Title: Aqua Vitae
Warning: male/male slash
Summary: On the plane to Taipei. Will asks. Sark answers.
A/N: Someone on the TWoP Alias boards said, 'Will is totally Sark's bitch. We can all agree on that, right?' It all went straight to the gutter from there. The title come from Mr. Sark's affinity for wine, among other things.
Will awoke to darkness, and a violent pain throbbing in his head felt like his skull had been cracked apart. The dull hum of whirring engines told him that he was in an airplane — and the churning in his stomach reminded him why he wasn't fond of flying.
His left eye was swollen shut, and everything around him was in various shades of gray. It took several moments for the blurry images to resolve themselves into the slim figure of Sark, drawing closer until he was standing over him.
Will recoiled, shrinking back in the seat; he instinctively raised his handcuffed hands to shield his face, as if expecting another blow.
But it never fell.
"Mr. Tippin." Sark's voice was smooth, like fine satin sliding over skin. "I usually make sure my guests fly first class. However, my instructions were to keep you alive, but not comfortable." A meaningful pause. "And you're alive."
"Where are you taking me?" Will croaked. He squinted up at Sark, and grimaced as the harsh glare from the overhead lights stung his eyes.
Sark's upper lip curled knowingly. "You'll find out soon enough."
"I don't know anything about the circumference," Will's voice was broken, and hitched with a sob of desperation. "Please don't kill me, please —"
His words faltered as Sark moved forward with swift, feline grace; and now Sark was beside him, and Will froze as Sark leaned closer, and placed a finger over Will's parted lips.
"I won't kill you," Sark breathed, his manner intimate as a lover's. "Not now, anyway."
Will's entire body remained rigid, although out of fear or fascination, even he was not sure. A pause, and then Sark's hand was on his face, stroking with the lightest of touches, trailing from his bruised cheek down to his chin.
"What I will
do," Sark continued, in the same seductive purr, "is offer you a drink."
The mention of water reminded Will how dehydrated he was; somehow, pain and terror had distracted him from thirst all this while. His relief and eager need must have shown on his face, because Sark's mouth twitched with a hint of a smile. Without breaking eye contact, Sark raised his hand, and beckoned with a casual wave.
A wineglass filled with water was brought to him. Will watched eagerly as Sark took the glass, and appraised it with a critical eye, as if the clear sparkling liquid was something other than plain water.
And to Will, it looked like heaven distilled into a glass.
He moistened his lips hungrily, as Sark continued to examine the glass of water. The wait was agonizing. Finally, Sark raised his eyes from the glass, and looked at Will once more.
"Would you like a drink, Mr. Tippin?" Sark asked again; it was a taunt, not a question.
Will swallowed painfully, and nodded; his throat was dry as sand.
Sark brought the glass closer to Will's lips; Will leaned forward, opening his mouth as he reached for the soothing drink he sorely needed — but at the last moment, Sark drew the glass away.
Will stopped short, his face falling; his eyes pleaded with Sark, articulating what he could not bring himself to say. Please.
Sark's mouth twisted with dark satisfaction, relishing Will's yearning. He dipped his forefinger into the water, and then touched it to Will's dry, chapped lips. Deliberately, Sark ran his moist finger over Will's lips, and Will could not stop his own tongue from flickering out to meet the delicious wetness of Sark's teasing finger.
Sark watched him, his gaze unflinching. When Will had licked his finger dry, he immersed it into the water again, this time wetting the entire length, and offered it to Will once more. Will closed his eyes, and parted his lips to take Sark's finger into his mouth; he sucked greedily, savoring every drop of moisture he could glean.
When Sark withdrew his finger, Will looked at him imploringly. Please. More. Please.
"Ask me," Sark said, in a low voice; it was a command. "Nicely."
"Please," Will heard the word shamefully spill from his lips, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. As if begging Sark was something he wanted
to do. "I'm asking you, please.
"Very good." A smirk, followed by the firm pressure of Sark's hand pushing Will's chin so that he was forced to look into Sark's eyes. Will felt himself quivering under Sark's touch; he was at his mercy.
But this time, it was a conscious yielding, driven by a raw, feral yearning.
Looking into Will's eyes it was obvious that Sark saw all this, and more. In response, he brought the glass to his own lips, and sipped slowly and somewhat noisily, which was uncharacteristic of Sark's effortlessly refined demeanor. But the wet sounds of water being drawn into Sark's mouth drove Will almost crazy...
... but then Sark moved, setting the glass down on the floor next to him and leaning closer all in one graceful movement — he tilted Will's chin upwards, and the next thing Will knew, Sark's mouth had closed over his own.
Will felt his own lips part, and then sweet relief flooded into his mouth, still cool like spring water, tasting of winter breeze and melted snowflakes and Sark. Will opened his mouth to receive every drop Sark gave him, letting it flow into every corner of his mouth, the gift he begged for, and Sark's lips sealed it with a kiss.
Will swallowed all at once, and for a moment was afraid he would choke. But the water slid down his throat, burning like a shot of tequila tossed back in a single gulp. And it felt good, so fucking good —
— Just like the way Sark's mouth felt, still pressed against his, and Sark's tongue snaked past his lips with vindictive ease. Will felt the hot velvet caress burn against his own tongue, drawing it to life, and it was intoxicating like wine, bitter and sweet and sinful.
It was Sark who abruptly pulled back, breaking the kiss. Was that what it was?
Will wondered giddily. It seemed more like Sark was marking him. But Will didn't care. He could feel the coolness of the water invigorating him from within, making him want more, wanting to drink from Sark the way he just did.
But Sark stood up, still holding the glass in his hand. Making sure Will was watching, he drank the rest of the water, emptying the glass. Will stared at him, hungering, and he wasn't sure if it was just the water he was after.
"You've had your drink," Sark said, relishing the dismay and anguish on Will's face. "Enjoy the rest of your flight, Mr. Tippin."
- fin -
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