Summary: Turned out the island made them into supermen in the sack.
Note: Very silly and very smutty -- and very short! -- crack!fic for haldoor, who requested "superheroes" and multiple pairings. Here you go!
That’s how Sawyer used to start those letters in his head, usually composing them while smoking a cigarette after some amazing sexual feat --- two or three women at once, or lasting for an hour, or coming four times in one night.
Hell, all that was nothing.
No one had realized when they’d landed here what this island would do to them. It wasn’t just the heat, which had all the men strutting around half naked, covered with a fine sheen of sweat, their clothes sticking to them suggestively.
Turned out the island made them into supermen in the sack. He could last for hours, and so, it turned out, could all the other men. Course, the women stayed the hell away, once they realized that their so-called super sperm could kill ‘em, but Sawyer was too busy pumping his daily quota of the stuff into Jack to care and he didn’t think that would kill Jack. Anyway, they were both willing to take the chance.
With The Others finally licked, there was nothin’ to do with an eternity in paradise but fuck, and that was fine with Sawyer. Readin’ was overrated. And when he and Jack simply couldn’t continue, when it seemed they had to face reality and take a breather, well, Sayid and Desmond were more than happy to step in.
Desmond would stroke Sawyer as they watched Sayid fuck Jack, nice and slow, hand pressed against the small of Jack’s back, making him moan and shake and beg for him to finish. And then Sawyer would take a turn, burying himself deep in Jack as Jack fucked Sayid’s mouth and Desmond ground into Sawyer with tongue or fingers or cock --- it didn’t matter as long as they all came in an overheated, sweaty heap of manflesh, broad, exhausted grins plastered on every face.
Yessir, it was an exhausting life, but a rewarding one. In his rare moments of rest -- cheek resting comfortably on Jack’s stomach or Sayid’s ass, or Desmond's pretty, pillowy hair -- Sawyer still composed those explicit, tell-all letters in his head. But he sure as hell couldn’t sent his extraordinarily filthy accounts of marathon guy-on-guy exploits to Penthouse. No, he didn’t really know who’d print them. If they ever -- God forbid! -- got back to the real world, he’d just have to start his own magazine. He already had a title in mind: Super Sexed Studs in Heat! It had a nice ring to it.