Ficlet: Hard (Sawyer/Ana Lucia)
Title: Hard
Pairing: Sawyer/Ana Lucia
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: This is not a nice story. Also pretty damn close to PWP.
Summary: If you didn’t balk at the pairing, then you’re reading out of freakish curiosity and the summary doesn’t matter. Let’s just say this is what happens when I get in an anti-fluff bad self-esteem snit and decide to kick my muse in the ass; she don’t like to be ass-kicked, let me tell you, but she still produces things. And, no, I still don’t like Ana Lucia. I just didn’t want to screw Kate over just to write Dark!Sawyer. Constructive criticism invited.
Sawyer grew up thinking that anywhere that wasn’t his lower middle class neighborhood was paradise. Somewhere with color, with light and with dark and certainly not just painted in shades of gray. He hated gray, and he hated being half-poor. Consequently, whenever he had money, he’d always managed to surround himself with nice things. Fluffy pillow white things. Heated pool blue things. Full lips red things. And people who were either extra dark or extra bright. Something to feel. He was always in danger of going numb, going dead, so he wanted to feel.
He didn’t even mind the trashy ones. Sticks would have been ideal. Fire, shine, nasal voice cutting him hard. But she had for some reason run fresh out of bad boy lust, and her turning to Sayid made him a little sick. To see her smooth that edge into easy smiles and hand-holding seemed sacrilegious.
Then there was Freckles. She was too cool, earthy, although she did have some of her own blaze going, deep down. But she was even quicker to smother it, to stomp it into oblivion for Jack. Jack would have wanted the gray, the middle, the even, the calm, the easy. Which is why his flirtation with Ana Lucia confused Sawyer. Jack needed Kate to be good, but he was perfectly okay with-no, in love with-Ana Lucia’s need to be hard and cold and push people away, as much with shutting down as with being abrasive. That was the other thing that confused Sawyer. Was Ana Lucia really the repressed, cold, aloof camp outcast, or was she really the woman who ground a boot into his wounded shoulder out of some sense of power so righteous that it made him sure she could hurt him so bad he’d never stop feeling?
He did feel. He thought she was a miserable bitch, a control freak worse than Jack, but that may have been more about how he resented Jack and how he hated being controlled than anything. If he stopped and thought, he would have known that he had been needing something like that since he fell out of the sky two months before. But he hadn’t been thinking much since he was spit back on the shore like a piece of rejected driftwood, dumped right on the bitch’s doorstep to meet a lust so hard it was nearly indistinguishable from hate and anger. If he could trade barbs with her while he was half dead, he wanted her. He knew that. He just didn’t want to want her. She was sneaky as hell, meaner than a snake, and he didn’t trust her any farther than he could throw her angry ass.
All in all, she was the new ideal.
It happened too quickly for his taste, but, then again, most things like that do. Jack guilted him into going out to see her, to bring her something asinine that she probably didn’t need. She was wearing that black tank top, and it made her eyes look black too. Her jeans hung low on her hips, and her posture sent so many signals she was like a neon sign alternately flashing ‘stay the fuck away’ and ‘come closer and see what I’ve got.’ But her voice was in that middle ground, that emotionless land of old cracked pavement and faded eggshell siding and a mailbox hanging open, derelict, tired, offering nothing good or bad-just there.
“Yeah?” was her first word to him. He realized that since the jungle, he hadn’t spoken to her.
“Doc sent this,” he said, holding his voice steady, his hand steady as he held out a small folded tarp.
She half rolled her eyes. “You his errand boy now?” Even as she said it, her gaze moved up and down his body, appraising but not revealing what that appraisal was.
“You always this nice to people, or am I just special?”
“Why didn’t he bring it himself?”
“Ask him. I ain’t his messenger.”
He turned around and walked away, and he didn’t hear her until she was right behind him. “Sawyer.”
“What?”
“Why didn’t he come? What’s happening?”
“What do you care what’s happening?”
“I don’t want him running off again, doing something stupid without me.”
“That’s what I thought,” he said, and he let a patronizing look steal over his face. “He don’t let Kate protect him, and he sure as hell don’t need you breathing down his neck.”
“Yes he does.”
Her concern for Jack made him itch. Why was it that they all wanted to protect him, to love him, to have him touch them? He wanted them to own up to the lust, that it drove them too. He leered as he said, “You know you could have him, right? A few looks, a little skin, the right words, and he’d be all over you.”
“Wrong. He’s not like that.”
“And now you’ll tell me you don’t want him.”
Evenly, she said, “I didn’t say that. I just said I can’t have him, not like you said. Now, you, I could have.”
He couldn’t reply to that. Didn’t want to, really. It would either be stupid or a lie, and he wasn’t in the mood. He turned to walk away again, but something in that deep, knowing stare of hers said something to him that didn’t feel like the view from the peeling-paint front porch. Step up, it said. Not so much like all the others, those dim wits he’d bilked money from. They said, Take it all. She said, You just try to take it all and see what you get. How a woman with dark hair and eyes and clothes and voice could make him see brighter things than sunset and cresting wave, shinier things than bottle-blonde hair and naïve giggling under clean sheets, a better dark than the kind of pain he sought when the shadows were the only limit he could hope to grasp.
He didn’t think, really. He just grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her to him, almost off her feet, but she was quick, and she balanced herself against his hip, turning her face before he could kiss her even if she didn’t jerk too hard to get out of his arms.
He said into her ear, “This what you wanted?”
She tightened in his arms and said through gritted teeth, “No. I wanted him.”
Sawyer couldn’t decide who started it. It was just that suddenly, he was tasting her and feeling every curve of her body pressed into his. She held him by his hair as she kissed him, but the kiss was not what he expected. Sawyer had always liked easy sex, the kind that came in a breathless rush before you could think or worry or try too hard. Rough sex was fine with him, but he also got off on women who kissed and touched him liquid, pliable, but still in control. That’s what this was: wet lips, slick, probing tongue, a kiss like he might not even need sex. Her hands squeezed and slid with their squeezing, until one was pressing into his crotch. He was working his tongue over her neck, trying to take a break from being fucked so thoroughly with her mouth, and when she touched him like that, his hips rocked forward and he sank his teeth into her neck. She hissed, so he sank his teeth in harder, tasting blood, and she was shoving him back against a tree, yanking at the button on his fly.
“Slow down,” he mumbled.
“Why?”
“Are you crazy?”
She raised her head and grinned at him, feral, and it instantly pissed him off. She was mocking him with that face-a patronizing look of certainty and possession-and her hands still hadn’t left his zipper. So he pulled his back off the tree, hooked a couple of fingers under her waistband, and whirled her around until her back was against the tree and he was pressed hard against her, one hand working its way into her underwear. As he probed two fingers down and into her hot, wet center, he was relieved that she reacted by jerking her hips against his hand-even if she hissed out her annoyance-and that she started tugging at his pants again.
Soon, she was jerking him hard, her hands sliding over his wet cock, her breath hot in his ear. She didn’t moan or say anything, only sometimes a hitch in her breath told him what she liked, not that he was concentrating too hard. This was not a time to patiently wait out a woman’s orgasm, painstakingly trying everything he could to get her off. This woman would get herself off. She would thrust her hips up and into his, forcing his fingers where she wanted them, and she would do it somehow while she twisted and pumped his cock like she knew exactly how to touch him.
For some reason, she made herself come, let herself come. Maybe it was just selfishness. Maybe she was as hard up as he was for someone else’s hand. But he felt her body pulsing and sweating and heard the one and only moan she let slip, but he didn’t let himself go. He expected impatience on her part, or a more violent jerking of his dick in her hands, but what he got was a slowing down, a near stopping.
“What the fuck?” he said.
“Ask me nice, and I’ll finish you off.”
He shook his head, displacing her hand on his cock and fisting himself hard. He watched her back up a couple of steps, her eyes focused on his cock, and he closed his own eyes, even if he still saw her face and her body like they were burned into his retinas. A few swift jerks and he was coming.
As he zipped himself back up, she was watching him coldly, though something about the flush on her skin made him remember that she wasn’t cold at all. Hard and cold are not the same thing. Jack was cold, and Kate and Sayid and Locke and all the rest. They suppressed until what they wanted disappeared. Ana Lucia-well, she reigned it all in, but it was still there, always. Every bit of it. Threats, knives, boots, cunning, and then the pain, the grief, the suspicion, the paranoia, the blind defensiveness that made everyone around her out to be dangerous.
They looked at each other, not sure of what it was they were getting: the bright side, neon and fast cars and stack of bills; the dark side, a darker gaze and stronger violence.
Sawyer sneered at her. “I could have done that all on my lonesome.”
“Then don’t fucking come out here and ask for it,” she said, and she turned and walked back toward her sad little shelter, hips swinging, powerful.
“Don’t you forget: you offered it, bitch,” he said.
Next thing he knew, he was on the ground, on his back, looking up at her glare. “Don’t forget that wasn’t about you, bitch.” Then she sauntered away again, her hips now set on destruction.
His whole body shook with the need to do something physical to her. He would’ve liked to lay there and just absorb it, but he had to get up and stalk off and pretend he didn’t want her so bad it hurt.
Pairing: Sawyer/Ana Lucia
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: This is not a nice story. Also pretty damn close to PWP.
Summary: If you didn’t balk at the pairing, then you’re reading out of freakish curiosity and the summary doesn’t matter. Let’s just say this is what happens when I get in an anti-fluff bad self-esteem snit and decide to kick my muse in the ass; she don’t like to be ass-kicked, let me tell you, but she still produces things. And, no, I still don’t like Ana Lucia. I just didn’t want to screw Kate over just to write Dark!Sawyer. Constructive criticism invited.
Sawyer grew up thinking that anywhere that wasn’t his lower middle class neighborhood was paradise. Somewhere with color, with light and with dark and certainly not just painted in shades of gray. He hated gray, and he hated being half-poor. Consequently, whenever he had money, he’d always managed to surround himself with nice things. Fluffy pillow white things. Heated pool blue things. Full lips red things. And people who were either extra dark or extra bright. Something to feel. He was always in danger of going numb, going dead, so he wanted to feel.
He didn’t even mind the trashy ones. Sticks would have been ideal. Fire, shine, nasal voice cutting him hard. But she had for some reason run fresh out of bad boy lust, and her turning to Sayid made him a little sick. To see her smooth that edge into easy smiles and hand-holding seemed sacrilegious.
Then there was Freckles. She was too cool, earthy, although she did have some of her own blaze going, deep down. But she was even quicker to smother it, to stomp it into oblivion for Jack. Jack would have wanted the gray, the middle, the even, the calm, the easy. Which is why his flirtation with Ana Lucia confused Sawyer. Jack needed Kate to be good, but he was perfectly okay with-no, in love with-Ana Lucia’s need to be hard and cold and push people away, as much with shutting down as with being abrasive. That was the other thing that confused Sawyer. Was Ana Lucia really the repressed, cold, aloof camp outcast, or was she really the woman who ground a boot into his wounded shoulder out of some sense of power so righteous that it made him sure she could hurt him so bad he’d never stop feeling?
He did feel. He thought she was a miserable bitch, a control freak worse than Jack, but that may have been more about how he resented Jack and how he hated being controlled than anything. If he stopped and thought, he would have known that he had been needing something like that since he fell out of the sky two months before. But he hadn’t been thinking much since he was spit back on the shore like a piece of rejected driftwood, dumped right on the bitch’s doorstep to meet a lust so hard it was nearly indistinguishable from hate and anger. If he could trade barbs with her while he was half dead, he wanted her. He knew that. He just didn’t want to want her. She was sneaky as hell, meaner than a snake, and he didn’t trust her any farther than he could throw her angry ass.
All in all, she was the new ideal.
It happened too quickly for his taste, but, then again, most things like that do. Jack guilted him into going out to see her, to bring her something asinine that she probably didn’t need. She was wearing that black tank top, and it made her eyes look black too. Her jeans hung low on her hips, and her posture sent so many signals she was like a neon sign alternately flashing ‘stay the fuck away’ and ‘come closer and see what I’ve got.’ But her voice was in that middle ground, that emotionless land of old cracked pavement and faded eggshell siding and a mailbox hanging open, derelict, tired, offering nothing good or bad-just there.
“Yeah?” was her first word to him. He realized that since the jungle, he hadn’t spoken to her.
“Doc sent this,” he said, holding his voice steady, his hand steady as he held out a small folded tarp.
She half rolled her eyes. “You his errand boy now?” Even as she said it, her gaze moved up and down his body, appraising but not revealing what that appraisal was.
“You always this nice to people, or am I just special?”
“Why didn’t he bring it himself?”
“Ask him. I ain’t his messenger.”
He turned around and walked away, and he didn’t hear her until she was right behind him. “Sawyer.”
“What?”
“Why didn’t he come? What’s happening?”
“What do you care what’s happening?”
“I don’t want him running off again, doing something stupid without me.”
“That’s what I thought,” he said, and he let a patronizing look steal over his face. “He don’t let Kate protect him, and he sure as hell don’t need you breathing down his neck.”
“Yes he does.”
Her concern for Jack made him itch. Why was it that they all wanted to protect him, to love him, to have him touch them? He wanted them to own up to the lust, that it drove them too. He leered as he said, “You know you could have him, right? A few looks, a little skin, the right words, and he’d be all over you.”
“Wrong. He’s not like that.”
“And now you’ll tell me you don’t want him.”
Evenly, she said, “I didn’t say that. I just said I can’t have him, not like you said. Now, you, I could have.”
He couldn’t reply to that. Didn’t want to, really. It would either be stupid or a lie, and he wasn’t in the mood. He turned to walk away again, but something in that deep, knowing stare of hers said something to him that didn’t feel like the view from the peeling-paint front porch. Step up, it said. Not so much like all the others, those dim wits he’d bilked money from. They said, Take it all. She said, You just try to take it all and see what you get. How a woman with dark hair and eyes and clothes and voice could make him see brighter things than sunset and cresting wave, shinier things than bottle-blonde hair and naïve giggling under clean sheets, a better dark than the kind of pain he sought when the shadows were the only limit he could hope to grasp.
He didn’t think, really. He just grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her to him, almost off her feet, but she was quick, and she balanced herself against his hip, turning her face before he could kiss her even if she didn’t jerk too hard to get out of his arms.
He said into her ear, “This what you wanted?”
She tightened in his arms and said through gritted teeth, “No. I wanted him.”
Sawyer couldn’t decide who started it. It was just that suddenly, he was tasting her and feeling every curve of her body pressed into his. She held him by his hair as she kissed him, but the kiss was not what he expected. Sawyer had always liked easy sex, the kind that came in a breathless rush before you could think or worry or try too hard. Rough sex was fine with him, but he also got off on women who kissed and touched him liquid, pliable, but still in control. That’s what this was: wet lips, slick, probing tongue, a kiss like he might not even need sex. Her hands squeezed and slid with their squeezing, until one was pressing into his crotch. He was working his tongue over her neck, trying to take a break from being fucked so thoroughly with her mouth, and when she touched him like that, his hips rocked forward and he sank his teeth into her neck. She hissed, so he sank his teeth in harder, tasting blood, and she was shoving him back against a tree, yanking at the button on his fly.
“Slow down,” he mumbled.
“Why?”
“Are you crazy?”
She raised her head and grinned at him, feral, and it instantly pissed him off. She was mocking him with that face-a patronizing look of certainty and possession-and her hands still hadn’t left his zipper. So he pulled his back off the tree, hooked a couple of fingers under her waistband, and whirled her around until her back was against the tree and he was pressed hard against her, one hand working its way into her underwear. As he probed two fingers down and into her hot, wet center, he was relieved that she reacted by jerking her hips against his hand-even if she hissed out her annoyance-and that she started tugging at his pants again.
Soon, she was jerking him hard, her hands sliding over his wet cock, her breath hot in his ear. She didn’t moan or say anything, only sometimes a hitch in her breath told him what she liked, not that he was concentrating too hard. This was not a time to patiently wait out a woman’s orgasm, painstakingly trying everything he could to get her off. This woman would get herself off. She would thrust her hips up and into his, forcing his fingers where she wanted them, and she would do it somehow while she twisted and pumped his cock like she knew exactly how to touch him.
For some reason, she made herself come, let herself come. Maybe it was just selfishness. Maybe she was as hard up as he was for someone else’s hand. But he felt her body pulsing and sweating and heard the one and only moan she let slip, but he didn’t let himself go. He expected impatience on her part, or a more violent jerking of his dick in her hands, but what he got was a slowing down, a near stopping.
“What the fuck?” he said.
“Ask me nice, and I’ll finish you off.”
He shook his head, displacing her hand on his cock and fisting himself hard. He watched her back up a couple of steps, her eyes focused on his cock, and he closed his own eyes, even if he still saw her face and her body like they were burned into his retinas. A few swift jerks and he was coming.
As he zipped himself back up, she was watching him coldly, though something about the flush on her skin made him remember that she wasn’t cold at all. Hard and cold are not the same thing. Jack was cold, and Kate and Sayid and Locke and all the rest. They suppressed until what they wanted disappeared. Ana Lucia-well, she reigned it all in, but it was still there, always. Every bit of it. Threats, knives, boots, cunning, and then the pain, the grief, the suspicion, the paranoia, the blind defensiveness that made everyone around her out to be dangerous.
They looked at each other, not sure of what it was they were getting: the bright side, neon and fast cars and stack of bills; the dark side, a darker gaze and stronger violence.
Sawyer sneered at her. “I could have done that all on my lonesome.”
“Then don’t fucking come out here and ask for it,” she said, and she turned and walked back toward her sad little shelter, hips swinging, powerful.
“Don’t you forget: you offered it, bitch,” he said.
Next thing he knew, he was on the ground, on his back, looking up at her glare. “Don’t forget that wasn’t about you, bitch.” Then she sauntered away again, her hips now set on destruction.
His whole body shook with the need to do something physical to her. He would’ve liked to lay there and just absorb it, but he had to get up and stalk off and pretend he didn’t want her so bad it hurt.