Pairing: Sayid/Juliet (!)
Rating: R (for BDSM)
Summary: She needs to put herself completely at his mercy, because she knows he has none to give her.
Note: Written for Porn Day at lostsquee. I do NOT know where this idea came from. I don't expect anyone will want to read this pairing, but, here 'tis.
The rope bites into her wrists but she doesn't say a word. It's become a contest of sorts: How much can he dish out? How much can she take? If it were up to him, he would have stopped long ago, before he drew blood. If it were up to him, he wouldn't have ever started this. Not with her.
It makes a certain kind of cruel sense for them to play this game. She is using him to punish herself, for what he's not sure. Possibly for what was done to him, or to his friends. When his resolve starts to waver, when she emits an involuntary whimper, he remembers his long night handcuffed to the swing set. He remembers being shot, remembers Shannon, and he continues.
She is beautiful, in a cold way that had never appealed to him before. She reminds him a little of Catherine Deneuve. He wonders, as he ties her still-raw hands over her head, if she's ever seen Belle du Jour. He remembers seeing it in an old theater in Paris. There were no English subtitles and his French was fairly poor but he could appreciate the perverse appeal of a cool blonde beauty debasing herself and finding some kind of exquisite pleasure in being used.
Somehow, the more they do this, the more he marvels at how easily her pale flesh bruises, and she becomes even more beautiful to him. Her hair is the same shade as Shannon's, but she couldn't be more different. She is older, more womanly, her body both stronger and more profoundly feminine than Shannon's slim ballerina build.
She doesn't need anyone, the way Shannon did. But somehow Juliet needs this, needs Sayid to tie her, needs to put herself completely at his mercy, because she knows he has none to give her.
He doesn't prepare her in any way when he fucks her; he doesn't caress her or gaze into her eyes. He merely takes her, because that is the way she wants him, why she's chosen him, instead of Jack or Sawyer. Both of those men are too soft, too romantic. They could never play a role like this without feeling remorse, or without, perhaps, falling in love.
He doesn't look forward to these encounters. They are merely necessary. He tells himself he doesn't remember the smell of her hair, or the silky feel of her skin, that when he wakes up hard in the middle of the night, that he doesn't relive how her body tightens around him, bringing them both along as fast and as hard as possible.
Today, though, after he slumps against her, spent and hot against her back, he thinks he might have gone too far. When he goes to remove her blindfold, he's shocked to see that she's been crying. She doesn't look at him -- she never looks at him -- not until he runs his fingertips down her cheek, tracing the line of her tears.
She turns to face him. She lays her head against him, something in the gesture reminding him of a a bird tucking itself under its own wings. He undoes her wrists and her arms go around his neck.
He continues to cradle her against his chest as she whispers in his ear, over and over. "It's okay."
Somehow, he always thought that she would be the one who would break first, that he would be the one to say those words.
Also, does anyone think this scene from "One of Us" is kind of an homage to "Belle de Jour?"