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Title: Black and White and Red All Over
Pairing: Kevin/Kate, Kevin/Sawyer
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,200
Spoilers: Through 3.06, 'I Do'
Summary: We have to flesh the character out and start somewhere, right? No? Ok - I wanted to slash so I did. That's all you need to know.
Disclaimer: Yeah, I don't own it. But just wait, it will be true!
A/N: For hkath. I'll take sparkly lime green lycra, please and thank you! Heaps of appreciation to halfdutch for keeping me on track today and providing a kick ass beta. ♥ all around!
Monica.
He met her in a bar, late one night after his shift. She was leaning over the jukebox, the numbers glowing bright beneath her fingertips. She had a bow in her hair, a smile on her lips, and swayed slightly as the country twang came through the speakers.
When he strode up to her side, his handcuffs jostled on his hip and she jumped. She laughed it off, explaining small town and one too many beers. He matched her story two for three and they downed as many bottles of Miller in the neon glow of the smoke-filled room.
She was the first woman who never begged for a closer inspection of the cold metal, never begged to have him snap them around her wrists and make her writhe against skin-warmed sheets.
He begged her for her hand in marriage instead.
Oddly enough, she was also the first woman who was never wary of his gun.
*
Sawyer.
He met him in a bar as well, struck a deal with a firm handshake and hushed voice; dropped a name and shifted in his seat to angle the wire. The guy just shook his head and laughed, gave up the name of his partner as easily as the sly smile on his face, and then proceeded to call Kevin on his cover. “Can’t con a con, Pork-rind.”
It startled Kevin how easily the same smile slid over his own face.
The guy was smooth, a professional. He wasn't violent, only white-collar crime, and it scared Kevin that he would even make the distinction.
*
Pancakes, burnt around the edges. Lazy Sunday mornings and he caresses her bare back with his fingertips. It twists his gut when the muscles go rigid beneath his palm. It hits him low when she rolls away.
She holds his hand as they sit on hard church pews, raise their eyes and hearts towards the altar. More often then not, her eyes glisten with tears.
When they get home, he lays her down on their bed, presses soft kisses along her neck. He tries to open her up, with hands and tongue, tries to pry deep inside and get her to let go of her pain and sorrow. She closes around him, shuts down.
It’s not supposed to be like this.
*
What's wrong is wrong. Until what's wrong is right.
He finds himself outside the motel room door, fist frozen above wood. There won’t be any turning back. It’s a risk even to be here, completely unnecessary, but maybe Kevin is going above and beyond the call of duty. He tries valiantly to convince himself that he is standing here for something more than selfish reasons.
Sheer adrenaline races up his spine.
*
Somehow it doesn’t surprise him that Sawyer answers with nothing more than a white towel slung around his hips. His hair is still damp from a shower, and Kevin’s eyes follow the trail of water that slides down Sawyer’s neck.
"Wasn't the info enough?" Sawyer's voice is gruff, dangerous.
Kevin swallows around the lump in his throat. Looking at Sawyer is like looking into the sun. He’s blind to the lines of right and wrong when he does.
"No, it's not..." His hands drop to his side, fingers clenching the material.
Recognition dawns on Sawyer's face, his eyebrows unknitting as Kevin’s gut winds even further into a tight ball. The flash of blue eyes and arched eyebrow and lecherous grin, these shoot straight through Kevin. The tight betrayal of his body is more painful than any bruise or wound he risks by profession.
Still, he takes a step forward.
*
The lilt of her laughter makes him dizzy, too rare and exquisite. Her fragile form when she's wrapped in his arms, when he cradles the base of her skull and pulls her into a kiss, when he holds her, her head resting on his shoulder. All of these things, they are a part of the woman he loves, cherishes. She is light, brilliant and beautiful, and at night he dreams of her floating on clouds, just beyond the reach of his arms.
*
"Your mama know you swing both ways, Dudley?” The taunt is calculated, the effect one of equal desire. When Kevin pushes, his head pounding with guilt and anger and lust, Sawyer pulls. Twists his arm and shoves him face first onto the bed.
Kevin squirms, the comforter scratching at his cheek. Sawyer has one knee pressed against his lower back, pinning him in place, his hand a tight circle around Kevin’s wrist. When he chuckles, a deep rumble, Kevin closes his eyes and struggles to bat away his frustrations.
“So I’m guessing your old lady doesn’t know either.” Sawyer’s thumb brushes over the thin band of metal around his finger, and Kevin takes in a sharp breath. “Don’t worry. I won’t mark you anywhere you can’t hide. Anywhere you can’t explain away.”
And yeah, Kevin knows the guy’s record, knows that Sawyer knows what he’s doing. Knows he’s done it countless times before.
Kevin just wishes he could say the same.
*
Sawyer is weight upon his shoulder, a hard push, brutal pain filling him to the core. Sharp bite at the nape of his neck, heavy pant in his ear, stealing the oxygen from the room.
He's drawn to this, inexplicably, the razor fine edge between right and wrong, though Kevin knows he's so far on the side of error that right is a mere shadow on the horizon.
*
He doesn’t tell her about going undercover. He can’t bear to see the lines of her face crease with worry, can’t stand the idea of her fretting over the kitchen sink.
At first he feels bad for withholding the info, hates the way the lies feel rolling from his tongue when she asks how his day went. When she wraps her arms around his waist and smiles up at him. When he presses his lips to her temple and gazes over her head, his mind racing with flashes of swagger and bluff, back alleys and showy restaurants.
“Fine,” he tells her, and it is. He knows there are things that she’s not speaking of either.
*
Everywhere Sawyer's fingers touch it burns, burns so bad that he's sure there will be marks forever scarring his skin, even if just below the surface. Shift of hips and the slide of hard muscle, the shock of different racing through his veins. Wrongwrongwrong a chant, worming it way through his mind, crawling between the places that scream out in pleasure.
Strong, sure hand wraps around his cock, and Kevin bites at his lower lip, tongue pressed against the smooth flesh.
It's falling, spinning and crashing into the deep chasm of hell, only it's not. It's a leap, a choice, and the freefall is worth the flames that flare and race along his limbs. The hard pull of release from his gut, the heady slap of skin against skin, punishment and pleasure and a never-ending battle.
Sawyer slinks his way down Kevin’s chest, carving ridges with just the barest brush of his fingers. Kevin arches into the touch, craves it.
To serve and protect. To have and hold.
He gives of himself a hundred percent, even as he breaks every vow.
Pairing: Kevin/Kate, Kevin/Sawyer
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,200
Spoilers: Through 3.06, 'I Do'
Summary: We have to flesh the character out and start somewhere, right? No? Ok - I wanted to slash so I did. That's all you need to know.
Disclaimer: Yeah, I don't own it. But just wait, it will be true!
A/N: For hkath. I'll take sparkly lime green lycra, please and thank you! Heaps of appreciation to halfdutch for keeping me on track today and providing a kick ass beta. ♥ all around!
Monica.
He met her in a bar, late one night after his shift. She was leaning over the jukebox, the numbers glowing bright beneath her fingertips. She had a bow in her hair, a smile on her lips, and swayed slightly as the country twang came through the speakers.
When he strode up to her side, his handcuffs jostled on his hip and she jumped. She laughed it off, explaining small town and one too many beers. He matched her story two for three and they downed as many bottles of Miller in the neon glow of the smoke-filled room.
She was the first woman who never begged for a closer inspection of the cold metal, never begged to have him snap them around her wrists and make her writhe against skin-warmed sheets.
He begged her for her hand in marriage instead.
Oddly enough, she was also the first woman who was never wary of his gun.
*
Sawyer.
He met him in a bar as well, struck a deal with a firm handshake and hushed voice; dropped a name and shifted in his seat to angle the wire. The guy just shook his head and laughed, gave up the name of his partner as easily as the sly smile on his face, and then proceeded to call Kevin on his cover. “Can’t con a con, Pork-rind.”
It startled Kevin how easily the same smile slid over his own face.
The guy was smooth, a professional. He wasn't violent, only white-collar crime, and it scared Kevin that he would even make the distinction.
*
Pancakes, burnt around the edges. Lazy Sunday mornings and he caresses her bare back with his fingertips. It twists his gut when the muscles go rigid beneath his palm. It hits him low when she rolls away.
She holds his hand as they sit on hard church pews, raise their eyes and hearts towards the altar. More often then not, her eyes glisten with tears.
When they get home, he lays her down on their bed, presses soft kisses along her neck. He tries to open her up, with hands and tongue, tries to pry deep inside and get her to let go of her pain and sorrow. She closes around him, shuts down.
It’s not supposed to be like this.
*
What's wrong is wrong. Until what's wrong is right.
He finds himself outside the motel room door, fist frozen above wood. There won’t be any turning back. It’s a risk even to be here, completely unnecessary, but maybe Kevin is going above and beyond the call of duty. He tries valiantly to convince himself that he is standing here for something more than selfish reasons.
Sheer adrenaline races up his spine.
*
Somehow it doesn’t surprise him that Sawyer answers with nothing more than a white towel slung around his hips. His hair is still damp from a shower, and Kevin’s eyes follow the trail of water that slides down Sawyer’s neck.
"Wasn't the info enough?" Sawyer's voice is gruff, dangerous.
Kevin swallows around the lump in his throat. Looking at Sawyer is like looking into the sun. He’s blind to the lines of right and wrong when he does.
"No, it's not..." His hands drop to his side, fingers clenching the material.
Recognition dawns on Sawyer's face, his eyebrows unknitting as Kevin’s gut winds even further into a tight ball. The flash of blue eyes and arched eyebrow and lecherous grin, these shoot straight through Kevin. The tight betrayal of his body is more painful than any bruise or wound he risks by profession.
Still, he takes a step forward.
*
The lilt of her laughter makes him dizzy, too rare and exquisite. Her fragile form when she's wrapped in his arms, when he cradles the base of her skull and pulls her into a kiss, when he holds her, her head resting on his shoulder. All of these things, they are a part of the woman he loves, cherishes. She is light, brilliant and beautiful, and at night he dreams of her floating on clouds, just beyond the reach of his arms.
*
"Your mama know you swing both ways, Dudley?” The taunt is calculated, the effect one of equal desire. When Kevin pushes, his head pounding with guilt and anger and lust, Sawyer pulls. Twists his arm and shoves him face first onto the bed.
Kevin squirms, the comforter scratching at his cheek. Sawyer has one knee pressed against his lower back, pinning him in place, his hand a tight circle around Kevin’s wrist. When he chuckles, a deep rumble, Kevin closes his eyes and struggles to bat away his frustrations.
“So I’m guessing your old lady doesn’t know either.” Sawyer’s thumb brushes over the thin band of metal around his finger, and Kevin takes in a sharp breath. “Don’t worry. I won’t mark you anywhere you can’t hide. Anywhere you can’t explain away.”
And yeah, Kevin knows the guy’s record, knows that Sawyer knows what he’s doing. Knows he’s done it countless times before.
Kevin just wishes he could say the same.
*
Sawyer is weight upon his shoulder, a hard push, brutal pain filling him to the core. Sharp bite at the nape of his neck, heavy pant in his ear, stealing the oxygen from the room.
He's drawn to this, inexplicably, the razor fine edge between right and wrong, though Kevin knows he's so far on the side of error that right is a mere shadow on the horizon.
*
He doesn’t tell her about going undercover. He can’t bear to see the lines of her face crease with worry, can’t stand the idea of her fretting over the kitchen sink.
At first he feels bad for withholding the info, hates the way the lies feel rolling from his tongue when she asks how his day went. When she wraps her arms around his waist and smiles up at him. When he presses his lips to her temple and gazes over her head, his mind racing with flashes of swagger and bluff, back alleys and showy restaurants.
“Fine,” he tells her, and it is. He knows there are things that she’s not speaking of either.
*
Everywhere Sawyer's fingers touch it burns, burns so bad that he's sure there will be marks forever scarring his skin, even if just below the surface. Shift of hips and the slide of hard muscle, the shock of different racing through his veins. Wrongwrongwrong a chant, worming it way through his mind, crawling between the places that scream out in pleasure.
Strong, sure hand wraps around his cock, and Kevin bites at his lower lip, tongue pressed against the smooth flesh.
It's falling, spinning and crashing into the deep chasm of hell, only it's not. It's a leap, a choice, and the freefall is worth the flames that flare and race along his limbs. The hard pull of release from his gut, the heady slap of skin against skin, punishment and pleasure and a never-ending battle.
Sawyer slinks his way down Kevin’s chest, carving ridges with just the barest brush of his fingers. Kevin arches into the touch, craves it.
To serve and protect. To have and hold.
He gives of himself a hundred percent, even as he breaks every vow.