your teeth are black with wine as you place those lips on mine (claire/alex) r
title: your teeth are black with wine as you place those lips on mine
fandom: lost
character(s)/pairing(s): claire/alex
rating: r
word count: 235
prompt: argon for femslash100's periodic table challenge (progress 21/30)
spoilers: general s4
author's note: title from franz ferdinand's "evil and a heathen"
summary: cheap red wine, lost innocence, late nights. they don’t talk about how they’re probably dead.
They’ve become masters of the unspoken. The words thickly swallowed down with cheap red wine, sipped on a flower couch at midnight, one single lamp dripping a puddle of light like a leaky faucet, legs curled up beneath their hips.
When Claire says “did you hear that?” Alex shakes her head no. (She doesn’t say the baby is only crying in your head.)
When Alex asks her to bring another aspirin from the bathroom, Claire smiles with pretty pink lips and nods happily. (She doesn’t tell her it won’t help. Ibuprofen never healed a phantom bullet wound.)
They don’t talk about how Claire watched this house blow up once, before her very eyes, flames licking the curtains and consuming the very couch beneath them. Or that time keeps passing and neither of them can feel it ticking. They don’t talk about the fact that they’re probably dead.
There’s a subtext there, always, one that whispers of lost innocence and forbidden fruit and the rank stench of death. Wherever God is, if he ever even existed at all, has turned a blind eye. The cheery yellow houses in neat little rows echo, uninhabited, and the birds don’t sing here. So the moans hidden within lips bitten until bloody, Claire’s fingers buried inside her and, later, Alex’s cheek pressed flush to her inner thigh… it’s their secret. Taciturn and, like them, lingering in the synapse between absolutes.
fandom: lost
character(s)/pairing(s): claire/alex
rating: r
word count: 235
prompt: argon for femslash100's periodic table challenge (progress 21/30)
spoilers: general s4
author's note: title from franz ferdinand's "evil and a heathen"
summary: cheap red wine, lost innocence, late nights. they don’t talk about how they’re probably dead.
They’ve become masters of the unspoken. The words thickly swallowed down with cheap red wine, sipped on a flower couch at midnight, one single lamp dripping a puddle of light like a leaky faucet, legs curled up beneath their hips.
When Claire says “did you hear that?” Alex shakes her head no. (She doesn’t say the baby is only crying in your head.)
When Alex asks her to bring another aspirin from the bathroom, Claire smiles with pretty pink lips and nods happily. (She doesn’t tell her it won’t help. Ibuprofen never healed a phantom bullet wound.)
They don’t talk about how Claire watched this house blow up once, before her very eyes, flames licking the curtains and consuming the very couch beneath them. Or that time keeps passing and neither of them can feel it ticking. They don’t talk about the fact that they’re probably dead.
There’s a subtext there, always, one that whispers of lost innocence and forbidden fruit and the rank stench of death. Wherever God is, if he ever even existed at all, has turned a blind eye. The cheery yellow houses in neat little rows echo, uninhabited, and the birds don’t sing here. So the moans hidden within lips bitten until bloody, Claire’s fingers buried inside her and, later, Alex’s cheek pressed flush to her inner thigh… it’s their secret. Taciturn and, like them, lingering in the synapse between absolutes.