Here Lies Julius

Fic: some swordplay, a storm, and a secret

2009-08-27T04:04:12Z

Author: Julius Schmidt

Pairing: Arthur/Merlin, preslash-ish

Rating: PG-13

Wordcount: ~1100
Summary: Merlin and Arthur play in the rain.
Disclaimer: Not my characters, not my television series, not my anything.

Warnings: ERM MUD KINK... what can I say? I am a dirty, dirty girl. Not britpicked.

A/N: But really, I had fun writing it and you should read it. <3

Merlin knew it was about to rain. Yes, the sun was still shining. No, he could not see any clouds. And, no, he was in no way old enough to feel it in his bones.

But it hadn't rained for five days. It was about time.

The practice yard was dusty. The vegetable plants were wilting. The river was quickly disappearing. And Merlin was ready to be out of the sun. He did not want to watch Arthur play with his sword until dusk, again.

Not that he didn't enjoy observing. But there were only so many ways one could skip, hop, leap and duck while waiving about a giant metal stick. Granted, Arthur was strikingly talented at dodging shots and poking other men, and he appeared to take great pleasure in doing so.

His talent and pleasure, however, were not nearly enough to keep Merlin interested, especially in the suffocating heat.

He raised his fist to knock on the doors to Arthur's chambers.

No answer.

He raised his fist again, poised to knock, but before he could do so, the door opened. Arthur stood, already dressed, his mouth set in a stoic line, his eyes brimming with excitement.

“Another day perfect for practicing. I've already breakfasted, so we'll go straight to the arena. You can parry with me until my knights arrive.”

When Merlin continued to stand where he was, Arthur's eyes narrowed with impatience and his arms moved in a broad gesture indicating Merlin should move. “Well?” He said.

Merlin rubbed at his eyes with his fist. “I had thought, perhaps, that my lord was tiring of swordplay.”

“You thought wrong, as usual.” Arthur brushed past, leaving Merlin sighing in his wake.

^*^

From his vantage point on the ground of the practice yard Merlin saw the stormfront appear suddenly in the sky.

Arthur stood over him, wooden sword at his side, arms crossed over his chest. He shook his head. “You are truly pathetic. You can't land a blow. You can't stay on your feet. You can't even lift yourself off the ground.” Smirking, he offered a hand. “Let me help you.”

Merlin ignored the gesture and stood, without Arthur's assistance. “At least I can draw water for my own bath.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows, frowning and unimpressed. “Ouch. Good one.”

Merlin glared at him. “It's about to storm. We should probably quit for today.”

Arthur raised his sword. “Don't be such a girl. I'm sure it will blow over.”

Thunder rumbled, low, still far off. The sun had disappeared.“You can't be serious.”

“Afraid you'll melt?” Arthur taunted. He lifted the tip of Merlin's practice blade with his own.

A fat drop of rain fell onto Merlin's nose. “No.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and recrossed his arms. “Obviously you won't melt, Merlin.”

Merlin took a deep breath. Another raindrop smacked his cheek. Another his forearm. “I meant, no, I'm finished. I'm going back to the castle.” With that, he turned to leave.

Lightening flashed across the horizon. A gust of wind so powerful it shook the fencing around the practice yard whipped though. It pushed at Merlin's hair and clothes, knocking him off balance. The moment the wind stilled, the rain washed down, pelting Merlin painfully.

He turned a wide-eyed stare to Arthur. “I told you,” he shouted, only to be drowned out by a roar of thunder.

“Merlin, we are not finished here. This is excellent practice for battle,” Arthur shouted back. His hair was plastered to his head and drops of water rolled into his mouth as he spoke.

“Goodbye,” Merlin called over his shoulder, as he jogged toward the castle.

“You are under orders to stay out here.”

“I can't hear you,” Merlin yelled, not turning around.

Still jogging, he dropped the wooden sword, and swiped at the water in his eyes. He was yanked roughly around by the shoulder.

Arthur's chest was heaving. His tongue darted out to lick the rainwater from his lips. Merlin was suddenly aware of his clothes sticking uncomfortably close to his skin and, more troubling, he was aware of how Arthur's clothes clung just as closely to his body. He swallowed.

“We are going to finish this.” Arthur spoke softly, but Merlin heard every word. Arthur lips were close enough to brush the shell of Merlin's ear.

Merlin pulled his arm free and ran. He knew attempting to outrun Arthur was futile, however he wasn't ready to admit defeat.

“MERLIN!” Thunder punctuated Arthur's cry.

The dirt of the yard had turned to mud and Merlin had to weave back and forth in order to avoid puddles.

“Mer,” Arthur gasped, “lin!” He was much closer, probably two paces behind Merlin.

Merlin forced himself to run faster, but Arthur grabbed the back of his shirt before he had a chance to break away. The two tumbled the ground, Arthur landing heavily on Merlin's back.

Merlin squirmed. “Let me up.”

“As if.” Arthur shifted. He was straddling Merlin's lower back.

Merlin bucked and rolled. The mud beneath his chest squelched. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand to keep from eating it. He managed to dislodge Arthur enough to roll onto his back. The movement pitched Arthur forward and his hands flew to the center of Merlin chest in an attempt to regain balance.

Merlin could feel the heat of Arthur's stomach pressed against his own, even through their shirts. A hot spark of awareness shot straight to his cock. He turned his head, avoiding Arthur's gaze. “Just get off.”

The rain was slowing. Merlin counted Arthur's breaths. One. Twothree. Four. His hands slid from from Merlin's chest to rest on either side of his head.

“Merlin.”

Merlin met his eyes, hopeful. Laughter lifted the corners of Arthur's mouth. Merlin forced a matching smile, unable to feel playful. He lay as still as possible, praying Arthur wouldn't be able to feel his arousal.

“Merlin, you are covered in mud.”

“So are you,” he countered, knowing it sounded childish.

Arthur laughed and taunted, “Not like you.”

Merlin lifted his muddy hands up to slide them over Arthur's cheeks and up into his hair. Sputtering and not quite shaking free from Merlin's grip, Arthur grabbed a glob of mud and shoved it down Merlin's shirt. His hand followed the mud, rubbing it in circles over Merlin's chest, brushing over his nipples.

Merlin groaned and his hips arched. He knew there was no longer room for misunderstanding.

Arthur rolled off abruptly. “Merlin, are you ill?”

When Merlin closed his eyes and whimpered, Arthur continued, “I didn't realize I was really hurting you. You should have just said.”

Maybe, someday, he would just say.

Fic: Merlin and the Rescue of Pizza Night (Adult)

2009-07-24T04:05:31Z

Title: Merlin and the Rescue of Pizza Night
Author: Julius Schmidt
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Rating: Adult
Length: ~2,300
Summary: The tradition of Pizza Night is threatened. What will Merlin do to preserve its sanctity?
Disclaimer: As if I could pretend.
A/N: Written for the kinkme_merlin prompt located here.

When Morgana calls to say she can’t come to Pizza Night because she has a lab exam the next morning, Merlin frets. The pizza ratio will be off. The four friends usually eat two large pizzas, with two pieces to spare for Thursday’s breakfast. So tonight, should he order two mediums? A medium and a large? Should he play it safe and stick with their regular? Gwen will know.

He digs through the trash on his sofa and finds his mobile inside a bag of chocolates he bought on his way home from the library.

Gwen answers immediately. “I was just about to call,” she says. “I won’t be coming home. Lance from yoga asked me out for drinks.”

“But it’s Pizza Night.”

“I know, but it's Lance I'm talking about here. You and Morgana and Arthur can save me a slice.”

“Morgana canceled as well.”

This makes Gwen giggle madly. “Even better. You boys can have more fun without us.”

Merlin growls. “I do not know what you mean. He’s awful to me when you’re not looking.”

“Just be safe,” she pauses to giggle more, “if you know what mean.”

“Gwen, I hate you.” But she has already ended the call.

Merlin is now beyond fretting. He flips through the names in his phone. Arthur’s number is deservingly hidden under the title, “Royal Prat.” But before he can press send, there is a knock at his door.

Damn. Too late to cancel.

Perhaps if he looks very, very ill…

He begins to cough and rub at his eyes.

He opens the door, only to back away immediately in a fit of hacking. “Well, hello, Arthur,” he chokes out. “I’m really not feeling quite myself. You really don’t- cough- want to catch this.”

“Nonsense, Merlin,” Arthur says, shucking off his probably very expensive loafers. He is carrying two large pizzas. “I’ve already bought the pizzas. Where are the ladies?”

“They can’t come.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow.

Merlin remembers how sick he is and coughs, three times, with feeling. “Obviously because they have important things to do and do not want to die an early death from this hideous mutation of what is definitely not just the common cold.”

“Very well then,” Arthur says, moving into the living area. “I will sacrifice myself.” He shoves everything off the wobbly card table with one arm. Merlin whimpers in embarrassment when he sees several pairs of boxer briefs tumble to the ground.

“You really are a disgusting pig, Merlin.”

“I’m too sick to clean.” This seems a very reasonable excuse to Merlin. So he coughs again. His throat is actually starting to feel a bit sore.

Arthur steps into the kitchen and begins rooting around Merlin’s cabinets. Merlin doesn’t tell him that all the dishes are in the sink. It seems obvious.

“Merlin, don’t you have any—” Arthur catches sight of the mountain of dirty dishes.

“We usually just use napkins.” Merlin picks two up from the floor. Arthur had knocked Gwen’s basket of them off the table. He offers one to Arthur.

Arthur grunts and takes it. “You need to hire a maid or something.”

“I’m poor.” Merlin takes a bite out of his pizza. Mouth full, he adds, “Gwen cleans sometimes.”

They are silent for several minutes, eating. This gives Merlin time to watch Arthur. He’s wearing a pale blue sweater and tight, dark jeans. His hair falls artfully across his brow. Right now he’s licking pizza sauce off lips. Merlin squeaks and turns toward the sofa and the television.

He does not want to be alone with Arthur. Bad, bad things might happen to his self-control. He hates Gwen for canceling. He hates this Lance fellow for being charming. He hates Morgana for enjoying her studies. He hates Arthur for having such an utterly attractive arse. Or, rather, for being such an utterly attractive pain in the arse.

He finishes his pizza and is forced to turn back to the table (and Arthur) or starve.

Arthur is watching him. Closely. “Do you really enjoy those girl movies we always watch?”

Yes. Obviously.

“Erm.”

“Because I was thinking that we could do something else.”

“Like leave.” Merlin realizes he’s spoken this thought out loud and crams the remainder of his new pizza slice into his mouth. It’s suddenly too full to chew properly.

Arthur looks very confused and takes a few steps closer to Merlin. “I thought you were sick. If you’re sick, we should definitely stay here.” He reaches his hand out and Merlin thinks he might be about to check for fever.

Merlin leans away. He wants to clarify that only Arthur should leave. So as not get sick, of course. But his mouth is still filled with pizza.

“I was thinking we could tidy up.” Arthur begins to sort through the stack of papers on his counter.

Merlin is torn. He was looking forward to watching Titanic. He’d found it that afternoon in the hopes of gushing over it with Gwen and Morgana. He doesn’t think Arthur would enjoy it at all. He would probably talk through it, like he did through every movie Merlin chose.

Merlin also wishes his apartment were clean.

Arthur is very clean. He might know secrets about cleaning. Merlin wants to know these secrets.

“I suppose we could clean. Gwen would like it.”

Arthur is already digging under his sink. He pulls out a bag and throws it to Merlin. “You should start by throwing away all the wrappings and other bits of things you don’t need.”

Merlin catches the bag. He fiddles with it for several minutes. It doesn’t open easily. He flips through the papers Arthur was looking at earlier. He makes a stack for Gwen, a stack for himself and a stack to toss out.

He stops to watch as Arthur rolls up his sleeves to do the dishes. His forearms are tan and covered in silky looking blond hair. He looks up and smiles. Merlin’s stomach flips. He ducks back to his piles. Perhaps Arthur is an alright prat, a prat still, but an alright one.

“Have these dishes been in here since we made our own pizza last month?” Without waiting for Merlin’s confirmation, he continues, assuming the worst, “That is truly awful. I do not know how you are still alive.”

“Gwen and I are very busy people,” Merlin explains wandering toward his sofa.

“Gwen is, I’m sure.” Arthur concedes and Merlin hates him again.

~^~

Merlin is surprised at how quickly they clean the kitchen/dining/living area. Arthur is very decisive. Merlin was quite certain Arthur was throwing out things he wanted to save every time he looked away. Which meant that Merlin decided to keep a close eye on Arthur. Which meant that Merlin kept becoming distracted by Arthur’s shoulders, chest, and, erm, butt. Somehow, though, they finished in less than two hours.

Arthur runs the vacuum. The flat smells like the pine cleaner they used to scrub the kitchen floor. The only mess left is a large heap of laundry that looms outside the door to his bedroom.

Merlin’s mobile buzzes. It’s on the counter charging.

“Hi.”

Gwen is already giggling. He wonders how many drinks she’s consumed.

“Hey Merlin, how’s it going with you and Arthur? What have you boys been up to?”

“We’re, erm, cleaning.”

Gwen is gasping for breath. Merlin doesn’t see the humor in the situation. “Cleaning, eh? Is that what the boys are calling it these days?”

“GWEN!”

“Anyway, I’m just calling to say that I’m staying over at Morgana’s so you will have the flat to yourself. Don’t have sex on my bed.”

“GWEN!” Merlin repeats, but she has ended the call prematurely. And for the second time that evening, as well. Merlin pouts.

He suddenly realizes he has lost Arthur. And the light is on in his bedroom.

He walks over and opens the door. Arthur is holding a pair of his boxers. He looks up to see Merlin and says, “You have more dirty pants than any other man I have ever met.”

“Rummage through many men’s dirty laundry, do you?”

Arthur looks slightly uncomfortable. “Well, you have more than I do, that’s for sure.”

Most of the mess in Merlin’s room is clothing and they sort through it quickly.

To be truthful, Arthur sorts through it quickly. Merlin spends most of his time obsessing over whether Arthur will see anything that might embarrass him. He tucks his stuffed rabbit into a box when Arthur is dragging a pair of trousers to the laundry pile. And when Arthur is placing books in his bookshelf, Merlin sneaks the photograph of his mother cradling him as a baby into a dresser drawer.

He is completely unprepared, however, when Arthur finds his porn magazines under his mattress because, really, who looks under someone else’s mattress?

“Why are you--?” Merlin cries, when he realizes Arthur is about to pick up that corner of the mattress.

But Arthur has dropped the sheet he was tucking in and is absorbed in the cover of the magazine. Merlin must admit that it is a nice cover. The muscular blond is displayed rather artfully, giant Xs covering his penis. If Arthur just flips a few pages, he can see the same picture without the Xs.

“Is this—” Arthur doesn’t finish his question. He continues to examine the magazine, finally opening it.

“I’m gay,” Merlin blurts. He didn’t mean to say it. He watches Arthurs’ face. Arthur doesn’t look surprised. Merlin isn’t sure that he has heard. Merlin sighs, “I said—”

“Me too.” Arthur looks up and into Merlin’s eyes, “I’m gay, too.”

He sits on the bed and turns back to the magazine.

Merlin begins to pace, pausing to be amazed that his room is clean enough for him to do so. Arthur is gay. Arthur is a prat. Arthur helped him clean his flat. Arthur is gay. Arthur is very fit. Arthur is sitting on his bed. Arthur is sitting on his bed reading his porn magazine. His gay porn magazine. Arthur is gay.

“This is really quite hot.”

Merlin is certain he is not living his own life anymore. He wants to test this new, gay Arthur. He could be lying. To embarrass Merlin. To laugh at him later.

He sits down next to Arthur to see which photo he’s commenting on.

The two men are posing in front of several mirrors. The image of the light haired man sucking the freckled ginger’s cock is reflected seemingly infinitely.

Merlin is aware that Arthur’s breathing is coming much quicker. Arthur reaches down to press a palm against his crotch, but he pulls it away quickly and Merlin thinks he must have imagined the motion.

Merlin turns to face Arthur, one leg hanging awkwardly off the bed. He looks down. Hopefully Arthur assumes his attention is on the magazine. He is actually assessing the size of the bulge in Arthur’s trousers.

He returns his gaze to Arthurs face. Arthur’s eyes follow the line of his throat upwards as he swallows. They stop at his mouth.
“You’re not really feeling sick, are you?”

Merlin shakes his head. He tries to think of something smooth to say. Something that will close the gap between his lips and Arthur’s.
“Erm.”

This is not a clever thing to say. Merlin wonders if silence is maybe better.

Arthur leans over to set the magazine on the floor beside the bed. As he sits up, he runs his hand up Merlin’s leg, stopping several inches above his knee. The warmth of his hand seeps through Merlin’s jeans and shoots to his cock.

“Erm.” He tries again.

“Fuck, Merlin.”

As Arthur’s lips meet his, Arthur’s hand slides up to cup him. The gentle pressure is excruciating. Merlin moans and moves to straddle Arthur’s lap.

When Arthur grinds against him, Merlin’s moans turn into desperate whimpers. He needs less material between them. His fingers grope clumsily with buttons and flies. Each press of his knuckles and each accidental slip of his fingertips bring them both closer to the edge.

Arthur’s eyes meet his, blue and glassy.

Finally, he is gripping both their cocks in his hands. He fists them slowly, not breaking eye contact. The flesh is smooth and hot. He feels a drip of precome slide down one of their cocks, Arthur’s, he thinks, and wet his hand.

Arthur grunts. “Just. Faster.”

Merlin wishes he’d thought to grab his lube because the friction is beginning to burn.

“Merlin.” The way Arthur says it, it sounds like a curse, but then he comes. His sticky juices cover both their cocks and, after three quick, smooth pulls Merlin’s cock is twitching with its own release.

Arthur lies back across the bed, pulling Merlin down with him. Merlin wipes his hands on the sheets.

“Don’t!” Arthur says, too late to stop him. “You’re disgusting!”

Merlin laughs. Arthur doesn’t. “Seriously, if we’re going to do that again tonight, we have to change your sheets.”

~^~

Merlin wakes up to shrieking. “Oh lord! You really were cleaning!”

Gwen slams the door to their flat, probably in surprise.

Merlin snuggles closer to Arthur.

“Make her go away.”

Arthurs eyes open. “How?”

“We could have really loud sex.”

Merlin really needs to learn to think before he speaks. Maybe this was just a one night thing. Maybe Arthur was just caught up in the moment, what with the porn. Maybe they had both been high from the cleaning fumes. Maybe—oh. He is on his back, arms pinned over his head and Arthur’s mouth doing something spectacular to his neck. He groans, resolutely not wondering whether or not Gwen can hear.

Fic: The Most Important Thing In Life- Sawyer Genfic

2006-11-26T18:11:26Z

Title: The Most Important Thing In Life
Author: Julius Schmidt
Rating: PG-13 for language and violence
Characters/Pairing: Sawyer-centric, possibly hints at a background of Sawyer/Kate
Word Count: ~950
Summary: “The most important thing in life is to see to it that you are never beaten [again].” -Andre Malraux (1901 - 1976)
Disclaimer: Lost is not mine.
Author’s Notes/Warnings: A Sawyer character study through a cracked-out dream!fic. Naturally, it's trippy and angsty. I watched ‘Outlaws’ and ‘I do’ right in a row and this the result.

He closes his eyes, not to sleep, but because it eases his headache.

He can still see the sun through his eyelids, bright and pulsing, a rainbow of color against a backdrop of black. And. Fuck. It hurts.

He tries not to think about it. Instead, he concentrates on matching the pace of his breathing with the rhythm of the waves crashing against the shore.

~~~~~~

He’s very hot, sweating. He feels like he’s been curled up under this creaky twin bed for years. Like he’s grown up there, waiting. The inches between his back and the sinking mattress continue to decrease.

Then finally, finally, he hears the sirens. They’re coming to get him, to pull him free, to rescue him.

But he no longer wants to be rescued. He wants to fight. He wants to kill.

He hates the metallic taste in his mouth from biting his lip too hard and it’s his fault. That man, Sawyer, is going to die.

In less than an instant he’s on his feet. He waits just inside his front door. The police officer, a young woman, her ponytail doing little to restrain her wild black hair, enters, gun raised, surveying the room. Alone.

He has her pressed up against the wall, her own gun at her throat before she even knows he’s there. “Alright, Ana-Lulu. You’re gonna tell me where that son of a bitch is.”

She spits at him. His lips twist into smile and he cocks the gun, daring her to piss him off.

“He’s out there.” She nods at the open window next to them. And while he glances outside, she brings her knee up into his crotch.

As she leaves, he thinks he hears her say, “Don’t let him get too much of a head start.”

He recovers from the blow with a “Shit-fuck-shit-son-of-bitch, Lulu!”

~~~~~~

Suddenly he’s running through the jungle, her gun still in his hand.

Straight. Just keep going straight. The trees blend together in rush of glistening greens and browns.

He might have been running for hours or days or years. But he’s not tired. Not winded. Not aching. The only symptom of exertion is his racing pulse. And that’s from excitement.

The son of a bitch is gonna die.

~~~~~~

The sound is soft, only that of light footfalls hidden beneath the racket of the leaves and the tree frogs and the chirping birds. But he knows.

Someone’s following him and he’s not sure if they’re trying to catch him. He turns left, ducking behind a tree trunk. She, and it is a she, passes him a blur of long, tan legs and freckles and he catches a whiff of strawberries. His breath hitches.

But she’s passed and the weight of the gun against his thigh reminds him where he’s going.

~~~~~~

Within minutes he’s found it. Standing at the edge of a clearing, he squints at the sign on the dingy, brick building. Bold black letters proclaim it: The Hatch. Underneath the name, in smaller, sharper letters, is advertised: Ladies drink free on Thursdays.

He’s in there.

The son of a bitch is gonna die.

And he’s probably too drunk to realize what’s coming.

He enters the bar and even before the door closes behind him he’s caught, pressed in by hot bodies on all sides. He hadn’t counted on the place being this crowded.

He’s never seen the man, doesn’t have a clue what he looks like.

He pushes and shoves and curses his way through the crowd, torn between the desire to keep his head down, his eyes focused intently on the bar in front of him and the need to find him.

The man pouring drinks is bald and Sawyer knows he keeps large hunting knife attached to his belt.

“What can I do you for, James?”

“That’s not my fucking name. And I’ll take whiskey. A double.”

The man turns and reaches for the bottle. “You’ll find him. He’s here. You’ll know him when you see him.”

“Fuck off, Yoda. You have no idea why I’m here.”

The man sets the whiskey down in front of him in crystal tumbler, smiling. He grabs up the glass. Locke continues to grin and the lines around Locke’s eyes piss him off, so he turns to his right as he downs the liquor. He closes his eyes, relishing the burn and when he opens them again, it’s raining.

And through the rain he sees the back of the man next to him, the back of his Red Sox cap and the back of his expensive blazer, ruining in the sudden downpour. That’s the man. Sawyer.

He puts down his glass and he raises the gun.

Kate, appearing behind him, rests her hand on his arm.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, Kate, I do. The son of a bitch is gonna die.”

He shrugs her hand away, and fires.

As the man falls off his stool and onto the ground, he realizes it’s Jack’s father, and he can’t breath.

He glances around. Noone is watching them. He just murdered a man in the middle of a busy bar and no one saw. Or if they had, they didn’t care.

Kneeling, he turns the body over, blood staining his hands, to look down into the face of the man he has killed and finds himself meeting his own eyes, wide with surprise.

“Sawyer,” Kate calls, and she’s talking to him. “Sawyer!”

Her nails are biting into the skin of his shoulder. “Sawyer, it’s raining. Wake-up.”

He blinks up at her, disoriented. Her hair is plastered to her face and curling. He swallows and pulls away, rising. “Son of a bitch.”

End

Crossposted to ficinabottle and juliusschmidt.

Fic: Your Wings That Make You Beautiful

2006-11-16T05:31:13Z

Title: Your Wings That Make You Beautiful
Author: Julius Schmidt
Characters/Pairings: Kate/Sawyer
Rating: NC-17
Length: 1050
Disclaimer: Not mine. (Also, title stolen shamelessly from some Magnetic Fields’ lyrics.)
Summary: In my mind, this story is about renegotiating gender roles, especially in sex, but in reality it’s just a PWP in which Kate and Sawyer fuck against a tree.
Warnings: Though I’m loathe to admit it in this fashion, it’s probably for the best: This is my first Kate/Sawyer, my first LOST, and my first smut I’ve ever posted.
Spoilers: Not quite sure how to classify this, as it’s my first tvfic. I’ve watched through “I Do” and have written this story in reaction, but I don’t directly discuss any of big revelations from season three.

Over the top of his book, Sawyer watches as Her Royal-Fuckin’-Highness walks purposefully toward him. He keeps his smile carefully hidden, and meets her eyes. She’s frowning, little worry lines creasing her forehead. He lowers the book so she can see the curve of his lips. She doesn’t smile back. Well, damn.

Surveying her long pants and pack, he asks, “Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?”

“With Locke. He thinks he knows where to find another hatch. Apparently, the island is guiding him and it’s important that we leave immediately.”

“The island is doin’ what now? Last time I checked islands couldn’t talk.”

“Oh come on, Sawyer. I need to do something to clear my head.”

Rising, he reaches toward her to run a hand down her cheek. “I can think of a few ways. Matter of fact, let’s get started right now.”

She steps back, out of his reach, fumbling a little in the uneven sand. “No. Really, Sawyer, I want to do this. Maybe you should come too.”

“I ain’t goin’ out there and neither are you. Maybe you weren’t listenin’, but according to the last group of boy scouts that went for a hike, Smokey the Monster’s out there rippin’ people apart.”

“You can’t stop me.”

“The hell I can’t, Sweetheart.” She’s turning away from him, heading for the jungle before he’s finished the sentence. And by the time he moves to catch her, she’s running.

He’s quicker, but not by much. When he finally captures her they are several yards inside, underneath the canopy and away from the sand. He grabs her, roughly, and pins her, hands over head, to the nearest tree trunk. She’s breathing as heavily as he is and he can feel it in the press of her breasts against his chest and as it raises the hairs on the back of his neck. She struggles, grunting and squirming against him. The pressure of her hips, as she arches into him, catches him off guard and his grip loosens enough for one of her hands to slip free and slide down his chest, brushing his nipple. He hardens almost instantaneously.

She presses her advantage once more, trying to work her way around him. He allows it until his leg is between hers. Releasing her hand, he pulls her tightly to him, grinding his erection against her and eliciting a moan. “Oh god.” She pulls to send him a smile. “If you just wanted to fuck me before I left, you could have said something.”

He buries his face against her neck and begins to place wet kisses along her nape, throat, and collarbone. Bringing his mouth up to ear, he whispers, “You’re not goin’ anywhere.”

“Oh,” she murmurs, breathily, and slips a hand inside the front of his jeans, “yeah?” She wraps her hand firmly around his cock and pulls.

Fuck. Arching into her, he runs his hands over her shoulders, and then up inter her hair to tugs gently. She sighs as his lips lick and suck their way across her chest and down into the crease between her breasts.

He’s reminded of her hand on his cock when she pulls again, all the way to the tip, her thumb just grazing his slit. He releases his breath in a hiss and yanks her pants down her hips. Her hand that is not stroking him is unbuttoning his jeans, now unzipping fly. Together they pull his pants and boxers down, letting them drop around his ankles. His dick, springing free, rubs against her bare stomach where her tank top has ridden up leaving a shiny trail of pre-come.

He watches as she kicks off her shoes, and then her jeans. She grabs his shoulders, maneuvering him until it is his back up against the rough tree trunk, and hops up to wrap herself around him, winding her legs so that they twist with his own. The damp cotton of her underwear rubs against the sensitive underside of his cock, and he reaches a hand down to push the fabric aside. Urging him along, she finds for his cock again, and guides it slowly into her slick heat. For a moment they are both still and Sawyer soaks in the feeling of Kate warm and wet around him.

“God, Sweetheart,” he breaths in her ear. She tightens around him, deliberately, and her nails dig into his back. “Kate, just fucking move.” And she does. Slow deliberate strokes, sliding up and down his length. He revels in the bark, rubbing his back raw, the feel of her legs smooth and tight around his and the way she clenches, just a bit, each time she slides away from him. And then all he can think is harder and faster. Her thrusts become sporadic, and his hips move desperately to meet her.

She’s panting loudly into his ear and he feels her orgasm spasm around him. The added tension sends him over the edge and he thrusts once more, deeply, and spills inside her.

His head falls back against the tree and his eyes drift downward, drowsiness overcoming him. He feels Kate slide down his body and hears the rustle of her jeans being pulled up. He can see her now on her knees, tugging on her shoes and retying them. “They’re waiting for me by the caves.” She stands to leave.
He doesn’t want her to walk away like this, but he doesn’t have the energy to go after her. “Come back.” His voice is rough and low and he’s not sure she’s heard him. She turns around to appraise him, eyes gentle, but chin, set and determined.

“Sawyer, I’m going.”

“I know, Kate, but just come back.”

Her tongue darts out nervously to lick her lips as she walks toward him. He hasn’t moved, pants still around his ankles, tree still poking into his back and skull. Placing her palms flat on his chest, she smiles up at him. “I will.”

She presses a soft, shallow kiss against his lips. “You’re killin’ me, Freckles,” he whispers. Her hands are on his either side of his face and she tilts it downward to kiss his closed eyes, one and then the other. “Just go so you can get back here.” When he finally opens them, she’s gone.

End.

Comments are love.

Also, I am in the market for a beta to work with me on some short Sawyer and Kate genfic I'm writing. Please let me know if you're interested. I'll love you forever. With kisses and porn and such.