Lost Comment Ficlets
Lost ficlets written for comment_fic's lonely prompt weekend. Various pairings and ratings.
Ana Lucia/Sayid, uniform
"I gotta say," Ana Lucia smirks, straddled on top of him, "never figured you for having a uniform kink."
Sayid looks up at her, eyes dark and all-seeing. His wrists are handcuffed to the bed's headboard above them, neatly restrained. His gaze filters down, almost of its own will, to where Ana Lucia's cleavage strains against her uniform's buttons. The hints of a red lace bra can be seen underneath, just enough to be tantalising.
He rolls his shoulders and the handcuffs rattle where they restrain him. "I would say that you don't seem like the kind of woman to restrain a man like this, but I'm afraid that would be a lie," he murmurs, and she can't stop herself from shivering at the sound of his accented voice hoarse with desire.
She smirks and leans down, nails scratching against his bare chest as she whispers in his ear, "How 'bout we see what other kinks of yours are worth exploring?"
"As you wish, Officer," he replies, eyes closing as she gets to work.
Charlie/Desmond, bar fight
Charlie hisses and tries to flinch away as Desmond dabs at the cut over his eyebrow with a damp piece of cotton wool. "You should be more careful, Charlie," Desmond scolds unhappily.
"Hard to be careful in a bar fight," his boyfriend mutters in return.
It's possible that, this time, Desmond presses the cotton wool against his cut a little more briskly than is actually necessary. Charlie takes risks, stupid ones. It's as if he thinks that because he escaped death on the island that it can't catch up with him now that they've been rescued.
And Desmond knows - he knows - that the likelihood of dying from one little bar fight is not too likely, but it's the principle of the thing. It wouldn't kill Charlie to be careful for once in his life: he might've beaten fate, but he's not a god and he's not immortal and Desmond doesn't think that either of them are in any state to handle more heartbreak in their lives.
"Promise me," Desmond says sternly as he finishes cleaning up the cut. "Promise you won't do that any more."
"I can't," Charlie says. "Someone has to defend Driveshaft's honour."
"If you try to beat up every wanker that slags off the band then you'll never stop fighting."
Charlie kicks him in the shin for that one, though not too hard. Desmond supposes he deserves it and he smiles before kissing Charlie's forehead. "I worry about you," he says.
"No need," Charlie says. "No flashes."
"No island - no more flashes. I can't protect you like that any more, brother."
Charlie turns his head so that he can rest the uninjured side of it against Desmond's shoulder. His breath puffs, heated, against Desmond's neck. "Okay," he agrees. "No more fights."
Desmond smiles in relief - though he knows that that promise won't last for long.
Charlie/Desmond, ladies' underwear
He nearly chokes when he sees it: a white cotton material decorated by pastel coloured polka-dots. Desmond only catches a glimpse sticking up higher than Charlie's jeans, but it's enough to make his eyebrows rise. Those aren't mens' underwear, that's for certain.
He's moves on down the beach, too busy to stop and chat, but his mind doesn't stop swirling the image around and around in his mind.
CHARLIE IS WEARING LADIES' UNDERWEAR is the number one news headline in his brain.
Why is a good question, but he doubts it'd be too polite to ask. Even though he can't stop thinking about it, he keeps his mouth shut and carries on into the jungle to collect fruit: he gets a much better look when he gets back to the beach in the evening, and Charlie allows him to help to peel those cotton panties down his hips.
Charlie/Desmond, Warwick Avenue
It's more awkward than it should be - than meeting with Charlie has ever been.
Two cups sit steaming on the table between them. Outside of the chain coffee shop, the train station bustles with loud noise. Busy, everyone's so busy here. No one stops to notice the goodbyes being said; no one realises that something real is ending.
"Are you sure you have to go?" Desmond asks.
He wants Charlie to say no. Wants to watch him grin and shake his head and say that this is all a big, stupid mistake.
But Charlie smiles that sad smile of his and nods. "Penny's back, mate," he says like that's all the explanation that is needed.
Desmond looks down at his coffee cup and thinks that perhaps this means there is nothing left to say.
Charlie/Jack, temporary blindless
Jack is there from the beginning with a guiding hand upon his arm. Charlie can see him as an indistinct, fuzzy blur from the corner of his eye: his vision hasn't come back. It's been days now.
"It should return soon, Charlie," Jack promises - he's talking in his authorative doctor voice, like he knows what he's talking about, but Charlie's got the feeling he hasn't got a clue. Funky island illness; sand in his eyes; voodoo curse; plain bad luck. Could be anything.
Jack's there, though, the whole time: a doctor caring for his patient.
His hands are gentle and his voice is soft and Charlie feels safer than he should under Jack's care. It makes him feel like, yeah, everything is going to be alright. He hasn't trusted anyone like that in years.
When he blinks his eyes and his sight comes back - clear, vivid, and so beautiful - he can't help laughing in delight and Jack laughs with him. Relief. Happiness. Jack's hand doesn't leave his arm, still guiding and still caring, and their relieved laughter only fades when Charlie presses his lips against Jack's: a thank you and a promise for the future at once.
Charlie/Jack/Sawyer, comfort
They survived a plane crash. They're on a desert island. They're under constant threat of sodding attack by 'others', whatever the hell that means. Considering the bizarro world they crashed into, Charlie thinks that some lapses in moral judgement are completely and utterly justified.
Like this, for example. Most of the time, Charlie wouldn't have anticipated winding up in the middle of two men. He's been with guys before - when you're out of your head on heroin pretty much everything sounds like a good idea, and you don't stop to think that it might leave you bloody sore in awkward places in the morning - but not two at once. And not guys like Jack and Sawyer: one firmly closeted, one firmly amoral.
Sawyer's rough with him, throwing him down onto his back on the sand and unzipping his own jeans with little preamble. Charlie might've objected to the way Sawyer kneels with a leg on either side of his shoulders and feeds his hard cock into his mouth with a smirk on his face, but he's rather distracted by the sudden experimental feel of Jack's hand on his dick. He moans around Sawyer's erection and gives in.
They're on a desert island - distractions and comfort are to be taken wherever they can be found.
Charlie/Liam, downhill slope
He's dragging him down and he doesn't know how to stop - Charlie, his own little baby brother. Liam's supposed to be the older one; the mature one; the responsible one. Isn't that the way it works in family?
Not for them. Not for the Paces. Permanently fucked up, that's them.
Dragged him away from the Church first, into the dazzle and lights of the music industry.
Dragged him towards the booze, drinking every night and sleeping with any bird that'll look twice.
Dragged him into drugs next, indulging in that heavenly high that takes over his mind, his life, his talent.
And then this. His lips against Charlie's; his skin on his brother's; a high no drug can recreate. "C'mon, baby brother," he whispers in his ear. "Stop being such a prude." Charlie gives in, like he always does. Liam knows which strings to pull.
Down and down they go, tumbling, and Liam doesn't know where this downhill slope will end.
Charlie/Sawyer, sand in awkward places
Between his toes.
Behind his ears.
In his hair.
Under his fingernails.
Up his nose.
Between his teeth.
And in a few more delicate places that he wouldn't want to mention in polite company. Charlie's finding sand all over his body for days and no amount of washing seems able to get rid of it all. He can remember going to the seaside as a kid and bringing half the beach home with him in his trainers. This is a far more extreme version of that, and he tries to pick a few more grains away from under his fingernails as he sits by the shore. Seeing Sawyer smirking at him along the beach, this time Charlie knows exactly who to blame for his current uncomfortable predicament.
Claire/Juliet, enough
They've been through too much, both of them. The island is a cruel mistress, but even before that their lives had been too hard, too much, too painful.
Here, the sun shines upon their golden hair. Juliet's tanned arm rests around Claire's shoulders and the two of them watch as Aaron plays and splashes in the shallowest part of the sea. Claire's blue eyes watch him with a skittish mother's caution, always wary of when she might lose him again.
Juliet presses her lips against the top of Claire's hair. They linger there peacefully. The rest of the beach is quiet and the sun is only now beginning to set. Claire sighs and leans against Juliet.
Juliet thinks that she could so happily stay like this, a family, forever.
Daniel/Frank, conceivable
There are many things in the world that are impossible. The pigs flying cliché, that's one that Daniel's pretty willing to allow, because without a lot of work on the part of evolution they're going to stay land-bound for a long while (and, really, even if they did ever evolve to the point of flight it's questionable whether they could even be referred to as pigs any more: a Leonodus is not a shark itself, after all).
But him and Frank, they're not like flying pigs.
On the surface, they're impossible: Frank is significantly older and Daniel is significantly smarter (that's not an insult, that's a fact: he was stamped a genius before he'd reached his teens) and while Frank may be outgoing Daniel hasn't had a date since, well, ever. On paper, not a good match: if this was an experiment, no supervisor would ever grant the funding for it.
A scientific impossibility, that's them, but Daniel stands next to Frank on the deck of the boat and looks out to sea with him: might be impossible, but it isn't inconceivable and that means they've got a chance.
Daniel/Miles, consciously
They don't kiss for over a year, but it's only later that Miles thinks that that is really fucking weird.
They live together, sleep in the same bed, and Miles even stops snarking Daniel quite so ruthlessly, but they don't kiss. They don't fuck. They don't even hug. It's a relationship without the physical benefits. Miles looks out for Daniel, makes sure that nothing on this island manages to fuck him up worse than the outside world already did, and Daniel keeps him sane. Keeps him grounded.
It's their one-year Dharma anniversary and the stars twinkle in the sky above them when Daniel finally grabs Miles by the collar of his Dharma uniform and kisses him, the bristle of his beard tickling Miles's mouth. He sighs against the kiss and his eyes fall closed as the pieces all fall into place.
It's only after Daniel pulls away, blushing, that Miles realises that he's been waiting forever for that.
"What took you so damn long?" he complains.
Daniel shuts him up, this time by kissing him again.
Daniel/Miles, Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)
Miles is fucking surprised that Daniel's managed to live in tact so long. There's something about him - everything, in fact - that just seems to demand to be crushed. Optimism or innocence or something like that. Can't put his finger on it. Doesn't really want to. It's a miracle Daniel's survived all this time, and while they're living in such close quarters on the freighter Miles keeps catching himself watching the little freak.
"What, uh… What do you want?" Daniel asks, haltingly, when he notices. They've been sailing together for weeks now - Miles's skin is beginning to itch and crawl with the need to do something.
"What do you think I want?" he snaps.
Daniel blinks. It's fucking annoying. "If I knew that I wouldn't have had to ask, would I?" he says - but it isn't sarcastic, isn't cruel, isn't biting. It's genuine, and that's more than Miles is able to take.
With one hard shove he pushes Daniel back against the corridor wall, crowding in close against him. Daniel's about his height which is kinda unusual and Miles isn't quite expecting it when he finds their lips so close they could slam together and he could take from Daniel what should've been taken a while ago; use him until that innocence washes away.
"Still wandering what I want?" he growls.
Daniel's mouth wavers in uncertain confusion, and Miles pushes away from him slowly. His head is crowded and he needs to get out of this place, away from him: being near Daniel, just waiting to be corrupted, is worse than any kind of cabin fear.
Jack/Kate, thinking of Sawyer
They don't talk the same; touch the same; kiss the same; fuck the same. They're worlds apart and it's better that way, it really is better. She has Jack; she loves Jack.
And when she's with him, she thinks of Sawyer.
Can't stop herself.
There's nothing about Jack that should remind her except the heavy weight of their shared experience. Memories swirl. When she kisses Jack, she thinks of the island. When she thinks of the island, she thinks of Sawyer.
"I'm sorry," she says one night, lying side by side without touching.
She said the wrong name. It's bad enough - wrong enough - to think it, but to say it is cruel.
Jack rolls onto his side, back to her. She knows he's not asleep, but she says nothing more.
Neither of them mention it in the morning.
Sawyer/Sayid, fierce
Just the sight of him is enough to make Sawyer's blood boil these days. He swaggers around the beach like he's the official sheriff - someone oughta get that boy a hat and badge, but it'd swell his head up far too much. Sayid's pompous enough as it is without anyone else coming to add to it.
He scowls as he sees Sayid stop to talk to Charlie and Hurley. He's standing while they sit on the ground. He wonders what Sayid's talking to them about now, what damn foolish mission he wants to indulge in. Sayid's just in it for the chance to boss someone around. He's met guys like that. Conned 'em too.
Problem is, guys with that attitude, they always manage to make him snap.
Watching Sayid now, feeling the anger and bloodlust rising from across the beach, Sawyer knows it's gonna be damn explosive when he does.
Desmond/Sawyer/Sayid, handcuffs
Sawyer's smirk rapidly fades once the handcuffs are snapped into place.
"Hey!" he snaps. "Get back over here! Don't you fucking dare, Sayid…"
It's Sayid's turn to smirk now, as he and Desmond tumble to the bed together and leave Sawyer hard, wanting and handcuffed to a nearby chair. He has to watch as clothes are shed and the two men kiss and tumble in a casual struggle for dominance. Sayid wins. Like that's a fucking surprise, Sawyer thinks bitterly.
He watches with growing jealousy when Sayid's fingers begin to work Desmond open. They talk to each other as if Sawyer isn't even there at all: he feels like an observer at a police station, hiding behind one-sided glass.
The groan that Sayid makes when he finally pushes inside of Desmond's body is what settles it: the second that Sawyer gets out of these handcuffs, he decides, he's going to have to seek his revenge.
Scott/Steve, unanswered
He was going to tell him. Every single day, he was going to tell him. The need to get it out in the open for once and for all had been burning: because they were close. Their names got confused and mixed up or people thought they were a couple. Scott and Steve. ScottandSteve. Might as well have been one entity.
Tomorrow, Steve would tell himself when he said good night to Scott. I'll tell him tomorrow.
He'd been putting it off for years - because how the hell were you supposed to tell your best friend that you're in love with him and have been since pretty much the moment you'd met?
Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.
But then the plane crashed - and Ethan came - and they found Scott's body on the beach, broken and battered as a goddamn warning. Steve had to fight not to retch as he stared at him: for them, tomorrow was never going to come.
Ana Lucia/Sayid, uniform
"I gotta say," Ana Lucia smirks, straddled on top of him, "never figured you for having a uniform kink."
Sayid looks up at her, eyes dark and all-seeing. His wrists are handcuffed to the bed's headboard above them, neatly restrained. His gaze filters down, almost of its own will, to where Ana Lucia's cleavage strains against her uniform's buttons. The hints of a red lace bra can be seen underneath, just enough to be tantalising.
He rolls his shoulders and the handcuffs rattle where they restrain him. "I would say that you don't seem like the kind of woman to restrain a man like this, but I'm afraid that would be a lie," he murmurs, and she can't stop herself from shivering at the sound of his accented voice hoarse with desire.
She smirks and leans down, nails scratching against his bare chest as she whispers in his ear, "How 'bout we see what other kinks of yours are worth exploring?"
"As you wish, Officer," he replies, eyes closing as she gets to work.
Charlie/Desmond, bar fight
Charlie hisses and tries to flinch away as Desmond dabs at the cut over his eyebrow with a damp piece of cotton wool. "You should be more careful, Charlie," Desmond scolds unhappily.
"Hard to be careful in a bar fight," his boyfriend mutters in return.
It's possible that, this time, Desmond presses the cotton wool against his cut a little more briskly than is actually necessary. Charlie takes risks, stupid ones. It's as if he thinks that because he escaped death on the island that it can't catch up with him now that they've been rescued.
And Desmond knows - he knows - that the likelihood of dying from one little bar fight is not too likely, but it's the principle of the thing. It wouldn't kill Charlie to be careful for once in his life: he might've beaten fate, but he's not a god and he's not immortal and Desmond doesn't think that either of them are in any state to handle more heartbreak in their lives.
"Promise me," Desmond says sternly as he finishes cleaning up the cut. "Promise you won't do that any more."
"I can't," Charlie says. "Someone has to defend Driveshaft's honour."
"If you try to beat up every wanker that slags off the band then you'll never stop fighting."
Charlie kicks him in the shin for that one, though not too hard. Desmond supposes he deserves it and he smiles before kissing Charlie's forehead. "I worry about you," he says.
"No need," Charlie says. "No flashes."
"No island - no more flashes. I can't protect you like that any more, brother."
Charlie turns his head so that he can rest the uninjured side of it against Desmond's shoulder. His breath puffs, heated, against Desmond's neck. "Okay," he agrees. "No more fights."
Desmond smiles in relief - though he knows that that promise won't last for long.
Charlie/Desmond, ladies' underwear
He nearly chokes when he sees it: a white cotton material decorated by pastel coloured polka-dots. Desmond only catches a glimpse sticking up higher than Charlie's jeans, but it's enough to make his eyebrows rise. Those aren't mens' underwear, that's for certain.
He's moves on down the beach, too busy to stop and chat, but his mind doesn't stop swirling the image around and around in his mind.
CHARLIE IS WEARING LADIES' UNDERWEAR is the number one news headline in his brain.
Why is a good question, but he doubts it'd be too polite to ask. Even though he can't stop thinking about it, he keeps his mouth shut and carries on into the jungle to collect fruit: he gets a much better look when he gets back to the beach in the evening, and Charlie allows him to help to peel those cotton panties down his hips.
Charlie/Desmond, Warwick Avenue
It's more awkward than it should be - than meeting with Charlie has ever been.
Two cups sit steaming on the table between them. Outside of the chain coffee shop, the train station bustles with loud noise. Busy, everyone's so busy here. No one stops to notice the goodbyes being said; no one realises that something real is ending.
"Are you sure you have to go?" Desmond asks.
He wants Charlie to say no. Wants to watch him grin and shake his head and say that this is all a big, stupid mistake.
But Charlie smiles that sad smile of his and nods. "Penny's back, mate," he says like that's all the explanation that is needed.
Desmond looks down at his coffee cup and thinks that perhaps this means there is nothing left to say.
Charlie/Jack, temporary blindless
Jack is there from the beginning with a guiding hand upon his arm. Charlie can see him as an indistinct, fuzzy blur from the corner of his eye: his vision hasn't come back. It's been days now.
"It should return soon, Charlie," Jack promises - he's talking in his authorative doctor voice, like he knows what he's talking about, but Charlie's got the feeling he hasn't got a clue. Funky island illness; sand in his eyes; voodoo curse; plain bad luck. Could be anything.
Jack's there, though, the whole time: a doctor caring for his patient.
His hands are gentle and his voice is soft and Charlie feels safer than he should under Jack's care. It makes him feel like, yeah, everything is going to be alright. He hasn't trusted anyone like that in years.
When he blinks his eyes and his sight comes back - clear, vivid, and so beautiful - he can't help laughing in delight and Jack laughs with him. Relief. Happiness. Jack's hand doesn't leave his arm, still guiding and still caring, and their relieved laughter only fades when Charlie presses his lips against Jack's: a thank you and a promise for the future at once.
Charlie/Jack/Sawyer, comfort
They survived a plane crash. They're on a desert island. They're under constant threat of sodding attack by 'others', whatever the hell that means. Considering the bizarro world they crashed into, Charlie thinks that some lapses in moral judgement are completely and utterly justified.
Like this, for example. Most of the time, Charlie wouldn't have anticipated winding up in the middle of two men. He's been with guys before - when you're out of your head on heroin pretty much everything sounds like a good idea, and you don't stop to think that it might leave you bloody sore in awkward places in the morning - but not two at once. And not guys like Jack and Sawyer: one firmly closeted, one firmly amoral.
Sawyer's rough with him, throwing him down onto his back on the sand and unzipping his own jeans with little preamble. Charlie might've objected to the way Sawyer kneels with a leg on either side of his shoulders and feeds his hard cock into his mouth with a smirk on his face, but he's rather distracted by the sudden experimental feel of Jack's hand on his dick. He moans around Sawyer's erection and gives in.
They're on a desert island - distractions and comfort are to be taken wherever they can be found.
Charlie/Liam, downhill slope
He's dragging him down and he doesn't know how to stop - Charlie, his own little baby brother. Liam's supposed to be the older one; the mature one; the responsible one. Isn't that the way it works in family?
Not for them. Not for the Paces. Permanently fucked up, that's them.
Dragged him away from the Church first, into the dazzle and lights of the music industry.
Dragged him towards the booze, drinking every night and sleeping with any bird that'll look twice.
Dragged him into drugs next, indulging in that heavenly high that takes over his mind, his life, his talent.
And then this. His lips against Charlie's; his skin on his brother's; a high no drug can recreate. "C'mon, baby brother," he whispers in his ear. "Stop being such a prude." Charlie gives in, like he always does. Liam knows which strings to pull.
Down and down they go, tumbling, and Liam doesn't know where this downhill slope will end.
Charlie/Sawyer, sand in awkward places
Between his toes.
Behind his ears.
In his hair.
Under his fingernails.
Up his nose.
Between his teeth.
And in a few more delicate places that he wouldn't want to mention in polite company. Charlie's finding sand all over his body for days and no amount of washing seems able to get rid of it all. He can remember going to the seaside as a kid and bringing half the beach home with him in his trainers. This is a far more extreme version of that, and he tries to pick a few more grains away from under his fingernails as he sits by the shore. Seeing Sawyer smirking at him along the beach, this time Charlie knows exactly who to blame for his current uncomfortable predicament.
Claire/Juliet, enough
They've been through too much, both of them. The island is a cruel mistress, but even before that their lives had been too hard, too much, too painful.
Here, the sun shines upon their golden hair. Juliet's tanned arm rests around Claire's shoulders and the two of them watch as Aaron plays and splashes in the shallowest part of the sea. Claire's blue eyes watch him with a skittish mother's caution, always wary of when she might lose him again.
Juliet presses her lips against the top of Claire's hair. They linger there peacefully. The rest of the beach is quiet and the sun is only now beginning to set. Claire sighs and leans against Juliet.
Juliet thinks that she could so happily stay like this, a family, forever.
Daniel/Frank, conceivable
There are many things in the world that are impossible. The pigs flying cliché, that's one that Daniel's pretty willing to allow, because without a lot of work on the part of evolution they're going to stay land-bound for a long while (and, really, even if they did ever evolve to the point of flight it's questionable whether they could even be referred to as pigs any more: a Leonodus is not a shark itself, after all).
But him and Frank, they're not like flying pigs.
On the surface, they're impossible: Frank is significantly older and Daniel is significantly smarter (that's not an insult, that's a fact: he was stamped a genius before he'd reached his teens) and while Frank may be outgoing Daniel hasn't had a date since, well, ever. On paper, not a good match: if this was an experiment, no supervisor would ever grant the funding for it.
A scientific impossibility, that's them, but Daniel stands next to Frank on the deck of the boat and looks out to sea with him: might be impossible, but it isn't inconceivable and that means they've got a chance.
Daniel/Miles, consciously
They don't kiss for over a year, but it's only later that Miles thinks that that is really fucking weird.
They live together, sleep in the same bed, and Miles even stops snarking Daniel quite so ruthlessly, but they don't kiss. They don't fuck. They don't even hug. It's a relationship without the physical benefits. Miles looks out for Daniel, makes sure that nothing on this island manages to fuck him up worse than the outside world already did, and Daniel keeps him sane. Keeps him grounded.
It's their one-year Dharma anniversary and the stars twinkle in the sky above them when Daniel finally grabs Miles by the collar of his Dharma uniform and kisses him, the bristle of his beard tickling Miles's mouth. He sighs against the kiss and his eyes fall closed as the pieces all fall into place.
It's only after Daniel pulls away, blushing, that Miles realises that he's been waiting forever for that.
"What took you so damn long?" he complains.
Daniel shuts him up, this time by kissing him again.
Daniel/Miles, Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)
Miles is fucking surprised that Daniel's managed to live in tact so long. There's something about him - everything, in fact - that just seems to demand to be crushed. Optimism or innocence or something like that. Can't put his finger on it. Doesn't really want to. It's a miracle Daniel's survived all this time, and while they're living in such close quarters on the freighter Miles keeps catching himself watching the little freak.
"What, uh… What do you want?" Daniel asks, haltingly, when he notices. They've been sailing together for weeks now - Miles's skin is beginning to itch and crawl with the need to do something.
"What do you think I want?" he snaps.
Daniel blinks. It's fucking annoying. "If I knew that I wouldn't have had to ask, would I?" he says - but it isn't sarcastic, isn't cruel, isn't biting. It's genuine, and that's more than Miles is able to take.
With one hard shove he pushes Daniel back against the corridor wall, crowding in close against him. Daniel's about his height which is kinda unusual and Miles isn't quite expecting it when he finds their lips so close they could slam together and he could take from Daniel what should've been taken a while ago; use him until that innocence washes away.
"Still wandering what I want?" he growls.
Daniel's mouth wavers in uncertain confusion, and Miles pushes away from him slowly. His head is crowded and he needs to get out of this place, away from him: being near Daniel, just waiting to be corrupted, is worse than any kind of cabin fear.
Jack/Kate, thinking of Sawyer
They don't talk the same; touch the same; kiss the same; fuck the same. They're worlds apart and it's better that way, it really is better. She has Jack; she loves Jack.
And when she's with him, she thinks of Sawyer.
Can't stop herself.
There's nothing about Jack that should remind her except the heavy weight of their shared experience. Memories swirl. When she kisses Jack, she thinks of the island. When she thinks of the island, she thinks of Sawyer.
"I'm sorry," she says one night, lying side by side without touching.
She said the wrong name. It's bad enough - wrong enough - to think it, but to say it is cruel.
Jack rolls onto his side, back to her. She knows he's not asleep, but she says nothing more.
Neither of them mention it in the morning.
Sawyer/Sayid, fierce
Just the sight of him is enough to make Sawyer's blood boil these days. He swaggers around the beach like he's the official sheriff - someone oughta get that boy a hat and badge, but it'd swell his head up far too much. Sayid's pompous enough as it is without anyone else coming to add to it.
He scowls as he sees Sayid stop to talk to Charlie and Hurley. He's standing while they sit on the ground. He wonders what Sayid's talking to them about now, what damn foolish mission he wants to indulge in. Sayid's just in it for the chance to boss someone around. He's met guys like that. Conned 'em too.
Problem is, guys with that attitude, they always manage to make him snap.
Watching Sayid now, feeling the anger and bloodlust rising from across the beach, Sawyer knows it's gonna be damn explosive when he does.
Desmond/Sawyer/Sayid, handcuffs
Sawyer's smirk rapidly fades once the handcuffs are snapped into place.
"Hey!" he snaps. "Get back over here! Don't you fucking dare, Sayid…"
It's Sayid's turn to smirk now, as he and Desmond tumble to the bed together and leave Sawyer hard, wanting and handcuffed to a nearby chair. He has to watch as clothes are shed and the two men kiss and tumble in a casual struggle for dominance. Sayid wins. Like that's a fucking surprise, Sawyer thinks bitterly.
He watches with growing jealousy when Sayid's fingers begin to work Desmond open. They talk to each other as if Sawyer isn't even there at all: he feels like an observer at a police station, hiding behind one-sided glass.
The groan that Sayid makes when he finally pushes inside of Desmond's body is what settles it: the second that Sawyer gets out of these handcuffs, he decides, he's going to have to seek his revenge.
Scott/Steve, unanswered
He was going to tell him. Every single day, he was going to tell him. The need to get it out in the open for once and for all had been burning: because they were close. Their names got confused and mixed up or people thought they were a couple. Scott and Steve. ScottandSteve. Might as well have been one entity.
Tomorrow, Steve would tell himself when he said good night to Scott. I'll tell him tomorrow.
He'd been putting it off for years - because how the hell were you supposed to tell your best friend that you're in love with him and have been since pretty much the moment you'd met?
Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.
But then the plane crashed - and Ethan came - and they found Scott's body on the beach, broken and battered as a goddamn warning. Steve had to fight not to retch as he stared at him: for them, tomorrow was never going to come.