[SCC] Faking It - Sarah/Derek - Adult
TITLE: Faking It
AUTHOR: indiefic
CHARACTERS: Sarah Connor/Derek Reese with a bit of Sarah/Kyle ruminations.
RATING: Adult
WORD COUNT: 1500
WARNINGS: Spoilers for the first season.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Don't know who does.
TIMELINE: Set sometime before the events of 2.06, timeline is vague, definitely more of the season 1 dynamic than season 2..
SUMMARY: All of us wear masks.
***
"All of us wear masks. They can be worn out of love and the desire to remain close to those around us, to spare them from the complicated reality of our frayed psyches. We trade honesty for companionship and in the process, never truly know the hearts closest to us."
- Sarah Connor, ep. 1.08 “Vick’s Chip”
She turns her head to the side, shifting underneath him, rocking her hips forward. He groans, his rhythm falters for a moment, but he soon recovers, his hips grinding against hers as he buries himself deep inside her. His head dips, his teeth bite into the taut, corded flesh of her neck - not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to hurt.
She shivers, the fingers of her right hand threading through his sweat-damp hair as she locks her legs around his waist. He slows for a moment, releasing his bite. His breath is hot and moist against her jaw and she knows if she had the courage to look him in the eye she’d find him watching her.
But she doesn’t look him in the eye. That’s the one satisfaction she can’t give. He grunts, redoubling his efforts. His hand slips between their bodies but before he can stroke her, she is pushing him off, rolling away.
She doesn’t roll far, just onto her stomach next to him. Pillowing her head on her hands, she kneels, pushing her ass in the air. For a long moment, he doesn’t move, considering his options and her motivations. But regardless of how much he wants to figure out her angle, he can’t resist the offer.
He moves quickly, kneeling between her spread legs, forcing her stance wider. He grabs her hips, rocking her backward to meet his thrust as he slides home. Her head snaps back as their hips connect and she sucks in a deep, involuntary breath at the pleasure pain.
She wasn’t in the mood tonight. Isn’t in the mood right now. She’s in that place in her cycle where she just fucking wishes she’d bleed already. She feels bloated, her temper is waspish, and fucking was the last thing on her mind.
Until she saw Derek.
She doesn’t know what nightmares haunt Derek Reese. She has suspicions, of course. For as dry and vague as he is most of the time, he often broadcasts his trauma so loudly he might as well have PTSD stamped across his forehead. And there are times when despite knowing better, she wants nothing more to offer him comfort. Sometimes it’s because he’s Kyle’s brother. Sometimes it’s because he’s John’s uncle. And sometimes it’s simply because he looks like he needs a bit of kindness more desperately than any human that ever lived.
And maybe if she was anyone else, Sarah could offer Derek comfort. But she’s Sarah Connor. And he’s Derek Reese. And she can’t offer him comfort. That’s not how their dynamic works. She’s the one that pours salt in his wounds and drags him to his feet when he has the audacity to suffer from human frailty.
But there are times, those fragile moments, when not even she is capable of living up to her own press. There are times when Sarah Connor needs to comfort Derek Reese in whatever way possible, as much for her as for him. Because he, more often than not, shares her bed. And he, for better or for worse, is her son’s father figure. She cooks him breakfast. And he does her laundry. And to idly watch him suffer his crushing pain alone is too much - even for her.
So sometimes, she does something she swore she'd never do again. She fakes it. She says yes when she really means no. Because this particular mask is the only comfort she can offer.
She groans, panting, rocking back against him insistently. A little encouragement is all he needs and his fingers bite into her hips, his pace quickening. She moans again, quietly, so John won’t hear. But loud enough to spur on Derek.
She knows he can go like this for quite a while, especially after the couple of beers he downed earlier and she isn’t in the mood for that. She shifts, rocking her hips, tightening around him as she reaches down her torso. Her nimble fingers find his balls and she caresses them for a few moments, listening to the way his breath hitches, feeling the way his thrusts become erratic. Again, she tightens around him, pushing back as she squeezes his balls just a little too hard. He makes a strangled noise, driving into her twice before he shudders, leaning against her heavily.
She shifts and he withdrawals, collapsing onto his back next to her as she stretches out on the bed. She looks at him, finding him watching her. But he doesn’t speak. He just holds her gaze for a moment before he looks away, yawning. In moments, he’s asleep.
Sarah sighs, burying her head in the pillow, letting the mask slip.
She doesn’t know where it is that Derek and John go on afternoons like today. For now, she’s content to let them have their boys’ club. Except that they always come home looking so damn haunted. Well, Derek looks haunted. John just looks sad and oddly hopeful and far too fragile.
John she can deal with. She can give him a hug and make him dinner and talk to him about his day. And usually he’ll humor her. He pretends to be a lot happier than he is and she’s certain most of the stuff he says about his day is a lie, but that’s okay. Because he does talk to her and they do connect.
But Derek …
She and Derek talk sometimes. Sometimes it’s even civil. At least for a few minutes. But they have this groove they invariably fall into, biting and snarking and pushing each other's buttons as if helpless to stop themselves. It disturbs Sarah for a variety of reasons, least of all because her dynamic with Derek was solidified within moments of meeting him.
She hates to compare Derek to Kyle and most days she stops herself outright. But not tonight. Tonight she'll think about it because Derek's asleep next to her and it’s still sticky slick between her thighs and it's impossible not to draw comparisons.
Her relationship with Kyle was ever changing. Every minute they spent together, it was different. He went from possible murderer to kidnapper to protector to whack job to friend and confidant and lover to … dead. He was fierce and loyal and sweet and every moment they had, he showed her another side of himself. They never had the opportunity to find equilibrium.
With Derek, the second she jumped him in that alley, their dynamic was set in stone. It was like they instinctively knew each other's buttons and pushed them at every possible opportunity. She knows Derek. She knows what will make him mad, what will irritate him, what will offend his sensibilities. She knows short of hobbling him, he will never take a shower without using every last drop of hot water. And she suspects, even if she did hobble him, he'd still do it.
She also knows he's dedicated to the mission, even if he’s not dedicated to her personally. She knows he wants to stop Judgment Day just as much - if not more - than she and John.
And she knows he won't hesitate to kill to protect her son.
But what she doesn’t know are the dark thoughts rolling around in his head. Derek lies to her as often as he tells the truth. What exactly his agenda is, she doesn’t know. But as long as it doesn’t conflict with hers, she really doesn’t have time to care. She’s still pissed he killed Andy Goode, but even she can’t fault his logic. And secretly she thanks him for committing the dark deeds when she couldn’t.
She looks over at him, soundly sleeping in her bed, sheet draped across his waist, one tattooed arm flung over his eyes.
It's not that she's never faked it before. She's faked it plenty. She spent years of her life wearing that mask, faking it, fucking men she despised simply so John could have the education he needed. But it's different with Derek. She doesn't fuck him as a form of manipulation. She doesn't barter with her body. What they have is real. Okay, so usually it's just really fucked up. But it's still real. Mutual need. Mutual desire. Mutual satisfaction.
Except for the times when she fakes it. Because the time they spend fucking is the only time she can hold him without feeling self-conscious, without feeling weak, without acknowledging his weakness. Because if any of those things happened, this whole damn mask might just crumble and bury them both in the rubble.
{End}
AUTHOR: indiefic
CHARACTERS: Sarah Connor/Derek Reese with a bit of Sarah/Kyle ruminations.
RATING: Adult
WORD COUNT: 1500
WARNINGS: Spoilers for the first season.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Don't know who does.
TIMELINE: Set sometime before the events of 2.06, timeline is vague, definitely more of the season 1 dynamic than season 2..
SUMMARY: All of us wear masks.
***
"All of us wear masks. They can be worn out of love and the desire to remain close to those around us, to spare them from the complicated reality of our frayed psyches. We trade honesty for companionship and in the process, never truly know the hearts closest to us."
- Sarah Connor, ep. 1.08 “Vick’s Chip”
She turns her head to the side, shifting underneath him, rocking her hips forward. He groans, his rhythm falters for a moment, but he soon recovers, his hips grinding against hers as he buries himself deep inside her. His head dips, his teeth bite into the taut, corded flesh of her neck - not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to hurt.
She shivers, the fingers of her right hand threading through his sweat-damp hair as she locks her legs around his waist. He slows for a moment, releasing his bite. His breath is hot and moist against her jaw and she knows if she had the courage to look him in the eye she’d find him watching her.
But she doesn’t look him in the eye. That’s the one satisfaction she can’t give. He grunts, redoubling his efforts. His hand slips between their bodies but before he can stroke her, she is pushing him off, rolling away.
She doesn’t roll far, just onto her stomach next to him. Pillowing her head on her hands, she kneels, pushing her ass in the air. For a long moment, he doesn’t move, considering his options and her motivations. But regardless of how much he wants to figure out her angle, he can’t resist the offer.
He moves quickly, kneeling between her spread legs, forcing her stance wider. He grabs her hips, rocking her backward to meet his thrust as he slides home. Her head snaps back as their hips connect and she sucks in a deep, involuntary breath at the pleasure pain.
She wasn’t in the mood tonight. Isn’t in the mood right now. She’s in that place in her cycle where she just fucking wishes she’d bleed already. She feels bloated, her temper is waspish, and fucking was the last thing on her mind.
Until she saw Derek.
She doesn’t know what nightmares haunt Derek Reese. She has suspicions, of course. For as dry and vague as he is most of the time, he often broadcasts his trauma so loudly he might as well have PTSD stamped across his forehead. And there are times when despite knowing better, she wants nothing more to offer him comfort. Sometimes it’s because he’s Kyle’s brother. Sometimes it’s because he’s John’s uncle. And sometimes it’s simply because he looks like he needs a bit of kindness more desperately than any human that ever lived.
And maybe if she was anyone else, Sarah could offer Derek comfort. But she’s Sarah Connor. And he’s Derek Reese. And she can’t offer him comfort. That’s not how their dynamic works. She’s the one that pours salt in his wounds and drags him to his feet when he has the audacity to suffer from human frailty.
But there are times, those fragile moments, when not even she is capable of living up to her own press. There are times when Sarah Connor needs to comfort Derek Reese in whatever way possible, as much for her as for him. Because he, more often than not, shares her bed. And he, for better or for worse, is her son’s father figure. She cooks him breakfast. And he does her laundry. And to idly watch him suffer his crushing pain alone is too much - even for her.
So sometimes, she does something she swore she'd never do again. She fakes it. She says yes when she really means no. Because this particular mask is the only comfort she can offer.
She groans, panting, rocking back against him insistently. A little encouragement is all he needs and his fingers bite into her hips, his pace quickening. She moans again, quietly, so John won’t hear. But loud enough to spur on Derek.
She knows he can go like this for quite a while, especially after the couple of beers he downed earlier and she isn’t in the mood for that. She shifts, rocking her hips, tightening around him as she reaches down her torso. Her nimble fingers find his balls and she caresses them for a few moments, listening to the way his breath hitches, feeling the way his thrusts become erratic. Again, she tightens around him, pushing back as she squeezes his balls just a little too hard. He makes a strangled noise, driving into her twice before he shudders, leaning against her heavily.
She shifts and he withdrawals, collapsing onto his back next to her as she stretches out on the bed. She looks at him, finding him watching her. But he doesn’t speak. He just holds her gaze for a moment before he looks away, yawning. In moments, he’s asleep.
Sarah sighs, burying her head in the pillow, letting the mask slip.
She doesn’t know where it is that Derek and John go on afternoons like today. For now, she’s content to let them have their boys’ club. Except that they always come home looking so damn haunted. Well, Derek looks haunted. John just looks sad and oddly hopeful and far too fragile.
John she can deal with. She can give him a hug and make him dinner and talk to him about his day. And usually he’ll humor her. He pretends to be a lot happier than he is and she’s certain most of the stuff he says about his day is a lie, but that’s okay. Because he does talk to her and they do connect.
But Derek …
She and Derek talk sometimes. Sometimes it’s even civil. At least for a few minutes. But they have this groove they invariably fall into, biting and snarking and pushing each other's buttons as if helpless to stop themselves. It disturbs Sarah for a variety of reasons, least of all because her dynamic with Derek was solidified within moments of meeting him.
She hates to compare Derek to Kyle and most days she stops herself outright. But not tonight. Tonight she'll think about it because Derek's asleep next to her and it’s still sticky slick between her thighs and it's impossible not to draw comparisons.
Her relationship with Kyle was ever changing. Every minute they spent together, it was different. He went from possible murderer to kidnapper to protector to whack job to friend and confidant and lover to … dead. He was fierce and loyal and sweet and every moment they had, he showed her another side of himself. They never had the opportunity to find equilibrium.
With Derek, the second she jumped him in that alley, their dynamic was set in stone. It was like they instinctively knew each other's buttons and pushed them at every possible opportunity. She knows Derek. She knows what will make him mad, what will irritate him, what will offend his sensibilities. She knows short of hobbling him, he will never take a shower without using every last drop of hot water. And she suspects, even if she did hobble him, he'd still do it.
She also knows he's dedicated to the mission, even if he’s not dedicated to her personally. She knows he wants to stop Judgment Day just as much - if not more - than she and John.
And she knows he won't hesitate to kill to protect her son.
But what she doesn’t know are the dark thoughts rolling around in his head. Derek lies to her as often as he tells the truth. What exactly his agenda is, she doesn’t know. But as long as it doesn’t conflict with hers, she really doesn’t have time to care. She’s still pissed he killed Andy Goode, but even she can’t fault his logic. And secretly she thanks him for committing the dark deeds when she couldn’t.
She looks over at him, soundly sleeping in her bed, sheet draped across his waist, one tattooed arm flung over his eyes.
It's not that she's never faked it before. She's faked it plenty. She spent years of her life wearing that mask, faking it, fucking men she despised simply so John could have the education he needed. But it's different with Derek. She doesn't fuck him as a form of manipulation. She doesn't barter with her body. What they have is real. Okay, so usually it's just really fucked up. But it's still real. Mutual need. Mutual desire. Mutual satisfaction.
Except for the times when she fakes it. Because the time they spend fucking is the only time she can hold him without feeling self-conscious, without feeling weak, without acknowledging his weakness. Because if any of those things happened, this whole damn mask might just crumble and bury them both in the rubble.
{End}