Luau ficlet
For Queen keyweegirlie, Sawyer/Claire [R], 1,150 words
+++
His fingers stroke absent mindedly along the spine of the diary, and Claire can only stand there, watching him from the entrance of his shelter, imagining what those fingers would feel like along her own. The fact that he took her private writings was a violation and as much as she tried to grasp and hold on to the smidgen of anger, the blush of embarrassment that creeps across her cheeks is far more prevalent. Sawyer is reading her most intimate thoughts and there was nothing to do now but let it happen. She cocks her hip, trying to use her posture to project an air of confidence, but Claire feels much smaller than the shadow her form casts over him. I can deal with having a child, I can deal with him, she tells herself. The logic does not quite convince the butterflies fluttering in her stomach.
He doesn’t even look up, just keeps his eyes trained on the page, but he clears his throat and begins to read aloud, his voice catching and raw. “It seems like he wants us all to hate him, the way he treats people, all bluster and swagger. But I’ve seen him standing in the shadows, watching as the group moves through the daily motions. I can see how he wants to give in, how he almost lets go of the façade he creates, almost participates.” Claire shifts her weight to the other foot, shrinking internally as he continues to lend his voice to her thoughts. “There is such struggle in those beautiful blue eyes, something so dark and haunting, and I wonder sometimes who he is struggling against, what would hold him back.” His voice is low, the words almost a whisper, and when he raises his eyes to meet hers, they have that very cast to them, glinting and hard. It sends a shiver down her spine and Claire would flee, if only her feet didn’t feel as if they were stuck in quicksand.
The tip of his tongue slides along his lower lip, leaving it slick and shiny. Claire inhales softly and holds the breath, knowing what is to come next. “There are times when all I can think about is him, when all I want to do is walk over there and draw him from that shell. I wish I understood it, and god, I know it’s just a stupid cliché. The bad boy, the broken one. But even if didn’t project that image, the fact is, every thing about him is just magnetic.”
His voice is rough and low, the faintest growl coloring his speech, and he shoots another quick glance at her, soft wisps of his hair brushing against his cheek. Claire wants to run or to cry with shame, but instead she is simply transfixed. “I can’t help but imagine how it would feel to run my hands over that tan skin, so soft and smooth.” Claire can feel her breath catch, the air around them thick and electric. “He’d taste like mangoes and smoke, maybe the faintest trace of whiskey.” Sawyer pauses to once again swipe his tongue over the flushed pink of his mouth, as if he is testing her theory. “And it would be more intoxicating than anything I’ve ever had pass my lips.”
Claire swallows hard, willing herself to tell him to stop, to dig deep and be angry, determined, keep him from continuing. But the sound of her words, her thoughts, intimate secrets traversing the small space in that voice render her helpless.
“He’d kiss like it was a claim, possessive and rough, the stubble of his cheeks burning against my palm, but it wouldn’t matter, not with his tongue sliding along mine and his hands on me, making me his.” Claire bites against her lower lip, her eyes slipping shut. She can’t face him, can’t listen and watch, because doing both at once, she suddenly decides, is severely hazardous to her health.
But he doesn’t continue and when she parts her lids, Claire sees that Sawyer is pulling himself from the ground. He holds the book in his right hand and let his gaze travel the length of her body, the intensity in his eyes a phantom touch ghosting over her skin, before turning back to the book. “He wouldn’t be gentle,” Sawyer reads, slow as maple syrup sliding down the rough bark of a tree, and just as sweet. “And he wouldn’t be silent. He’d hold me down, trace his fingertips over the curve of my hip, thread his hand though my hair and tell me every single thing he was about to do.” Claire knows she is panting now, letting the vibrancy of his tone roll down her spine, the smooth drawl exactly like what she had penned. Tension coils in her abdomen and she flexes her fists, fingertips lusting to touch.
“Or maybe,” And this is when Claire feels mindblowingly weak, like her legs will give beneath her, Sawyer standing so close that she can feel their combined heat burning her alive. “Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d just run his callused palms over the curve of my breast, trailing down to work them lower, over the flat of my stomach, between my legs and there could be nothing better than to be open for him, give to his touch.” Sawyer towers above her now, reading over her shoulder, and she can feel his breath warm at the crown of her head and she just shudders, tilting her chin up, her jaw trembling.
His lips are impossibly hot, searing, when he finally leans in and makes contact with the tender flesh of her neck. Claire can only moan when he pins her against the hard metal siding of the shelter, murmuring phrases and dirty promises and every fantasy she’s transcribed into her ear. Her hips arch into his touch, one strong hand doing exactly as he had just described, sliding over her stomach and slipping beneath the waistband of her pants, curling up and inside. There is a dull thud as he lets go of the book, his other hand sliding under the cotton of her shirt, hot and heavy on her breast. Sawyer growls into her ear, sugar and spice and sweet southern comfort, “Maybe he’ll make me ride it out, make me beg, make me scream, or maybe he’ll just make me come, hard, fast, too quick and too soon, make me see blackness and stars and…” His lips claim hers as his fingers pump inside her, slick with her moisture and when he drags his thumb over her clit, she gasps against the fullness of his lips, crying out at the release, the diary quickly forgotten in the sand.
Seems he knows the rest by heart anyways.
+++
+++
His fingers stroke absent mindedly along the spine of the diary, and Claire can only stand there, watching him from the entrance of his shelter, imagining what those fingers would feel like along her own. The fact that he took her private writings was a violation and as much as she tried to grasp and hold on to the smidgen of anger, the blush of embarrassment that creeps across her cheeks is far more prevalent. Sawyer is reading her most intimate thoughts and there was nothing to do now but let it happen. She cocks her hip, trying to use her posture to project an air of confidence, but Claire feels much smaller than the shadow her form casts over him. I can deal with having a child, I can deal with him, she tells herself. The logic does not quite convince the butterflies fluttering in her stomach.
He doesn’t even look up, just keeps his eyes trained on the page, but he clears his throat and begins to read aloud, his voice catching and raw. “It seems like he wants us all to hate him, the way he treats people, all bluster and swagger. But I’ve seen him standing in the shadows, watching as the group moves through the daily motions. I can see how he wants to give in, how he almost lets go of the façade he creates, almost participates.” Claire shifts her weight to the other foot, shrinking internally as he continues to lend his voice to her thoughts. “There is such struggle in those beautiful blue eyes, something so dark and haunting, and I wonder sometimes who he is struggling against, what would hold him back.” His voice is low, the words almost a whisper, and when he raises his eyes to meet hers, they have that very cast to them, glinting and hard. It sends a shiver down her spine and Claire would flee, if only her feet didn’t feel as if they were stuck in quicksand.
The tip of his tongue slides along his lower lip, leaving it slick and shiny. Claire inhales softly and holds the breath, knowing what is to come next. “There are times when all I can think about is him, when all I want to do is walk over there and draw him from that shell. I wish I understood it, and god, I know it’s just a stupid cliché. The bad boy, the broken one. But even if didn’t project that image, the fact is, every thing about him is just magnetic.”
His voice is rough and low, the faintest growl coloring his speech, and he shoots another quick glance at her, soft wisps of his hair brushing against his cheek. Claire wants to run or to cry with shame, but instead she is simply transfixed. “I can’t help but imagine how it would feel to run my hands over that tan skin, so soft and smooth.” Claire can feel her breath catch, the air around them thick and electric. “He’d taste like mangoes and smoke, maybe the faintest trace of whiskey.” Sawyer pauses to once again swipe his tongue over the flushed pink of his mouth, as if he is testing her theory. “And it would be more intoxicating than anything I’ve ever had pass my lips.”
Claire swallows hard, willing herself to tell him to stop, to dig deep and be angry, determined, keep him from continuing. But the sound of her words, her thoughts, intimate secrets traversing the small space in that voice render her helpless.
“He’d kiss like it was a claim, possessive and rough, the stubble of his cheeks burning against my palm, but it wouldn’t matter, not with his tongue sliding along mine and his hands on me, making me his.” Claire bites against her lower lip, her eyes slipping shut. She can’t face him, can’t listen and watch, because doing both at once, she suddenly decides, is severely hazardous to her health.
But he doesn’t continue and when she parts her lids, Claire sees that Sawyer is pulling himself from the ground. He holds the book in his right hand and let his gaze travel the length of her body, the intensity in his eyes a phantom touch ghosting over her skin, before turning back to the book. “He wouldn’t be gentle,” Sawyer reads, slow as maple syrup sliding down the rough bark of a tree, and just as sweet. “And he wouldn’t be silent. He’d hold me down, trace his fingertips over the curve of my hip, thread his hand though my hair and tell me every single thing he was about to do.” Claire knows she is panting now, letting the vibrancy of his tone roll down her spine, the smooth drawl exactly like what she had penned. Tension coils in her abdomen and she flexes her fists, fingertips lusting to touch.
“Or maybe,” And this is when Claire feels mindblowingly weak, like her legs will give beneath her, Sawyer standing so close that she can feel their combined heat burning her alive. “Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d just run his callused palms over the curve of my breast, trailing down to work them lower, over the flat of my stomach, between my legs and there could be nothing better than to be open for him, give to his touch.” Sawyer towers above her now, reading over her shoulder, and she can feel his breath warm at the crown of her head and she just shudders, tilting her chin up, her jaw trembling.
His lips are impossibly hot, searing, when he finally leans in and makes contact with the tender flesh of her neck. Claire can only moan when he pins her against the hard metal siding of the shelter, murmuring phrases and dirty promises and every fantasy she’s transcribed into her ear. Her hips arch into his touch, one strong hand doing exactly as he had just described, sliding over her stomach and slipping beneath the waistband of her pants, curling up and inside. There is a dull thud as he lets go of the book, his other hand sliding under the cotton of her shirt, hot and heavy on her breast. Sawyer growls into her ear, sugar and spice and sweet southern comfort, “Maybe he’ll make me ride it out, make me beg, make me scream, or maybe he’ll just make me come, hard, fast, too quick and too soon, make me see blackness and stars and…” His lips claim hers as his fingers pump inside her, slick with her moisture and when he drags his thumb over her clit, she gasps against the fullness of his lips, crying out at the release, the diary quickly forgotten in the sand.
Seems he knows the rest by heart anyways.
+++