Pairings: Mostly Sawyer/Juliet, with references to Sawyer with Jack, Sayid, and Kate
Summary: She was the last woman on earth he'd ever trust with his life.
Spoilers S5 premiere
Note: For people who like this pairing, but also, I hope, for those who don't.
Word count: 907
Sawyer wakes to Juliet beside him. She's on her side, back to him, hands folded under her head as a pillow. He reaches out to place his hand over the bruised marks on the back of her arm. The four little spots are a perfect match for each finger of his left hand. He lets his hand linger for a moment. The bruises are fresh. No time has passed, as far as he can tell.
He takes an odd sense of pride in the bruises. They're proof that just a few hours ago, she was on her knees for him, head arched back, urging him to fuck her harder. They're proof that he's been inside her, that she's his now.
He's woken before to a Juliet whose arm is unmarked, one doesn't know him, a wary stranger who is prepared to kill the stranger in front of her. Then he prays for the next flash, for the calming touch of her hand, for the second when she's herself again.
The morning air is cool and she shivers a little. He nestles in closer, wanting to keep her warm without waking her. The image of her on her hands and knees gets him hard again. He loves the sheer dominance of the position, the fact that she's literally bowing to him. He still remembers her as that emotionless bitch he hated so much, one who didn't show an ounce of regret when she shot him with a dart or a taser. She was the last woman on earth he'd ever trust with his life.
He'll never get over the intense, petty thrill of having her on her knees like a dog. He isn't tender then; he fucks her with no mercy, bruising her arms, her hips, for all he knows, her pussy too.
But when she's on top, ah, that's maybe just as good. He's always loved a woman who can give him a good ride and fuck, is Juliet good at it. To see her face, to see every tremor of pleasure register there, to see that set expression of hers fall away, to see inside her, that's almost better than taking her from behind. She has an obsessive way of touching the scar on his arm, the one on his shoulder, and he knows it's the same with her, that she needs to be sure he's still him, that nothing has been changed or forgotten.
The skin is more sensitive where he's been wounded. If he hadn't been stabbed, he wouldn't have this scar, proof of Sayid's rage, of Jack's deft doctor's hands. He can feel Sayid pinning him to the ground, the bitter bite of the knife and he can picture Jack sewing up the ragged wound, stitch by stitch.
They've left their marks on him and unlike bruises, scars don't fade. Well, not under normal circumstances. Here, the wear and tear of years, the near-death experiences, the desperate binding of flesh and blood can vanish and reappear in a second.
When he sees Jack, here, there, in the jungle, on the beach, sometimes he has his abdominal scar, sometimes he doesn't. He wonders how that makes Juliet feel when she sees Jack. He imagines she takes pride in having saved his life, at having made each tiny stitch perfectly.
From the almost reverent way Jack runs his hand over Sawyer's arm when it's just the two of them, he's pretty sure that Jack feels that same thrill of ownership; It was Jack's hand that bound the torn flesh back together and so Sawyer is somehow his. Sawyer feels every touch all over his body, especially when the wound is fresh again, throbbing so badly he wants to die.
Sayid always kisses the telltale mark on Sawyer's arm, as if asking forgiveness all over again. The soft touch of his lips, the swipe of his tongue, where he sank that knife in, never fails to make Sawyer shiver. Even if Sayid is sorry for stabbing him, he's marked him just as surely as Jack has.
Maybe that's why things are so strange with Kate. Sometimes the cuts on her cheek, fresh from the crash, are there, but the rest of her body is always completely unmarked. He can't say why it makes him sad, but there it is: He's never left a mark on Kate and she's never left one on him.
Juliet stirs, turning to regard him sleepily, and Sawyer kisses her cheek. He presses his hand gently, matching fingertip to bruise and she shifts her hips back against him, discovering that he's hard, aching. His hand slips inside her jeans. He always loves to make her come first, make her hot and wet and panting for him, loves to feel her pulse racing from that first second he's inside her.
Her head falls back against his chest, eyes shut tight. Each time he makes her moan, he's remembers that they started out as enemies, that at one time he wanted to strangle the life out of her.
He was never Kate's enemy. There were harsh words between them and bitter silences, but they never wanted each other dead. And without the intensity of that hate, maybe there's no such thing as love.
He keeps thinking that next time he'll leave these kind of bruises on Kate, but he never does. Deep down, he knows the truth; she's not his, never was.