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Tom is practice. He knows that from the get-go. Whatever Ben wants -- and no one's really sure about that yet -- is isn't Tom; Tom is just the means to an end.
Of course, it isn't so bad being used when being used involves an eager mouth on your dick.
They're out beyond the fence, Tom's back to a vine-draped tree and Ben on his knees. Green light filters down through the canopy and casts hazy patterns along Ben's back, and Tom thinks this is the only time he's ever gotten laid on the island and might remain so. None of the other men are gay (not even Ben). There was a boy during a mainland visit once and there may be more of those, but unless queers start dropping from the sky, this is it here.
He wants to wind his fingers in the young man's hair and hold him and fuck his mouth hard. He allows himself a palm on the cheek. Not a caress. Guidance. Tom figures that's what Ben's after: for whatever reason, he wants to learn this.
When he comes, Ben's eyes never leave his face, and Tom knows he figured right.
Widmore's in charge. Everybody knows that. Sometimes he wonders if Richard really accepts it or if Ellie resents it, but it's not up for dispute. And fuck if he isn't going to drill that fact into a bug-eyed, pencil-necked shit like Ben Linus.
He throws the first punch right into that weak chin. Linus reels but doesn't go down; raging, he launches his body and Widmore is surprised to find himself on the ground. Little fucker can muster some force when he needs it, apparently. Now he's bringing that force to bear on Widmore's face. Of course it only takes a moment for the stronger man to turn the tables and end up on top. Where he belongs.
Widmore sneers in triumph, but then he realizes Linus's squirming isn't an escape attempt. Shame and desire are mingled on his face. He's grinding his crotch against Widmore's. Must be the adrenaline -- Widmore's suddenly hard.
"Fine, then," he spits out. Keeping Linus pinned with his knees, he pulls out his prick. "Figured you for a faggot. Let's see if you can learn your place." He strokes himself once more, straddles Linus's chest, and lowers his cock into the waiting mouth below.
Mikhail is loyal. In the beginning, it was only self-preservation -- stay close to the man with the power, he learned in the military. Before long, though, he recognized in Benjamin Linus what he only rarely saw in Afghanistan. Ben wears authority with grace. He projects command like a lantern. He is Machiavelli, he is Lao-Tzu, he is Stalin. His followers accept his leadership, but they don't appreciate the artistry he puts into it. Mikhail does. He has to.
There's one afternoon when Ben comes to collect the fertility doctor's file. Mikhail has iced tea ready, but Ben is disinclined to linger. His lips purse together in a thin line and he keeps his eye on the door. Until, that is, Mikhail steps into his personal space, pressing a hand to his chest and smiling an invitation.
Spartan sheets welcome them as they have before. They wind their arms together and their hands find each other's cocks with businesslike efficiency. Ordinarily, they'd get each other off like this, but then Ben wraps his lips around Mikhail and cups his balls.
Mikhail closes his eyes. He figures this is part of Ben's leadership, too, and that makes him savor it more.
Sayid is tense after every kill, limbs burning with lactic acid. Before, he is focused; during, he is blessedly blank; but afterwards, he vibrates.
In Berlin, he barely lets Ben finish patching him up before dragging him against the wall and pressing a knee between his thighs. He doesn't remember how they started doing this. He just knows that he needs it to come down from each murder's breathless high. It doesn't matter that he hates Ben. He hates himself. It doesn't matter.
He mouths Ben's jaw and neck with a ragged sigh. The hands on his ass dig in sharply; he thrusts forward in response and then they're rutting against each other. He's breathing too fast. He can barely stand up.
"Now," he gasps, spreading his hands flat against the wall. "Come on."
Ben waits. He palms his cock through his pants and holds his gaze. He makes Sayid grab him, push him down, pin him against the wall.
Once he’s slid into Ben's mouth, Sayid doesn't look down. He knows better than to imagine it's someone else sucking him off, but he figures he can at least ignore whose throat is opening up hot and wet for him.
Jack is lost in the motel room, leaning against the sink like a drowning man. A razor sits before him; he reaches but can barely grip it. Fucking pills. Fucking booze. He's grateful for them but his hands might as well be wrapped in cotton.
Steady palm low on his back, familiar face in his field of vision. Hated face. Ben studies him with something like concern. He frowns and reaches up, and though Jack tries to back away, Ben's fingers fall cool and nimble on his forehead. Bandage peeled off with a sting.
"Let me help you, Jack."
Ben doesn't reach for the razor. His hands on Jack's hips, he turns him and props him against the porcelain. Fingers at his waist. Slipping under his jacket and shirt. Ben leans in close like a dance partner, and works the button and zip. Jack can only let his head fall back against the mirror.
Everything's fuzzy until there's hot breath on his cock and oh he feels that. Tongue snaking out around the head, down the shaft. He doesn't even try to figure out why he's letting this happen. With everything else that’s happened and will happen soon, why not?