(no subject)
Title: She's Always Calling My Bluff
Fandom: Lost
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Claire
Word Count: 1,003
Rating: NC-17
Author's Note: For Day 3 at rounds_of_kink, prompted by the awesome superduperkc
Summary: They play this game, one filled with whispers of "you aren't really there" and her fingers as they slide along his arm.
They play this game, one filled with whispers of “you aren’t really there” and her fingers as they slide along his arm. Her nails leave faint white marks in their wake (contrails that fade) every now and then jolting against a tiny strip of raised skin (scars that will not).
How long are you going to play the fool, Jack, she thinks but does not say.
---
“Siblings,” he’ll murmur, claim even, like each time he says it the words becomes a revelation, something to be repeated and written for all to see. A truth amid constant lies and even this one can’t help but be tainted.
(He tells her “your mother” but her mother never woke up and it makes her count pills and bottles and wonder)
She can’t see the similarities in the planes of their faces nor the shape of their features, not even when she traces a finger along the outline of his face (“don’t,” he grabs her hand and holds for a second too long - he can feel it too)
“Proof,” she’ll ask and there are plane tickets and phone records but nothing you’d call concrete and she tells him “sleep” like she would to a child and he’s already lost one argument today so he isn’t feeling very lucky.
---
He hates when she crawls under the covers with him, bare legs brushing against his accidentally and he always stays on the side that isn’t facing her.
“I’m just lonely Jack,” she says and that isn’t the whole of it, not even close, but it feels like it, it could be, and that’s what matters more here. What they choose to believe.
Reality has become merely an idea for them and nothing more.
---
He snaps (they all have their breaking point).
She finds herself between him and a wall and his arms are hard and mean, somehow disconnected from the man who possesses them.
“Enough,” and she can see this as his last attempt at ending all the longing looks as well as having the presence of mind to know that if she pushes the right button she will get what she wants (she understands this is wrong, on some higher level, but she chooses not to recognize that, she chooses to have what she wants and not just what she should).
His eyes follow every little movement she makes from the way she shifts, just barely, into him, to the way she catches her lower lip with her teeth (no sudden movements) and his breath comes quicker, short puffs against her skin and there’s a sigh of anticipation that she bites back.
“No one has to know,” she promises and she doesn’t know why she whispers, whether it’s the proximity or her need for him to her but he does, instinctively, drop his head in order to hear her better.
It seems like as good a time as any to put her hands against his chest as she closes the distance between them and leans up to capture his lips, her tongue pushing its way inside his mouth with an aggression and confidence he doesn’t know she has.
He will, does, pull back but it only makes her yank him forward by the front of his shirt, causing the top button to come free and his hard-on to become undeniable and ever present, straining against his jeans and pushing up against her abdomen. He’s turned on but he doesn’t want to be.
She knows he won’t do it so she moves her hand down to the waistband of her cotton shorts, pulling it until they fall to the ground, reaching up to take his hand and lead it down the soft skin of her stomach to the crotch of her underwear, proving to him, for his own piece of mind, that he’s not the only one turned on and it isn’t wrong if it’s what they both want. That last thing to push him over the edge.
It works. Deft fingers slip underneath the edge of her panties, working them down her thighs painfully slowly. Her hands move quicker on his jeans, pushing them off along with his underwear so they bunch around his ankles and he has to step out of them to keep his balance.
One slender leg wraps around his waist and he eases into her, one hand on her ass, the other hand braced against the wall, and he locks eyes with her one last time, questioning.
“Jack,” she moans his name, telling him that yes, she does want him, and he gives in, thrusting into her, too hard, but she welcomes it, welcomes the pain of it and it has been too long since she’s had someone inside of her, too long since she’s felt someone else’s body pressing into hers. She moves against him faster, a rush of adrenaline, her pulse racing, and on one hand there’s the idea of savoring this but on the other there’s the need to feel that release, that wave of pleasure, and need will always win out over want.
One final thrust, her hand around the base of his cock and he spills into her as she comes, not bothering to hold back the throaty gasp the feeling elicits, letting everything go except for him, her hands pressing into flesh, desperately hanging on until the muscles in her arms ache with the strain and she has to relax against him.
Her back hits the wall but his hand stops her head from doing the same and he buries his face in her neck, a few strands sticking to her neck, covered with a thin sheen of sweat and they can both finally breathe.
---
Years later, when he’s nothing more than a broken man who let go of everything and almost everyone, let things get out of hand, it’ll be her who’s to blame for teaching him how to just give up in the first place.
He’ll still be reluctant to admit that.