Breaking Kate: Chapter 2
Fan Fiction "Breaking Kate: Chapter 2"
Author: shalimar77777
Title: "Breaking Kate"
Fandom: LOST
Characters: Ben/Kate
Word Count: 662
Rating: R -- for smut, smut, smut and bad language -- it gets even dirtier beyond here. Lots of angst. LOTS of angst.
Summary: This takes place right after the finale of season 2. Imagine if Ben, instead of putting Kate in a sundress and making her break rocks, becomes obsessed with her. What would he do to get her, what would he do once he had her? This is Kate's perspective as she waits in her cell, enduring visits from Ben every night. Dark stuff, I promise XD
Disclaimer: LOST is not mine, none of the characters are mine, I'm just borrowing them for a while to have a little fun.
Author's Notes: This is my first fan fic. Be honest. If you don't like it, say so. I wrote it one night, right after I saw the episode "The Other Woman."
Breaking Kate: Chapter 2
Except for Ben's short visits, Kate had no contact with human beings. Food was usually shoved through a slot in the door or brought in by Ben. Eye contact was never made except by him. Her cell was avoided for fear that she would latch onto someone, bringing the cruel wrath of Ben upon the unfortunate person who made accidental-yet-meaningful contact. If that person were lucky, it earned them a stay in Room 23. Not so lucky, they were killed. And no one wanted that.
As Kate laid in her cell or paced, day after day, she thought of Jack, even Sawyer sometimes, but she was generally lonely, distraught and fearful. She ran her hands through her long locks endlessly, hoping that she would be free again, but she was getting more and more alarmed at the feelings and thoughts that started permeating her mind.
Especially since they involved Ben.
To be honest, Ben made her sick. The thought of him touching her or even looking at her made her physically ill. Each evening when he entered, silently studying her with a cold, commanding look on his face. She shoved him away as hard as he could, both metaphorically and physically.
When he turned toward the door and slammed it behind him, time and again, she knew she that as sure as he would be back the next night, she was going to give in soon. She could feel herself weakening. She knew it, he knew it. Everyone had a breaking point, even her.
Lately she was horrified that she found herself gasping awake from a dead sleep, stunned and flushed. More often than not lately she was having intense, far-too-vivid sexual dreams of him, his hands and lips all over her, consuming her. These dreams always ended in the same way: with a hot, wet rush in her panties and a fresh dose of potent shame. It was his calm, almost clinical voice that plunged her over the edge. It was his weapon, that voice.
Most of the time she could block those thoughts when she was awake and she did, shoving them down, stomping them. It was certainly easier when he came into her cell and kept silent, even as she scratched at him like a savage or spit in his face. But one evening he came in and spoke to her, saying more than he had in days. And what he said hit her with a sickening thud.
“Stop fighting it, Kate,” he said plainly. “You are only delaying the inevitable.”
It was funny - he never had to tell her what the “inevitable” was -- but she suddenly found herself wondering, more and more often, what he would do to her body if he had half the chance.
Then one evening Ben never came, but she heard Tom speaking with a guard in muffled tones outside her cell door. Suddenly the door swung open and and Tom's big, bearish frame stood in the doorway. Two men in lab coats stood behind him, one with a black hood and one with a syringe.
“Let's go,” was all Tom said. And then after brief burst of struggle, she felt a sharp pain in her arm and she slipped into the darkness.