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kricketstitle; rating: the darkest of marks, r
pairing; wordcount: lost, claire/jack, mentions of others, aaron, sawyer, hurley; 1610
notes: AU. For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hitlikehammers who wanted greatest hits, and for ozmissage who wanted ladies of lost and angst. [And both wanted claire/jack.] Also, not going to lie, this is pretty much just smut. Angsty, angsty, smut.
The first time Jack takes her is in the kitchen of her apartment. He's come up to Santa Cruz for the long weekend and Claire is unloading the dishwasher. He's in the living room, saying something about work when the glass Claire is holding slips from her grasp.
It shatters when it connects with the tile.
Claire screams, drops to her knees, frantically attempting to collect its jagged edges with her bare hands.
It had been one of Aaron's.
Jack is by her side in moments saying her name, but she isn't listening. She stands, clutching the shards between her fingertips, and Jack tries to get her to put them down, tells her she's hurting herself. "Look at me, Claire," he says. "Look at me." She turns away from him then and Jack grabs her from behind, his fingers wrapped tightly around her wrists, forcing her to drop the glass. He moves her away from the debris, her bare feet struggling against him, her body trying unsuccessfully to break his grasp.
"Aaron," she says, futilely, finally stops trying to struggle.
"I know," Jack whispers, rests his chin on her shoulder. "I know."
Claire's hair is a mess, her fingertips and knees are bloody, her breathing hard, and finally she relaxes against him. Jack's grip loosens, and everything gets very quiet, their bodies pressed tight, their breathing finally slowed. After a while, Claire moves against him and she can feel him hard at her back. She freezes. They both do. This isn't the first time. There had been too much wine and awkwardness and apologies and weird conversations about proximity and biology and involuntary actions and something about friction. Claire had only touched his cheek, told him everything was fine, kissed him chastely. She said it was normal. She said it was nothing.
Even then, they both knew it was a lie.
Now, she moves. She turns toward him and in the motion Jack's hands go to her neck, her hair. She says his name, her lips barely ghosting his, but Jack turns his face, holds her back just enough to keep them from connecting. She slips her fingers around his neck, forces him to look at her. She looks into his eyes and nods once, hard. The motion is small but it says what he needs to know.
She leans forward again, but Jack doesn't kiss her. He won't. Instead he turns her around, pushes her over the kitchen table, knocking the salt and pepper shakers onto the floor, lifts her skirt. Claire reaches back to work her panties down. She doesn't even hear the sound of his zipper being undone before she can feel his hands at her waist, bracing himself as he thrusts inside her. She gasps, grips the edge of the table, says his name.
Claire closes her eyes. She can hear the air conditioning kick on. She can hear the slap of skin on skin, the sound of the table legs screeching against the floor whenever he presses into her. There is absolutely nothing beautiful or romantic about this. It's just Jack, fucking her, no more a man than animal, and Claire thinks she might die before she comes, her breathing ragged. Jack leans over her, whispers her name into her ear, gruff and short. Claire comes, just like that, cries out with the force of it. Jack's hips slam once more into hers before he pulls out and comes hot against her leg, his semen dripping down the back of her thigh. He collapses against her, gentle and heavy at the same time, kisses her neck. He says her name quietly, as if to himself.
Once.
Twice.
They won't look at each other when they make their way back to her bedroom to sleep it off, to forget.
And Jack, of course, will be gone in the morning.
--
The second time, Jack hasn't returned her calls.
She leaves messages. She says things like, "I need to see you." And what she really means is, "I want you inside me again." But Claire is not that kind of girl, or so she tells herself. So instead she uses words like, "We need to talk," when the word she wants to say is fuck.
We need to fuck.
And of course, Claire knows that isn't it entirely, but her body aches with the want of him and every night she dreams of him pressing against her, pressing into her. And maybe dream isn't the right word. Maybe it's nightmare. Anyway, she tries not to think about it. She tries not to think about much these days. As Sawyer used to tell her, thinking never helped anybody, only hurt. She never really subscribed to his particular brand of "ignorance is bliss" philosophy, but right now it seems like a good alternative.
Eventually she gets a call from Hurley. He's having a get-together, he calls it, a few weeks from now. He says he wants her to come. He says everybody misses her. He says he'll send a car.
Claire knows that Jack will be there, and so she goes. Not that she wouldn't have gone anyway, of course. But she must admit this ulterior motive, if only to herself.
That night, there are awkward hellos and the sick feeling she gets in her stomach when he stands as far away from her as possible: her at the far edge of the pool, him at the corner of the back deck, talking to Jin and Sun. Sawyer shows up late, already drunk. These things were never easy for him. He kisses her on the mouth when they hug and Claire catches Jack's look from across the yard, a hint of jealousy. She tells Sawyer she's happy to see him, but that she needs to go. "It's a long way back to Santa Cruz," she says.
And isn't that the truth?
She's in one of the upstairs bedrooms fishing for her jacket and her purse from the pile stacked on the bed when she hears the door close behind her.
Jack stands, handsome and angry in his suit.
"Look," she tells him, ready to explain Sawyer's friendly hello or to tell him he's an asshole or both. But his proximity makes her breath catch in her throat, the words swallowed back down into her belly.
Jack kisses her this time, one hand at her neck, one at her waist. Claire opens her lips, feels his tongue trace the roof of her mouth, lets out a quiet moan. She pulls him back onto the bed. She lets him slide her panties off while she swallows his kisses like water, like food in a famine. She thinks maybe this is better than fucking, his mouth hot on hers, his hands in her hair. She knows she's wrong, of course, but it is a nice thought.
She can hear their friends through the open window when he presses into her, glasses clinking, music playing, someone laughing, the kids splashing in the pool. She wraps her legs around him, her heels at his ass where it is exposed. She makes a noise and Jack covers her lips with his to quiet her. Claire runs her hands through his hair, whispers his name, tells him she missed him. Jack smiles above her, kisses her again, tells her he knows, tells her he's sorry. He pulls the strap of her dress down, takes her nipple in his mouth. Claire wants to scream, but bites it back, her fingernails scratching at his neck.
They fuck surrounded by this sea of jackets and bags and bathing suits, and Jack comes inside her, thrusting hard as he empties himself. They don't have much choice. They're already making enough mess as it is. Literally and figuratively speaking. In the moments that follow, Claire comes with a quiet whine, Jack's fingers at her clit, the sound of uproarious laughter from below drowning out any noise they might be making.
After, Jack cleans himself up, tells her he's going back to the party, that he'll see her soon.
Claire kisses him before he goes, her eyes salty wet.
"You better."
--
The third time, Claire drives down to his place.
She shows up at his doorstep with a little black dress, a bottle of wine, and a brown bag full of takeout. Jack smiles when he sees her, invites her inside.
Claire eats with chopsticks, something she'd never done until Jack taught her several months back. He tells her that now she's even better than he is with them. He tells her it's a family gift. Claire rolls her eyes and throws a steamed carrot at his head.
Jack laughs.
Finally, the ease they once shared with each other is back.
Now they can move forward.
Eventually, Claire tells him she has to go, makes her way to the door.
Jack hugs her, his lips pressed against her forehead. She looks up at him, sucks in a breath at the sight of his eyes searching hers.
"It's a six hour drive," he reminds her. "Tomorrow's Saturday. Can't you stay?"
Claire twines her fingers in his, kisses his knuckles.
"Okay," she tells him. "I'll stay."
Later, she'll tell him she wants him to move to Santa Cruz. She'll tell him that nothing matters -- not what they are, not what they've done, not this shadow they've cast upon themselves. Later, she'll fuck him for the third time. This time quiet, slow, deliberate, nothing like those first two times.
But for now, Claire just lets him lead her deep into the house, lets lets him trace fingers over her face, her stomach, her shoulders. For now, she lets him hold her until they fall asleep. For now...
-fin
pairing; wordcount: lost, claire/jack, mentions of others, aaron, sawyer, hurley; 1610
notes: AU. For
hitlikehammers who wanted greatest hits, and for ozmissage who wanted ladies of lost and angst. [And both wanted claire/jack.] Also, not going to lie, this is pretty much just smut. Angsty, angsty, smut.The first time Jack takes her is in the kitchen of her apartment. He's come up to Santa Cruz for the long weekend and Claire is unloading the dishwasher. He's in the living room, saying something about work when the glass Claire is holding slips from her grasp.
It shatters when it connects with the tile.
Claire screams, drops to her knees, frantically attempting to collect its jagged edges with her bare hands.
It had been one of Aaron's.
Jack is by her side in moments saying her name, but she isn't listening. She stands, clutching the shards between her fingertips, and Jack tries to get her to put them down, tells her she's hurting herself. "Look at me, Claire," he says. "Look at me." She turns away from him then and Jack grabs her from behind, his fingers wrapped tightly around her wrists, forcing her to drop the glass. He moves her away from the debris, her bare feet struggling against him, her body trying unsuccessfully to break his grasp.
"Aaron," she says, futilely, finally stops trying to struggle.
"I know," Jack whispers, rests his chin on her shoulder. "I know."
Claire's hair is a mess, her fingertips and knees are bloody, her breathing hard, and finally she relaxes against him. Jack's grip loosens, and everything gets very quiet, their bodies pressed tight, their breathing finally slowed. After a while, Claire moves against him and she can feel him hard at her back. She freezes. They both do. This isn't the first time. There had been too much wine and awkwardness and apologies and weird conversations about proximity and biology and involuntary actions and something about friction. Claire had only touched his cheek, told him everything was fine, kissed him chastely. She said it was normal. She said it was nothing.
Even then, they both knew it was a lie.
Now, she moves. She turns toward him and in the motion Jack's hands go to her neck, her hair. She says his name, her lips barely ghosting his, but Jack turns his face, holds her back just enough to keep them from connecting. She slips her fingers around his neck, forces him to look at her. She looks into his eyes and nods once, hard. The motion is small but it says what he needs to know.
She leans forward again, but Jack doesn't kiss her. He won't. Instead he turns her around, pushes her over the kitchen table, knocking the salt and pepper shakers onto the floor, lifts her skirt. Claire reaches back to work her panties down. She doesn't even hear the sound of his zipper being undone before she can feel his hands at her waist, bracing himself as he thrusts inside her. She gasps, grips the edge of the table, says his name.
Claire closes her eyes. She can hear the air conditioning kick on. She can hear the slap of skin on skin, the sound of the table legs screeching against the floor whenever he presses into her. There is absolutely nothing beautiful or romantic about this. It's just Jack, fucking her, no more a man than animal, and Claire thinks she might die before she comes, her breathing ragged. Jack leans over her, whispers her name into her ear, gruff and short. Claire comes, just like that, cries out with the force of it. Jack's hips slam once more into hers before he pulls out and comes hot against her leg, his semen dripping down the back of her thigh. He collapses against her, gentle and heavy at the same time, kisses her neck. He says her name quietly, as if to himself.
Once.
Twice.
They won't look at each other when they make their way back to her bedroom to sleep it off, to forget.
And Jack, of course, will be gone in the morning.
--
The second time, Jack hasn't returned her calls.
She leaves messages. She says things like, "I need to see you." And what she really means is, "I want you inside me again." But Claire is not that kind of girl, or so she tells herself. So instead she uses words like, "We need to talk," when the word she wants to say is fuck.
We need to fuck.
And of course, Claire knows that isn't it entirely, but her body aches with the want of him and every night she dreams of him pressing against her, pressing into her. And maybe dream isn't the right word. Maybe it's nightmare. Anyway, she tries not to think about it. She tries not to think about much these days. As Sawyer used to tell her, thinking never helped anybody, only hurt. She never really subscribed to his particular brand of "ignorance is bliss" philosophy, but right now it seems like a good alternative.
Eventually she gets a call from Hurley. He's having a get-together, he calls it, a few weeks from now. He says he wants her to come. He says everybody misses her. He says he'll send a car.
Claire knows that Jack will be there, and so she goes. Not that she wouldn't have gone anyway, of course. But she must admit this ulterior motive, if only to herself.
That night, there are awkward hellos and the sick feeling she gets in her stomach when he stands as far away from her as possible: her at the far edge of the pool, him at the corner of the back deck, talking to Jin and Sun. Sawyer shows up late, already drunk. These things were never easy for him. He kisses her on the mouth when they hug and Claire catches Jack's look from across the yard, a hint of jealousy. She tells Sawyer she's happy to see him, but that she needs to go. "It's a long way back to Santa Cruz," she says.
And isn't that the truth?
She's in one of the upstairs bedrooms fishing for her jacket and her purse from the pile stacked on the bed when she hears the door close behind her.
Jack stands, handsome and angry in his suit.
"Look," she tells him, ready to explain Sawyer's friendly hello or to tell him he's an asshole or both. But his proximity makes her breath catch in her throat, the words swallowed back down into her belly.
Jack kisses her this time, one hand at her neck, one at her waist. Claire opens her lips, feels his tongue trace the roof of her mouth, lets out a quiet moan. She pulls him back onto the bed. She lets him slide her panties off while she swallows his kisses like water, like food in a famine. She thinks maybe this is better than fucking, his mouth hot on hers, his hands in her hair. She knows she's wrong, of course, but it is a nice thought.
She can hear their friends through the open window when he presses into her, glasses clinking, music playing, someone laughing, the kids splashing in the pool. She wraps her legs around him, her heels at his ass where it is exposed. She makes a noise and Jack covers her lips with his to quiet her. Claire runs her hands through his hair, whispers his name, tells him she missed him. Jack smiles above her, kisses her again, tells her he knows, tells her he's sorry. He pulls the strap of her dress down, takes her nipple in his mouth. Claire wants to scream, but bites it back, her fingernails scratching at his neck.
They fuck surrounded by this sea of jackets and bags and bathing suits, and Jack comes inside her, thrusting hard as he empties himself. They don't have much choice. They're already making enough mess as it is. Literally and figuratively speaking. In the moments that follow, Claire comes with a quiet whine, Jack's fingers at her clit, the sound of uproarious laughter from below drowning out any noise they might be making.
After, Jack cleans himself up, tells her he's going back to the party, that he'll see her soon.
Claire kisses him before he goes, her eyes salty wet.
"You better."
--
The third time, Claire drives down to his place.
She shows up at his doorstep with a little black dress, a bottle of wine, and a brown bag full of takeout. Jack smiles when he sees her, invites her inside.
Claire eats with chopsticks, something she'd never done until Jack taught her several months back. He tells her that now she's even better than he is with them. He tells her it's a family gift. Claire rolls her eyes and throws a steamed carrot at his head.
Jack laughs.
Finally, the ease they once shared with each other is back.
Now they can move forward.
Eventually, Claire tells him she has to go, makes her way to the door.
Jack hugs her, his lips pressed against her forehead. She looks up at him, sucks in a breath at the sight of his eyes searching hers.
"It's a six hour drive," he reminds her. "Tomorrow's Saturday. Can't you stay?"
Claire twines her fingers in his, kisses his knuckles.
"Okay," she tells him. "I'll stay."
Later, she'll tell him she wants him to move to Santa Cruz. She'll tell him that nothing matters -- not what they are, not what they've done, not this shadow they've cast upon themselves. Later, she'll fuck him for the third time. This time quiet, slow, deliberate, nothing like those first two times.
But for now, Claire just lets him lead her deep into the house, lets lets him trace fingers over her face, her stomach, her shoulders. For now, she lets him hold her until they fall asleep. For now...
-fin