Author's Note: This was a dare by EditorsNote, who was curious if I could write a cliche-free, realistic Skate sex scene. I think I succeeded. This is set roughly during What Kate Did, albeit with a conscious Sawyer. Note that this type of thing is purposefully very, very far out of my comfort range, which was the challenge of it, and that was the point of it. Reviews are more than welcomed. If you like this, please check out my real fanfic, especially the longer ones.
"Seduction is always more singular and sublime than sex and it commands the higher price."- Jean Baudrillard
Something moved. A color flashed, the bright wool of a cheaply made afghan. Kate was aware of Sawyer before he was aware of her. He'd woken up, she realized from the way the sheets were strewn about the hatch bed, and she went past him into the bathroom, his voice following her. "If I'd have known I was gonna have company, darlin', I'd have cleaned up the place first."
"Don't flatter yourself," she tossed back. She could hear him laughing from the other room, and realized that he knew. That frustrated her. He'd always known. He'd always known her. The laughter was superior-sounding, vaguely mocking, and, as much as she tried to ignore it, she felt her fingers tighten on the faucet as she turned it on. Why did he always have to be such a son of a bitch?
She washed her face, realizing that the water in the drain spun clockwise. That startled her. Drains in Australia ran that way, she'd noticed from the sink in the holding cell. Drains in the United States ran counter-clockwise. She wondered if it meant anything, turned the water off, dried her face on a questionable-looking towel, pushed her hair back behind her ears.
Something was about to happen. She thought the lights around her should darken, like in a movie. She hoped there would be long sequences, perhaps slow-motion ones. She didn't want there to be jump cuts.
Kate leaned against the door frame, watching him. He lay there in the bed, the bullet wound in his shoulder thankfully not visible from the side at which she looked. She wasn't sure if she could have moved over to the bed if she had been eye-to-arm with a messy-looking bullet wound, and even without that, she waited for him to say something. Let him ask something of her for once, instead of the opposite.
The light from the bathroom cast a sickly fluorescent glow over him, making him look wraithlike somehow. He had pushed the afghan down, and she looked at its sea-theme colors, turquoise and purple and green blending together into a cool-hued sheen. He looked funny with an afghan. She wondered if he'd had one as a child. It seemed inappropriate to ask.
Before they had been in the caves, they had slept on ponchos and tarps and scraps of clothing that nobody could wear. They covered themselves with more of the same to keep out the rain. She wondered what he was trying to keep out with that afghan.
"Guess you changed your mind, huh?" He still knew, from the sound of his voice. He made sure that she knew, too. "You're lookin' at me like you're wantin' off the cull list."
She stared, confused. He shook his head, waved a hand at her that clearly meant 'Never mind.' Once more, she was conscious of how young she was compared to him. Ten years made a difference sometimes.
"It's a sayin'," he continued, as if she had asked him for an explanation. Apparently he needed to explain himself. He never explained anything, but apparently it was all right to define a saying, even if it told her nothing about him. "Gals are on the cull list if they ain't married by the time they're in their twenties but still good-lookin'. Means they need to be culled."
'Go to hell,' had formed on her lips, and she was ready to punch him again, but as the backwards compliment drifted in, she felt herself smile. She knew better. She glared at him anyway, even as she stalked over to the bed, her hands on her hips, her brows raised. "So I guess you've been on the guys' cull list for about fifteen, twenty years now? Getting old?"
He smiled flatly at her. It didn't reach his eyes. Something in him shifted though, changed. He patted the side of the bed wordlessly, and there was something desperate in his eyes, something pleading. "Now this is embarrassing." His words were clear, almost accentless, for once, as if he wanted to make sure she knew that, to remove himself at least a little from that imploring look.
Her head was whirling. Was it clockwise or counterclockwise? She moved her glance past him towards the records nearby him. "My mom used to have that," she commented, nodding towards a record that sat nearby. "In the Eighties. Did you have it?"
He glanced towards the record, and shook his head, using the motion as an excuse to take off his shirt. He was well-built, she noticed, and he knew it, from the way he turned towards her, putting himself on display. He didn't have any visible scars, though she was thankful that he was still keeping the arm turned away from her. "If I'd owned that," he said, "I would've like as not gotten my ass kicked."
She giggled abruptly at that, and he stared at her for a moment. He looked hurt, and then angry, and she felt bad at the first, though not the second. "Looks like you're doing a good enough job of getting your ass kicked anyway, Sawyer."
"Haha." His voice was unamused. He reached out for her arm, seizing it a bit roughly, drawing her towards him. "C'mere." Not much for subtlety, clearly. He pressed her against him, and she felt herself soften against him for a moment before consciously drawing away again. She wouldn't be that easy, not like the rest of the girls he'd been with. 'No girl's just like me,' she had warned him, but she was just like all those girls at the moment, she knew, and as much as she wanted otherwise, she couldn't change it.
His shoulders were strong and stiff. She wrapped her hands around him and slowly and gently explored his back, avoiding the wounded arm. The muscles in his back felt as stiff as the cords of window blinds, his spine the slat of a bind, rigid and unbending, but somehow fragile-seeming and breakable at the same time.
She didn't want to hurt him. She was afraid that he would be in pain if he moved the wrong way, didn't want him to thrash around in bed, didn't want to twist his shoulders in a direction that they couldn't go. "What's that?" Her fingers moved down his skin towards his arm, and she pressed at the bumps around the wound, careful not to touch it exactly.
It drew a wince of pain out of Sawyer before he caught it and swallowed it down. She wished he would cry. She knew he'd never allow it from himself. "Bullet fragments," he said, gasping the first word a little and hissing on the end of the second. "It ain't nothin'."
The bathroom was the only direct light beyond that which flickered in, filtered, from rooms beyond. She wanted to see his face, but could see only shadow, light hitting the curves of his body, glinting off where his lanky frame clipped in at the waist, making him seem more of a statue than a human being. She couldn't read his emotions, and she didn't know if she should continue. Then he moved into the light again, and she could see his face, the confidence on it. He knew what he was doing. She realized that she knew what she was doing, too.
He slid a hand up her shirt, reaching for her breast, lifting it slowly, not the way Tom had, hard and fast like he was picking up a tennis ball for a serve. His hand was warm, and she was aware that his hands were not that large; they were strong, but slim-fingered. He kept his eyes on her the whole time and now his wounded arm moved, and she wanted to cringe and move away, but couldn't.
Kate helped him lift her shirt over her head and then her brassiere, and laughed when the bra straps caught and tangled on her hair. She saw him smile a little as well and wondered if that was genuine. She couldn't be sure. She didn't think he knew the difference between genuine and a con anymore, because the look that he was giving her was the same look that she had given Jason when she had kissed him at the bank, before she had shot him.
"What if someone sees us?" Sawyer asked, in a careless tone. His eyes darted towards the door and then back towards her, something challenging and demanding on his face. "You sittin' with me like that."
She wondered about it now. It hadn't occurred to her. But she shrugged. "So what? You don't have anything to worry about. They'd probably be surprised you hadn't tried it already. I'm the only one that has to worry."
"And are you?"
"Of course."
He grinned broadly and leaned back on the bed, his head nestling into the pillow, his body turning towards her. "If we're bein' honest for once, I'm surprised I hadn't tried it already," he admitted, the sudden vulnerability something that moments later needed to be scoffed at, a hand waving it aside before thudding down onto the bed.
Kate moved to lean across him, one hand moving under the covers, through the flap of his boxers. She let two fingers and her thumb encircle him at the root, sometimes caressing, sometimes probing deeply, sometimes feather-touching. Her fingertips touched one another as they stretched around his hardness, and they felt cool compared to what she could feel of him.
Sawyer moved his head towards hers, a lock of dark blond hair falling over his jaw. His eyes were wide, the pupils dilated, a look that made him seem almost dazed, maybe drunk. He was sober, though, and his movements were sure as he leaned in to kiss her, need making the kiss sharper and harder than he had intended. "Sorry," he said as she pulled back, though her hand didn't move from where it continued to caress him.
She pulled away, feeling startled at the suddenness, as if she had suddenly come to her senses. It must have looked funny, because he smiled ruefully, looked down at where her hand entered beneath the afghan and sheets, and gave a little shrug, as if to say, 'I didn't plan on it happening.'
"Oh God," she said, looking towards the door to the bedroom area. "Condoms."
His voice was sharp, as if he was scolding her. "We ain't never leavin' this island, and you're worried about catchin' something? Ain't nothin' in this damn hatch. And I ain't got nothin' on me. Take it or leave it. If you want to leave..." And he motioned her the way that she looked, a grand, almost theatrical motion.
She half-expected someone to be there, but there was no one there, and they only had so much time to finish what they started. She couldn't say she didn't want it to happen, either. He was tense, and that hurt look drifted across his face again, as if he thought she was about to break away from him. She wondered if he gave all women that look, if it was part of the act, the con man suddenly revealed as a hurt little boy. She decided it probably was.
Concerns like that were for later, though. Now, with her hand still planted on Sawyer, she leaned down overtop him, and his fingers pulled down her zipper, fast, too fast, too insistently, and she wanted to tell him to stop. He kissed her, his eyes locked on her, his body positioning itself beneath hers. She was aware all of a sudden that she had him locked against the bed, and realized that he would look like he was only acquiescing to whatever she wanted, not doing anything to her. She was sure that was intentional. Was this all an act, for the benefit of anyone who walked in? Was she being tricked into looking like she was taking advantage of him?
She would show him. He was the con, not her. She was better than him. She slid her hand off of him and tried to roll him over to his side, to make him have to be atop her, but she couldn't stand to touch the wound, and she couldn't move him otherwise. He watched her, amused, brows raised, and at last said, "Now, you ain't all that yieldin', darling. We both know that. Doesn't suit you."
And, damn him, Sawyer was right. She glared at him for a moment, and he laughed easily, uncaring, reached out for her side and brought her down atop him. There was a flash of pain, and it was mutual. Kate heard him yelp a little before, just like the first time he'd been about to cry aloud, he caught it and swallowed it down.
She did not give herself to him; she was sure of that. She took as much as she gave, pulling as much of him towards her as she offered of herself to him. He wrapped his hands around her, and she was conscious of each part of his smooth arms (very smooth indeed) and the way that he moved, languidly, slowly, like he had all the time in the world to do this, when she knew that they had only minutes. There was an insistence, though, a fierceness in his movements. She realized that it had been almost two months, and wondered if he had ever been so deprived before.
She drew from him as he drew from her, feeling the pressure of his movements around her and within her, biting her lip when he moved his hands to her arms, squeezing hard enough that she felt pain and knew that it would leave red marks. She made a mental note to wear a long-sleeved shirt tomorrow, and he smiled lazily at her, and at least his fingers loosened a little on her arms.
"This ain't funny," he pointed out, and though his voice was serious, that smile stayed, the mocking look on his face as if he found the utmost amusement in their situation. She was sure that he did.
"Yes, it is," she said quietly, her tongue and teeth moving to his earlobe, nibbling a little. "Three minutes? Four?"
"Let's try for five," he said, and they did. They almost made it too. But his movements, though they stayed intense, did not stay so slow. When she traced his chin with her lips, moved her lips onto his, felt herself give a little, he shook underneath her, the vibrations beginning in his limbs and spreading to his torso, centering beneath his stomach and all the way into her. She felt him move faster, harder, saw that slack foolish look slip over his face again, realized that this was the first time she'd seen the mask slip without him intending it, that she knew of.
Swift, searing, sharp. Time passed. More things happened. The pain was exquisite again, and whether it was partly pleasure as well, she couldn't tell, but she loved it anyway.
He came at just after four minutes, the lazy grin slipped off his face, his chin lifted defiantly towards her as if this quick loss was somehow a failure on his part. She thought it was anything but, and she pressed down harder on him, tried to keep him moving, didn't want him to withdraw and turn away.
If Sawyer was only concerned about himself, now wasn't the moment he showed it. He leaned in towards her again, his hands roaming over her, tugging at her hair a little, tracing her curves like they were a map that he only had to find the key for. It was when his hands had slid around from her back and were moving down over her front, smooth skin that led to where he still lay, softer, inside her, that she felt herself begin to tremble as well, and saw a pleased smile bloom on his face, as if somehow he had conquered her, beaten her, by bringing her there. She knew better, though. She knew how much he had needed it, how desperate he had been, more desperate than she. There was a moment of wild, desperate wonder that soared within her, and she gave in too, her thighs and legs tight against the damp sheets.
He didn't move. It was as if, were he to move, he might stop things in their tracks, might change the picture completely. She leaned overtop him, staring into his eyes, and she saw at first delight in them, and then confusion and doubt. She wasn't sure why. Did he still distrust her?
"How long?" he said, and then, as if she might be perplexed by the possible answers to that question: "How many minutes?"
She looked over at the clock. "Five and a half."
"Damn," he said, and gave her a mercurial smile. She saw that confident mask slip on again, even as he moved to lace his arms behind his head, that same self-assured demeanor that she knew was phony. "You got me," he concluded, and she knew that she had done nothing of the sort. He would not be caught so easily.
For now, though, it was comfortable and intoxicating just to lie there, but she would have to get dressed. Five and a half minutes and the few minutes before was far too long. Someone would be down in the hatch. Someone would want something. And she had to change his bandages. She rolled overtop him and off the bed, and thought that she heard him protest that, as if they were in a hotel room, and had all the time they wanted to spend together. She looked back towards him and saw nothing, only self-confidence and that same mocking look. "Ain't you gonna smoke a cigarette?" He motioned towards the pack that someone had brought him. "Take one. You've earned it."
"I don't smoke." She fastened her bra, pulled her shirt over her head, tried to smooth out her hair, moved for her underwear. "You can smoke mine."
"With pleasure," Sawyer said, and withdrew a second cigarette from the pack. She could feel his eyes on her as she pulled on the rest of her clothes, assessing her, evaluating her, but he said nothing, and what feelings he might have for her were hidden again. "You've got a button that needs to be pressed."
It took Kate a few moments to realize that he was probably talking about the computer in the hatch. Even then, she still wasn't sure. As she fled his company, she told him, "Please don't," but wasn't sure what she was telling him not to do. All around her, the hatch swirled like the colors of the afghan, flashing and blinking and undulating in strange, sensual rhythms. She needed to get out of there as soon as possible, and she didn't even look at the computer numbers when she typed them.