Fic: Method (1/1)
Title: Method
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Sawyer
Word Count: 952
Summary: Sometimes, a little method acting is required. For invisiblelove, who requested “Jack Shephard” at The lostsquee 2010 Lost Summer Luau. General Spoilers through Season Six.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For invisiblelove: this is not at all what I intended for you, initially, but I hope you like it nonetheless :)
Method
There is a room at the Travelodge Hollywood that -- three days out of the week, for three weeks of every month -- is paid for by one J. Ford.
______________________
No one thinks of the details, the little intricacies that make or break the set-up for any given bust. They don’t think about how, if you’re going to tell a mark that you’ve been staying at a motel for a week already, you should know your way around, should be able to nod at the receptionist at the desk if you pass her and see recognition in her eyes. There should be evidence of having lived in the room for at least a day or two -- empty food wrappers in the trash, if not on the nightstand; a razor, at least, propped in the shower. The kinds of things that can be faked, sure, but not as well. Not perfectly.
Jim’s damn fucking good at what he does. And he’s good for a goddamned reason.
______________________
He brings all kinds of people there. Blondes, brunettes, redheads. C-cups, Double D’s, Triple A’s. Pierced, tattooed, silk, lace; a virgin or two, and a few he got tested after he’d seen them off, because he’s pretty damn sure they were about as far from virginal as a girl could get.
Once in a while, he brings a man. Once in a great fucking while.
He tries not to remember the kinds of men.
It’s been a good year since he’d picked up a man, in fact, when he brings this one back to the room.
He finds him in a bar; Jim’s not drinking more than something cheap, just this side of piss, whatever’s on tap, but this sad bastard’s looking like he’s trying to give himself alcohol poisoning. Jim says as much, and the man laughs, wet and despressing -- the kind that makes Jim uncomfortable, because it’s maudlin and pathetic, and it’s a place that Jim himself never gets to; someone Jim never lets himself become.
Don’t worry, the sad fucker says with too little of a slur, considering; I’m a doctor.
And, well, if that ain’t hot, Jim don’t know what is.
______________________
The doc’s hands are hard, calloused, but sure; they don’t dig too deep, not like Jim’s -- he can already feel the way he’s breaking vessels and veins, carving bruises at the man’s hips.
They don’t make noises, don’t say things; just kind of fall into places that vaguely work between them: lines and slants and hard muscle, some soft -- it finds a home because it has to, not because it’s looking.
The line of his cock at the cleft of the guy’s ass is hot, the friction thick and aching, drawn out with a sting, but he drags fast and heavy, the leak at his slit enough to make it work, make it alright.
He ruts, slides, feels the build come rough, like he’s earning it; doesn’t reach around.
He’s not expecting it when the man beneath him flips himself, catches Jim’s eyes for a split second that reminds him of... something, before shucking down with the sheets and wrapping his lips just past the tip of him, the crown of his dick as he comes; swallows enough of it that it’s not fucking embarrassing, lets enough of it spill out from thin-stretched lips to remind Jim that he’s a goddamn doctor, and this probably ain’t his typical night off.
Bastard doesn’t even wipe his mouth when he’s done; doesn’t say shit, just breathes heavy enough for it to sound like words, or something that means words. Jim doesn’t even notice, at first, that given their position, his knees are bowed around the wet spot.
______________________
He doesn’t sleep on nights like this; force of habit. Not before they leave, and not after.
Even if he’d been dead to the world, though, he’d have heard it when the man sits up, what with the groan of the goddamn springs beneath them. Jim doesn’t move; it’s not what he does, it’s not what this is. He watches through the slits of his eyes, lids slung low, as the man reaches down, fishes for something -- Jim hadn’t even noticed that he’d brought anything with him, had anything in hand. He hears the telltale rattle of a pill-bottle, listens for the pop on the safety seal and watches, a little more intent, as the other man dry-swallows more than a dose, more than two, shook straight from the lip of the container and down his throat with a careful ripple, a painful shudder and a shake of his head that tugs, pulls at the strands of his hair, rustles through the sweat where it’s long since dried.
The door closes, and Jim breathes -- the journey from the mattress to threshold lost on his as if it never even happened, didn’t have to; looks at the clock, needs to be at the station in an hour-and-thirty.
He pulls on a clean shirt, the same jeans that smell of smoke and sex; yawns, and locks the door behind him.
______________________
There is a room at the Travelodge that -- three days out of the week, for three weeks of every month -- is paid for by one J. Ford.
The last time he walks out of it, flanked by his partner and buttoning his shirt up over the gleam of the badge around his neck -- of all the things he could remember, he thinks of the good doctor, and wonders where the fuck that bastard ended up.
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Sawyer
Word Count: 952
Summary: Sometimes, a little method acting is required. For invisiblelove, who requested “Jack Shephard” at The lostsquee 2010 Lost Summer Luau. General Spoilers through Season Six.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For invisiblelove: this is not at all what I intended for you, initially, but I hope you like it nonetheless :)
Method
There is a room at the Travelodge Hollywood that -- three days out of the week, for three weeks of every month -- is paid for by one J. Ford.
______________________
No one thinks of the details, the little intricacies that make or break the set-up for any given bust. They don’t think about how, if you’re going to tell a mark that you’ve been staying at a motel for a week already, you should know your way around, should be able to nod at the receptionist at the desk if you pass her and see recognition in her eyes. There should be evidence of having lived in the room for at least a day or two -- empty food wrappers in the trash, if not on the nightstand; a razor, at least, propped in the shower. The kinds of things that can be faked, sure, but not as well. Not perfectly.
Jim’s damn fucking good at what he does. And he’s good for a goddamned reason.
______________________
He brings all kinds of people there. Blondes, brunettes, redheads. C-cups, Double D’s, Triple A’s. Pierced, tattooed, silk, lace; a virgin or two, and a few he got tested after he’d seen them off, because he’s pretty damn sure they were about as far from virginal as a girl could get.
Once in a while, he brings a man. Once in a great fucking while.
He tries not to remember the kinds of men.
It’s been a good year since he’d picked up a man, in fact, when he brings this one back to the room.
He finds him in a bar; Jim’s not drinking more than something cheap, just this side of piss, whatever’s on tap, but this sad bastard’s looking like he’s trying to give himself alcohol poisoning. Jim says as much, and the man laughs, wet and despressing -- the kind that makes Jim uncomfortable, because it’s maudlin and pathetic, and it’s a place that Jim himself never gets to; someone Jim never lets himself become.
Don’t worry, the sad fucker says with too little of a slur, considering; I’m a doctor.
And, well, if that ain’t hot, Jim don’t know what is.
______________________
The doc’s hands are hard, calloused, but sure; they don’t dig too deep, not like Jim’s -- he can already feel the way he’s breaking vessels and veins, carving bruises at the man’s hips.
They don’t make noises, don’t say things; just kind of fall into places that vaguely work between them: lines and slants and hard muscle, some soft -- it finds a home because it has to, not because it’s looking.
The line of his cock at the cleft of the guy’s ass is hot, the friction thick and aching, drawn out with a sting, but he drags fast and heavy, the leak at his slit enough to make it work, make it alright.
He ruts, slides, feels the build come rough, like he’s earning it; doesn’t reach around.
He’s not expecting it when the man beneath him flips himself, catches Jim’s eyes for a split second that reminds him of... something, before shucking down with the sheets and wrapping his lips just past the tip of him, the crown of his dick as he comes; swallows enough of it that it’s not fucking embarrassing, lets enough of it spill out from thin-stretched lips to remind Jim that he’s a goddamn doctor, and this probably ain’t his typical night off.
Bastard doesn’t even wipe his mouth when he’s done; doesn’t say shit, just breathes heavy enough for it to sound like words, or something that means words. Jim doesn’t even notice, at first, that given their position, his knees are bowed around the wet spot.
______________________
He doesn’t sleep on nights like this; force of habit. Not before they leave, and not after.
Even if he’d been dead to the world, though, he’d have heard it when the man sits up, what with the groan of the goddamn springs beneath them. Jim doesn’t move; it’s not what he does, it’s not what this is. He watches through the slits of his eyes, lids slung low, as the man reaches down, fishes for something -- Jim hadn’t even noticed that he’d brought anything with him, had anything in hand. He hears the telltale rattle of a pill-bottle, listens for the pop on the safety seal and watches, a little more intent, as the other man dry-swallows more than a dose, more than two, shook straight from the lip of the container and down his throat with a careful ripple, a painful shudder and a shake of his head that tugs, pulls at the strands of his hair, rustles through the sweat where it’s long since dried.
The door closes, and Jim breathes -- the journey from the mattress to threshold lost on his as if it never even happened, didn’t have to; looks at the clock, needs to be at the station in an hour-and-thirty.
He pulls on a clean shirt, the same jeans that smell of smoke and sex; yawns, and locks the door behind him.
______________________
There is a room at the Travelodge that -- three days out of the week, for three weeks of every month -- is paid for by one J. Ford.
The last time he walks out of it, flanked by his partner and buttoning his shirt up over the gleam of the badge around his neck -- of all the things he could remember, he thinks of the good doctor, and wonders where the fuck that bastard ended up.