazard Pay
In retrospect, he had it coming.
They’re the last to leave the scene: perp apprehended, day saved -- they make a good fucking team, and they damn well know it -- and as soon as they’re stripped of their Kevlar and the doors of the squad car are locked; as soon as they’re around a corner, steeped in enough shadow to be just anyone, to be no one at all -- as soon as they’re in the clear and Jim’s not risking his neck on the promise of Miles being there to cover his ass every single time, Miles has got him cornered, pinned to the fucking alley wall.
“Jesus,” Jim groans against the friction as Miles grinds down onto him hard, gets him stiff and backs him up against the brick, and he’s pressed up so tight against him that the cut of the badge around his neck is digging into his skin as Miles rubs their crotches and nips at his neck.
“Eager much?” Jim sneers, and Miles bites just hard enough to bruise, hard enough that he can hear the skin move under the weight, and the air rushes from him quick as he arches at the spark of pain, ‘cause fuck, that’s good, but he can do one better.
He reaches down between them, tweaks one of Miles’ nipples through his shirt, rubs the edge of his hand down against the outline of Miles’ dick where it’s growing hard inside his jeans. “C’mon, Dipstick,” he sneers, fond in his way; “we ain’t got all night.”
Miles groans, chokes on a chuckle as he bucks into the rough press against his length, and Jim can feel him getting thicker, hotter through the denim. “Think I liked Enos better, man,” he says, breathy, low.
“I’d like your mouth better if it stopped flappin’ and did something a little more productive,” Jim says, shaping his palm to the solid weight of Miles’ cock and rubbing through the material, just enough to tease, kneading just a bit without giving any real satisfaction.
“Smooth,” Miles snorts, ruts into Jim’s hand as he leans in and takes Jim’s mouth, attacks with a vengeance, laps and drags and nips and sucks and sinks in teeth, drinks him in ‘til Jim’s dizzy with it, though he’d never say it. His hand leaves Miles’ groin when Miles starts snaking his own arm up Jim’s shirt, tugging until the neck’s loose around him and the sleeves are worked half to the elbows; he lifts up and Miles does away with the barrier, dips down and runs his lips down Jim’s sternum for a moment, an instant before he comes back up to his mouth.
“Jesus, Skippy,” Jim breathes out, thrusts hard against Miles’ groin, “I should’ve just kept my fuckin’ shirt off in the first place,” he thinks back to the motel, the sting; “You’re rowdier than the mark was.”
Miles laughs against his lips, inside his mouth, and Christ, it feels good, hot shivers following after the sound. “Being as she was likely an unsatisfied middle-aged woman with a thing for hate-fucking to one-up a cheating husband,” he murmurs between sucking on Jim’s tongue and scraping teeth across his lips; “I’m gonna go ahead and take that as a compliment.”
“You’re still talkin’ too much,” Jim counters, sucks back hard on Miles’ mouth with a smirk when he lets the suction drop with an audible smack; “must be doin’ something wrong.”
Miles smirks right back, dangerous: “Let’s fix that,” and without any further discussion, without warning, Miles has got leverage and pull, and he’s bending Jim down at the waist and sinking him low to his knees on the rain-damp ground of the city, Jim’s jeans soaked through good from the shins on up, right on impact.
“You’re shittin’ me,” Jim whines, gaze hot and tone petulant as he looks up at him, a little pathetic, but Miles is already unzipping his fly and working himself out of the opening between the metal teeth.
And Jim, well -- he might not like it, but turnabout’s fair play, so he wraps his lips and tucks his tongue down, lets the rough of it run along the underside of Miles’ cock as he takes him in full.
Miles writhes, doesn’t last long; he gets keyed up for runs like this, when Jim goes in undercover, when he cuts it closer every time, and Jim tries to take it for what it is: worry, and something they don’t put in words, something he lets come out in the way he tongue Miles’ slit, attentive, swallowing half before he lets what’s left spill down his chin unchecked, speckle his chest as it drips; tries to make it good, the best he can.
“Good thing I got your shirt off you,” Miles comments, breathless as he reaches, swirls a fingertip in the mess on Jim’s chest and sucks it quick between his lips, just so Jim can taste it when he kisses him next, soon.
Miles unhooks Jim’s cotton tee from around his neck with one hand as Jim gets to his feet, reaches down beneath the waistband of Jim’s jeans and thumbs him, mouth on Jim’s and bitter at the lips as he moans. Miles jerks him off quick and artless until he swears at the back of his throat and comes in his pants like a teenager, wasted, satisfied, and little sheepish.
“Don’t worry,” Miles says, a little full of himself, hand on his neck, “you’re wet enough from the ground that it doesn’t make a bit of difference.”
And Jim knocks him, only half joking, upside the head as they take back to the sidewalk and slip into the car; he’ll let Miles have this round, but next chance he gets, he’s putting in for fucking hazard pay on account of having to work with such a fucking prick.