[fic] five lost fics
LOST FIC from FIVE ACTS
it will go on; r
lost, richard/jacob; 584
Somewhere along the way Richard starts to get it. He starts to understand. Jacob's just as much a prisoner here as the one they're keeping at bay. Nothing's ever felt more true.
"We're never going to leave here," he says to Jacob one night across a small campfire. It's though the thought has just occurred to him. It isn't a question really, but Jacob answers anyway.
"No," he says, eyes meeting Richard's. "And we were never going to."
-
People come and people go and Jacob's not always as isolated as he is wont to be in later times. He mingles with the newcomers. He presents himself as a god. He brings women to his bed, takes them whichever way they will allow. He is a man who has defied time, who has been bored beyond measure. He is a man who has not a single place to go or a single thing to desire.
He is a man.
Some nights Richard listens from outside, listen to the women's impassioned screams and Jacobs climactic grunting. He feels himself grow hard, closes his eyes and tries to sleep.
Tries.
-
They're dancing, laughing, unaware of their fate, skin lit orange by the cooking fire, faces filled with joy at this paradise.
"They're beautiful," Jacob whispers into Richard's ear. "Don't you want to have one for yourself?"
Richard doesn't turn to look at him when he says, "But they're strangers."
Jacob nods, he understands.
-
And then they're alone again.
Richard senses that Jacob will be the only person he will see, the only person he will know, for years to come. And sometimes that's the truth. The island begins to feel so large to him, with only the two of them on it. Three, he always forgets.
When the rain comes it makes everything seem smaller, and Richard feels like he can finally relax. He feels the comfort in the boundary, even if it is just a mirage. It's one of these wet nights when Jacob finds him where he rests, lies next to him, runs his hands over Richard's wet clothes, pulling and tugging and exposing more skin.
"I'm no stranger," he whispers into Richards ear, hot breath tickling his skin, making his flesh rise in a tremble.
Richard lets out a quiet noise when Jacob's hand closes over his hard cock. He shuts his eyes tight, leans his head back. He knows what Jacob says is true.
Richard's hand falls over Jacob's in a feeble attempt to stop his motions. But a moment passes and instead, he aids him, grips Jacob's knuckles, urges him on, attempts to thrust into Jacob's hand. Finally he lets go, lets Jacob work him over at his own quick pace, and he can feel Jacob's own hardness pressing into his back. Richard's mouth falls open and he grunts in orgasm, coming in hot thick strings over Jacob's fingers.
After that, whenever it rains, Jacob takes him any way that Richard will allow him, and every time Jacob makes him come it is the only time he has no thought of Isabella.
"This is my gift to you," Jacob whispers. "This is my gift."
-
Mornings, Richard looks out across the vegetation of their prison, wonders if he would even remember what home felt like if he could ever get there.
Jacob steps into view, stretches, takes a bite of fresh fruit.
It's moments like these that Richard thinks he doesn't mind.
No, he doesn't mind it at all.
-fin
books and covers; pg13
lost, jack/shannon; 137
Jack teases her when she tells him that when she was little she used to name the stars, gesturing towards the night sky above them. She's pressed naked and sweaty against him in the tall grass, her head against his shoulder, and she pouts, wants to know what's so funny.
"You just don't seem the type," he confesses. Then he corrects. "You didn't seem the type... before."
Shannon settles closer, reaching over to trace the pattern of his tattoo, the stars he left there.
"You didn't seem the type either," she says, touching the marred skin with as little pressure as possible.
Jack can feel his skin rise with goose bumps, reaches across to brush her tangled hair from her eyes.
"Books and covers," he whispers before he leans to cover her mouth with his once more.
-fin
the birds won't sing, r
lost, jack/sawyer/claire; 555
beta read by kmousie
They spend a day in the mountains, the three of them. Claire carries the old Polaroid she found around her neck, her last dozen packets of film in her knapsack, and she snaps photos of random things: a strangely placed pile of rocks, Jack with his fingers laced through Sawyer's, a hand-painted message in the middle of the trail of some long-forgotten beacon.
FOOD AND WATER. FORTY MILES DUE NORTH.
The old wooden slat is hanging askew where it's nailed to the tree, the red paint weathered and peeling, a visible reminder of how long it's been since the world fell apart.
Sawyer comes up behind her, wraps his arms around her waist, his chin on her shoulder, watches as the photo's colors become clear.
Jack stands a few feet away, eyes squinting towards the waning light of the sun.
"Do you think anyone's still alive?" Claire asks.
Nobody answers.
They don't have to.
-
The three of them have managed to find shelter, a still-standing farm house with supplies and equipment enough for them to make a home, plant some vegetables, try to make the most of it.
Nights, they spend in each other's beds. Things were different at the start, and Claire teases them both for waiting so long to make it a threesome. And they tease her for how easy it is to get her going.
"It's the end of the world," she tells them. "What else is there to do?"
-
She watches them when they're together, hips roughly finding each other's underneath a starry sky, another night outdoors, her favorite place to sleep. She watches them, Jack's teeth on Sawyer's shoulder, Sawyer's hand searching Jack's skin.
Claire makes a noise and Sawyer starts to laugh. "Little sister's awake," he informs Jack, who pulls her into their embrace.
Second nature.
This is how they are.
This is how they work.
This is how they keep from going crazy.
-
Claire takes snapshots of their bodies. Close-up shots, the bottoms of their bare feet, their erect penises brushing together in a moment of passion.
"Is this really the way we want to be remembered?" Jack asks, afterward, the explicit photos spread out across the bed.
Claire hands one to him across a sleeping, naked Sawyer. It's a sloppy self-portrait, of her and Jack, lips and tongues and love -- that, most of all. "Of course," she tells him. "No one will ever see them anyway."
Jack reaches for her hand.
-
When the sun turns an orange-brown, Claire knows that it is over. Time to move underground, if they can find a way. So they pack their things, as many essentials as they can carry, and set out to an uncertain future.
Claire turns back into the light of the sun, only a sunset by illusion, for a final look at the place they called their home. She stands for several minutes, silhouetted in the dirty, poisoned light, the farm house in the distance, until she hears the mechanical click of her camera, turns to see Sawyer having just snapped her photo.
"To remember," he tells her.
Jack crosses to her side, a hand at her waist, with Sawyer close behind. "We have to keep moving, Claire. There's no time."
And there, standing on that familiar gravel road, Claire begins to cry.
-fin
there is no moon, r!
lost, jack/claire; 410
There's a scar beneath her chin that Jack can only see when she's on top of him, Claire's body moving in concert with his, the friction between them making his eyes cloud over, making it hard to concentrate, to focus enough to process the hidden mark.
Its color is faint, just a shade or two lighter than her natural skin tone, and Jack's surprised it even caught his eye. The wisp-like, not quite jagged line stretches to the vertex of her throat, and then reaches toward the edge of her jaw where it thins out and fades away completely.
Jack's hand slides over her abdomen, almost instinctively, pausing momentarily to run a thumb along the underside of one breast, and then further, gently ghosting a callused pad along the scar. Claire inhales sharply, shivers, affected by his touch. Jack leans up, pulls her closer, his lips going to her neck, swallowing the mark. He traces it with his tongue until he reaches the spot where it disappears, and he can feel Claire shudder above him in response, her orgasm hitting her hard.
She clings to him a while, coming down from her high, and after a moment she lets go of his shoulders and reaches between them to take him in her hand. Jack is slick with the remnants of the two of them and still hard. Claire closes the space between them, catches his lips in her teeth. Jack thrusts into her hand and she tugs in rough, short strokes until her name is on his lips and he comes hot over her fingers, dripping onto his belly.
-
Later, while they're lying naked in each other's arms, the summer's moonlight streaming through the open window, Jack brushes her hair from her neck and once again traces the mark with his fingertips.
Claire makes a soft noise at first, and laughs when her nipples harden visibly.
Jack relents, kisses the corner of her eye, whispers, "Where did it come from?"
Claire shrugs, her hand going to her throat protectively. "I don't remember," she tells him, her voice sounding like a revelation, like she's never noticed it before, like perhaps it came from nowhere. "I think I've forgotten," she says. And the truth is that there are a lot of things Claire forgets. There are a lot of things they've all forgotten.
Jack tugs the white sheet over them, pulls her closer, buries his nose in her hair. "Maybe tomorrow," he says, he hopes.
"Maybe," Claire agrees, her voice soft and tired, her eyelids fluttering closed. "Maybe."
-fin
I also wrote this:
every road takes us farther from home; lost, jack/claire; r; 1180
it will go on; r
lost, richard/jacob; 584
Somewhere along the way Richard starts to get it. He starts to understand. Jacob's just as much a prisoner here as the one they're keeping at bay. Nothing's ever felt more true.
"We're never going to leave here," he says to Jacob one night across a small campfire. It's though the thought has just occurred to him. It isn't a question really, but Jacob answers anyway.
"No," he says, eyes meeting Richard's. "And we were never going to."
-
People come and people go and Jacob's not always as isolated as he is wont to be in later times. He mingles with the newcomers. He presents himself as a god. He brings women to his bed, takes them whichever way they will allow. He is a man who has defied time, who has been bored beyond measure. He is a man who has not a single place to go or a single thing to desire.
He is a man.
Some nights Richard listens from outside, listen to the women's impassioned screams and Jacobs climactic grunting. He feels himself grow hard, closes his eyes and tries to sleep.
Tries.
-
They're dancing, laughing, unaware of their fate, skin lit orange by the cooking fire, faces filled with joy at this paradise.
"They're beautiful," Jacob whispers into Richard's ear. "Don't you want to have one for yourself?"
Richard doesn't turn to look at him when he says, "But they're strangers."
Jacob nods, he understands.
-
And then they're alone again.
Richard senses that Jacob will be the only person he will see, the only person he will know, for years to come. And sometimes that's the truth. The island begins to feel so large to him, with only the two of them on it. Three, he always forgets.
When the rain comes it makes everything seem smaller, and Richard feels like he can finally relax. He feels the comfort in the boundary, even if it is just a mirage. It's one of these wet nights when Jacob finds him where he rests, lies next to him, runs his hands over Richard's wet clothes, pulling and tugging and exposing more skin.
"I'm no stranger," he whispers into Richards ear, hot breath tickling his skin, making his flesh rise in a tremble.
Richard lets out a quiet noise when Jacob's hand closes over his hard cock. He shuts his eyes tight, leans his head back. He knows what Jacob says is true.
Richard's hand falls over Jacob's in a feeble attempt to stop his motions. But a moment passes and instead, he aids him, grips Jacob's knuckles, urges him on, attempts to thrust into Jacob's hand. Finally he lets go, lets Jacob work him over at his own quick pace, and he can feel Jacob's own hardness pressing into his back. Richard's mouth falls open and he grunts in orgasm, coming in hot thick strings over Jacob's fingers.
After that, whenever it rains, Jacob takes him any way that Richard will allow him, and every time Jacob makes him come it is the only time he has no thought of Isabella.
"This is my gift to you," Jacob whispers. "This is my gift."
-
Mornings, Richard looks out across the vegetation of their prison, wonders if he would even remember what home felt like if he could ever get there.
Jacob steps into view, stretches, takes a bite of fresh fruit.
It's moments like these that Richard thinks he doesn't mind.
No, he doesn't mind it at all.
-fin
books and covers; pg13
lost, jack/shannon; 137
Jack teases her when she tells him that when she was little she used to name the stars, gesturing towards the night sky above them. She's pressed naked and sweaty against him in the tall grass, her head against his shoulder, and she pouts, wants to know what's so funny.
"You just don't seem the type," he confesses. Then he corrects. "You didn't seem the type... before."
Shannon settles closer, reaching over to trace the pattern of his tattoo, the stars he left there.
"You didn't seem the type either," she says, touching the marred skin with as little pressure as possible.
Jack can feel his skin rise with goose bumps, reaches across to brush her tangled hair from her eyes.
"Books and covers," he whispers before he leans to cover her mouth with his once more.
-fin
the birds won't sing, r
lost, jack/sawyer/claire; 555
beta read by kmousie
They spend a day in the mountains, the three of them. Claire carries the old Polaroid she found around her neck, her last dozen packets of film in her knapsack, and she snaps photos of random things: a strangely placed pile of rocks, Jack with his fingers laced through Sawyer's, a hand-painted message in the middle of the trail of some long-forgotten beacon.
FOOD AND WATER. FORTY MILES DUE NORTH.
The old wooden slat is hanging askew where it's nailed to the tree, the red paint weathered and peeling, a visible reminder of how long it's been since the world fell apart.
Sawyer comes up behind her, wraps his arms around her waist, his chin on her shoulder, watches as the photo's colors become clear.
Jack stands a few feet away, eyes squinting towards the waning light of the sun.
"Do you think anyone's still alive?" Claire asks.
Nobody answers.
They don't have to.
-
The three of them have managed to find shelter, a still-standing farm house with supplies and equipment enough for them to make a home, plant some vegetables, try to make the most of it.
Nights, they spend in each other's beds. Things were different at the start, and Claire teases them both for waiting so long to make it a threesome. And they tease her for how easy it is to get her going.
"It's the end of the world," she tells them. "What else is there to do?"
-
She watches them when they're together, hips roughly finding each other's underneath a starry sky, another night outdoors, her favorite place to sleep. She watches them, Jack's teeth on Sawyer's shoulder, Sawyer's hand searching Jack's skin.
Claire makes a noise and Sawyer starts to laugh. "Little sister's awake," he informs Jack, who pulls her into their embrace.
Second nature.
This is how they are.
This is how they work.
This is how they keep from going crazy.
-
Claire takes snapshots of their bodies. Close-up shots, the bottoms of their bare feet, their erect penises brushing together in a moment of passion.
"Is this really the way we want to be remembered?" Jack asks, afterward, the explicit photos spread out across the bed.
Claire hands one to him across a sleeping, naked Sawyer. It's a sloppy self-portrait, of her and Jack, lips and tongues and love -- that, most of all. "Of course," she tells him. "No one will ever see them anyway."
Jack reaches for her hand.
-
When the sun turns an orange-brown, Claire knows that it is over. Time to move underground, if they can find a way. So they pack their things, as many essentials as they can carry, and set out to an uncertain future.
Claire turns back into the light of the sun, only a sunset by illusion, for a final look at the place they called their home. She stands for several minutes, silhouetted in the dirty, poisoned light, the farm house in the distance, until she hears the mechanical click of her camera, turns to see Sawyer having just snapped her photo.
"To remember," he tells her.
Jack crosses to her side, a hand at her waist, with Sawyer close behind. "We have to keep moving, Claire. There's no time."
And there, standing on that familiar gravel road, Claire begins to cry.
-fin
there is no moon, r!
lost, jack/claire; 410
There's a scar beneath her chin that Jack can only see when she's on top of him, Claire's body moving in concert with his, the friction between them making his eyes cloud over, making it hard to concentrate, to focus enough to process the hidden mark.
Its color is faint, just a shade or two lighter than her natural skin tone, and Jack's surprised it even caught his eye. The wisp-like, not quite jagged line stretches to the vertex of her throat, and then reaches toward the edge of her jaw where it thins out and fades away completely.
Jack's hand slides over her abdomen, almost instinctively, pausing momentarily to run a thumb along the underside of one breast, and then further, gently ghosting a callused pad along the scar. Claire inhales sharply, shivers, affected by his touch. Jack leans up, pulls her closer, his lips going to her neck, swallowing the mark. He traces it with his tongue until he reaches the spot where it disappears, and he can feel Claire shudder above him in response, her orgasm hitting her hard.
She clings to him a while, coming down from her high, and after a moment she lets go of his shoulders and reaches between them to take him in her hand. Jack is slick with the remnants of the two of them and still hard. Claire closes the space between them, catches his lips in her teeth. Jack thrusts into her hand and she tugs in rough, short strokes until her name is on his lips and he comes hot over her fingers, dripping onto his belly.
-
Later, while they're lying naked in each other's arms, the summer's moonlight streaming through the open window, Jack brushes her hair from her neck and once again traces the mark with his fingertips.
Claire makes a soft noise at first, and laughs when her nipples harden visibly.
Jack relents, kisses the corner of her eye, whispers, "Where did it come from?"
Claire shrugs, her hand going to her throat protectively. "I don't remember," she tells him, her voice sounding like a revelation, like she's never noticed it before, like perhaps it came from nowhere. "I think I've forgotten," she says. And the truth is that there are a lot of things Claire forgets. There are a lot of things they've all forgotten.
Jack tugs the white sheet over them, pulls her closer, buries his nose in her hair. "Maybe tomorrow," he says, he hopes.
"Maybe," Claire agrees, her voice soft and tired, her eyelids fluttering closed. "Maybe."
-fin
I also wrote this:
every road takes us farther from home; lost, jack/claire; r; 1180