Lost, Jack/Ana Lucia, Hot Nights/DaystokenblkgirlApril 22 2010, 04:08:01 UTC
Jack doesn’t complain when the air conditioner sputters and dies for the second time that week.
He’s too aware of her watching him, waiting for his privileged snobbery to rear its head again. It’s happened once so far, the day they arrived, when he was (rightfully) surprised to see the rickety air conditioner, circa 1989, sitting in the living room window of what the website generously described as a cozy beach cottage on the edge of paradise. She wanted Mexico, he’d chosen Puerto Vallarta, which led to the first of several bemused grins. No actual words, she never says he’s soft or spoiled, whatever, but she doesn’t have to. Everything Ana feels is in her eyes and she doesn’t hide from him anymore. It’s probably why he accepts her superiority as more of a character flaw than a substantial disconnect between them.
Still, he’s not thrilled by the prospect of another smirk or eyeroll in his direction, so he doesn’t mention the heat or the cotton t-shirt plastered to his back. He ignores the sweat stinging his eyes and the slow whirl of the peeling ceiling fan spinning uselessly overhead. No, he just flips the page of his paperback and thinks cold thoughts (ice cream, swimming pools, Antarctica, his house, his beautiful central air system in his own goddamn house) without seeing much of anything printed on the page.
“Whatcha reading Jack?”
He didn’t hear her come in, probably because she’s still barefoot. Ana doesn’t like shoes. She rips them off as soon as she gets home, flings them across the room like they were eating her feet alive. Jack looks up and confirms his hypothesis, that she is in fact barefoot, her trimmed toenails painted a dark burgundy red.
“Steinbeck.”
She’s also shed her shorts, which were barely there to being with. Now her legs are completely bare, tanned a deeper brown, all the way up to a small pink triangle resting just below her t-shirt. Ana grimaces, places her arm behind her head and lifts the hair from her back, “Sounds boring.”
“It’s not actually,” It’s Jack’s turn to grimace. He sounds like a school teacher. “It’s The Grapes of Wrath, I’ve read it before.”
“So you know how it ends?”
He nods, though that’s not the point of rereading-hell, it doesn’t matter anyway, he can’t care about the book anymore, not with her slinking her way towards him like that. “Yeah.” He swallows, difficult because he’s thirsty, more so because of her. “I do.”
The book’s dangling from his fingers. By the time she’s reached him, it’s dropped to the floor with a muted thump. Ana straddles the chair first, patiently moves into position before sinking slowly into his lap, “Okay, so then tell me.”
“Tell you what?” His brain feels lethargic, slow to form thoughts, complete sentences. He can see her sweat now that she’s closer, thin wet rivulets on her throat, at her temples. Ana sucks in her bottom lip, tosses her hair back, “How it ends.” Jack tries to respond, but what results is a garbled half-word that’s not a word, more like an audible intake of air that’s all her fault. He looks at her neck again. “You’ll ruin the story.”
“I’m not gonna read it.”
“You might.”
“Jack.”
She gives his cheek a playful slap and he looks up, blinks at her. Ana grins, “I’m not gonna read the book Sheppard.” He likes that, when she calls him by his last name. He’s not sure why. He grins back, “This place is a piece of shit.”
“Poor little rich boy.”
“Yeah, well.” He sighs, runs his hands up and down her thighs. “I might be a little spoiled, but this room is a sauna.”
“We can go swimming.”
Jack looks at her neck again, then lower. “We could.” They can fuck in the ocean. He can lick sea salt off her breasts and stomach, get sand in places there should never be sand.
“How does it end Jack?”
This isn’t so bad, a little rustic but-she’s here-
“Don’t know.” He doesn’t care. “Can’t remember anymore.”
Re: Lost, Jack/Ana Lucia, Hot Nights/DaystokenblkgirlApril 22 2010, 12:46:20 UTC
Yay! I'm so glad you liked it! I forget sometimes how hard I ship these two until I read or write fic for them. I'm glad I could make you smile. This meme is so much fun!
He’s too aware of her watching him, waiting for his privileged snobbery to rear its head again. It’s happened once so far, the day they arrived, when he was (rightfully) surprised to see the rickety air conditioner, circa 1989, sitting in the living room window of what the website generously described as a cozy beach cottage on the edge of paradise. She wanted Mexico, he’d chosen Puerto Vallarta, which led to the first of several bemused grins. No actual words, she never says he’s soft or spoiled, whatever, but she doesn’t have to. Everything Ana feels is in her eyes and she doesn’t hide from him anymore. It’s probably why he accepts her superiority as more of a character flaw than a substantial disconnect between them.
Still, he’s not thrilled by the prospect of another smirk or eyeroll in his direction, so he doesn’t mention the heat or the cotton t-shirt plastered to his back. He ignores the sweat stinging his eyes and the slow whirl of the peeling ceiling fan spinning uselessly overhead. No, he just flips the page of his paperback and thinks cold thoughts (ice cream, swimming pools, Antarctica, his house, his beautiful central air system in his own goddamn house) without seeing much of anything printed on the page.
“Whatcha reading Jack?”
He didn’t hear her come in, probably because she’s still barefoot. Ana doesn’t like shoes. She rips them off as soon as she gets home, flings them across the room like they were eating her feet alive. Jack looks up and confirms his hypothesis, that she is in fact barefoot, her trimmed toenails painted a dark burgundy red.
“Steinbeck.”
She’s also shed her shorts, which were barely there to being with. Now her legs are completely bare, tanned a deeper brown, all the way up to a small pink triangle resting just below her t-shirt. Ana grimaces, places her arm behind her head and lifts the hair from her back, “Sounds boring.”
“It’s not actually,” It’s Jack’s turn to grimace. He sounds like a school teacher. “It’s The Grapes of Wrath, I’ve read it before.”
“So you know how it ends?”
He nods, though that’s not the point of rereading-hell, it doesn’t matter anyway, he can’t care about the book anymore, not with her slinking her way towards him like that. “Yeah.” He swallows, difficult because he’s thirsty, more so because of her. “I do.”
The book’s dangling from his fingers. By the time she’s reached him, it’s dropped to the floor with a muted thump. Ana straddles the chair first, patiently moves into position before sinking slowly into his lap, “Okay, so then tell me.”
“Tell you what?” His brain feels lethargic, slow to form thoughts, complete sentences. He can see her sweat now that she’s closer, thin wet rivulets on her throat, at her temples. Ana sucks in her bottom lip, tosses her hair back, “How it ends.” Jack tries to respond, but what results is a garbled half-word that’s not a word, more like an audible intake of air that’s all her fault. He looks at her neck again. “You’ll ruin the story.”
“I’m not gonna read it.”
“You might.”
“Jack.”
She gives his cheek a playful slap and he looks up, blinks at her. Ana grins, “I’m not gonna read the book Sheppard.” He likes that, when she calls him by his last name. He’s not sure why. He grins back, “This place is a piece of shit.”
“Poor little rich boy.”
“Yeah, well.” He sighs, runs his hands up and down her thighs. “I might be a little spoiled, but this room is a sauna.”
“We can go swimming.”
Jack looks at her neck again, then lower. “We could.” They can fuck in the ocean. He can lick sea salt off her breasts and stomach, get sand in places there should never be sand.
“How does it end Jack?”
This isn’t so bad, a little rustic but-she’s here-
“Don’t know.” He doesn’t care. “Can’t remember anymore.”
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I love these two to pieces to begin with, but the way you write them together just makes me love them all the more.
Ana is so wonderful here, pestering him about his book, teasing him about being wealthy, and her barefeet! <3
And then of course there's Jack trying so hard not to be the spoiled little boy for her. Plus there was Steinbeck.
This bit made me grin so much:
“How does it end Jack?”
This isn’t so bad, a little rustic but-she’s here-
“Don’t know.” He doesn’t care. “Can’t remember anymore.”
Thank you so, so much for this! I'm going to bed with a big, goofy smile on my face thanks to you. :D
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