halfdutch (halfdutch) wrote,
halfdutch
halfdutch

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Crack!fic for foxxcub

Inspired by foxxcub's No Names crackfic



"Hey, Doc," said the dimpled con man, with a shake of his shaggy hair and an indecently suggestive smile.

"Hey, yourself," replied the incongruously tattooed surgeon, squinting enigmatically.

"You're not gonna start cryin' on me, are ya?" sighed the blond, tragically orphaned Southerner.

"No, I've just got something in my eye," answered the frequently prone-to-tears medical practitioner.

"Want me to help you get it out?" smirked the shirtless, slope-shouldered, Dharma-beer-swilling criminal.

"It's okay, I think I've got it," insisted the intense sometime jogger and occasional miracle-working man of science.

"Good, cuz I'd hate to think anything would get in the way of your appreciatin' my fine physique," the island's slightly suicidal answer to James Dean said with a waggle of his eyebrows.

The kite-flying afficianado with the buzzcut stared at the sexy criminal, desire evident in the depths of his doe-like brown eyes.

The ocean breeze ruffled the shoulder-length hair of the blue-eyed sex symbol with the tortured past, anticipating what the second-generation spinal surgeon wanted to be doing with his talented, med-school-trained hands just then.

The troubled, letter-writing killer of polar bears, frogs, and dastardly men who'd bedded and betrayed his mother took a step closer, enjoying how the overly emotional Los Angeles native trembled at his approach.

The golf-playing, giggle-prone Californian closed his eyes, waiting for the soft brush of the lips of the Bob Marley-crooning, ill-fated and oft-injured seafarer, the very same one he'd once given a gun after mistaking him for a lumberjack.

As the two kissed passionately, they were observed by the befreckled, petite, twentysomething, green-eyed brunette whom they'd once fought over. She sighed, realizing that the heroically inclined workaholic West Coaster and the charmingly nefarious, nicknaming Southerner were both out of her reach.

There was still a certain tanktop-wearing, curly-haired, reluctant torturer and quietly soulful, taciturn repairer of radios with an aversion to felines, however. She set off through the verdant, lush jungle, tinged with the morning's first light and the exotic sound of bird calls, to look for him.

Tags: jack/sawyer, lost_fic
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