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It wasn’t the first time that someone’s tried to get in his pants, and it won’t be the last.
To Snake Plissken, it seemed, he was a magnet for that sort of crowd.
Even in the most hostile environments, there was always someone trying to get close to him, to use whatever sexual prowess they think they have to get an edge on him. To get something from him.
He’s not wired that way.
It’s not that he has some kind of moral high ground—far from it, he’ll do whatever it takes to make sure he gets out in one piece—or anything like that. And it’s not like these people that try to use him aren’t attractive. Nothing like that.
It just doesn’t interest him. Never has.
Snake remembers when he was sent to New York on that suicide mission—that woman in the Chock Full O’ Nuts diner tried her best to get him to take her along with him.
She died soon after that. The only thing Snake regrets is giving her one of his cigarettes.
The same thing happened in L.A., a few years later.
He wonders when they’ll finally get the picture, that no matter how many times that they throw themselves at him, push their tits in his face or put the prettiest little pout on, he won’t bite.
Contrary to popular belief, Snake Plissken does not fuck.
He has. He certainly has, more than once. He would even go so far to say that it felt good. Men, women, it’s all the same to him. It’s just not for him.
Sex doesn’t do anything for Snake, not in any sense. It feels more transactional than anything else. Like something he has to do, more than something he really wants to.
Everyone’s upset when he doesn’t reciprocate, when he shows no interest. Even when he’s not in a life-or-death situation, they all seem like he’s doing them a disservice by turning down their advances.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he’ll tell them, voice gruff and low in that way only he can manage. “Not my thing.”
They’ll whine and pout, usually somewhere between embarrassed and disappointed, and pull their clothes back on in a huff.
“But you’re Snake Plissken!” They’ll tell him, like that has any kind of merit.
He’ll just shrug, send them on their way.
It’s never really been too clear to him why he seems to have this reputation, as this kind of master in bed or incredible lover—he assumes it has something to do with his closed-off, reserved personality; people think that he’s hiding some sort of Casanova beneath the surface.
He’s not. Not in the slightest.
It’s a tricky thing, at least Snake thinks it is. It’s not that he can’t perform or anything, he just..doesn’t want to. It interests him less than a mission briefing.
Sometimes he wonders if there’s something wrong with him, like, maybe he’s supposed to be interested in this, to want to sleep with everyone that throws themselves onto him.
—
He tries. Gets in touch with a woman who’s been trying to get in his pants from the first time she met him. She jumps at the chance, immediately offers up her apartment for him to come by, to give her what she’s been craving.
Worth a shot, so he goes.
Snake’s not on her property for five minutes before she’s got her hands all over him, small and warm all over his waist and chest. She says something about how she’s been dreaming of this, but he pays it no mind.
He just tries to focus, focus on the feeling of her touching him, her soft lips on his neck, her hands on his waist, fingers working nimbly with his belt.
She drops to her knees, looks up at him with big, pretty eyes and a soft smile, like she’s about to uncover the biggest discovery of the decade.
He lets her undo his belt, push his pants and boxers down just enough for her to…well, nothing.
He’s not hard, not even close.
It’s clear as day when she sees it, the way her confidence falters, the smile dropping off of her face a fraction.
“Still wakin’ up, huh?” She asks, bravado wavering and voice a little too peppy.
Snake scoffs, turns his head to look away, at whatever shitty decor she has pasted up on her walls.
“Something like that.”
She takes his cock in her hand—soft and dead, like it is in most cases—and gives him a few light strokes.
He tries to let himself enjoy this, just once—she’s a pretty girl, and she clearly wants to fuck him—but he’s finding it increasingly difficult.
Her hand is small, soft and warm around his cock. It feels nice, it does, but it’s not doing anything for him. He twitches a few times in her palm, showing signs of life.
Feeling that he’s not completely dead on arrival, she continues, a little bit of wind back on her sails now that all hope is not lost.
“There you go,” she teases, voice melodic and soft.
He can’t even look at her. Well, he tries. He really tries to keep all his attention solely focused on her, but anytime he looks down and sees this girl on her knees, he’s reminded just how much he doesn’t care about this.
She tries for a few more minutes, even going so far as to murmur little words of encouragement, snippets of dirty talk that Snake doesn’t think would even work on someone that was interested in this.
Eventually she stops, rests her hands on her thighs and sits back on her heels.
Snake turns his head, gaze dropping down to where she sits at his feet. For a moment, he’s glad that one of his eyes is covered by that patch, so that both of them don’t have to take in the pitiful sight before him.
“If you didn’t want to fuck me you shouldn’t have come here, Snake,” she mutters, disappointment and bitterness seeping into her tone.
He watches for a few moments as she sits there, chewing her lip, looking somewhere between distraught and pissed off.
It’s not that he doesn’t care, he just…well, he doesn’t care.
Snake shrugs, rolling his shoulders once before he shifts, pulling his pants back up and fastening his belt like nothing happened.
Because nothing did.
“It’s not personal—“ he starts, that same low, indifferent tone that he gives to everything.
She cuts him off, pushing herself back up to her feet, still not quite at eye level with him, even standing up.
“Well, it sure feels fucking personal, Snake! You know how fucking embarrassing it is to be on my knees and you can’t even get fucking hard?”
He raises an eyebrow. Even if he wanted to, maybe he dodged a bullet by not sleeping with her.
“It’s not you—“ he tries again, even trying to be a little honest with her, but she cuts him off again, his unfinished sentence setting her into another wave of rambling.
“Oh, ‘it’s not you, it’s me’? Seriously?”
Snake tunes her out after that, and heads towards the door.
It really is just him. She’s not a part of the problem. His problem.
He’s out before she launches into her next tirade.
—
Snake doesn’t think there’s anything necessarily wrong with him, he just..doesn’t get anything out of sex.
No sweat off his back, he thinks. Just one less thing to worry about in a world where there’s already so much going on.
The world has gone dark once again by the time he’s back, the consequences of his own actions (shutting off all electricity and communication for the entire planet) settling in.
Snake doesn’t mind the dark—it lets him take his eyepatch off for a bit, his left eye adjusts better in the low light, anyways. He lights a candle, pulls off his boots, and lets himself settle into bed as best he can.
The shitty candle he’s lit flickers pathetically on his nightstand, his gaze focused on the ceiling above him.
Despite the hard exterior he puts up, Snake can’t deny that weird ache in his chest, that pull he feels whenever someone offers themselves to him. He feels like there’s something wrong, like he should be enjoying this, but he just…can’t. Doesn’t, whatever.
He’s better off as a myth, anyways. The legendary Snake Plissken, war hero-turned-outlaw. Nothing wrong with that, it gets him by. Keeps him out of more trouble than he’s already been in.
Nothing wrong with how he is.
He’s Snake Plissken, that’s all that matters.