Pairings: *breathes out* Kate/Shannon, Kate/Sun, Kate/Claire, Kate/Ana, Shannon/Claire, Shannon/Sun, Shannon/Ana (almost), Claire/Sun, Sun/Ana
Written for: rivers_bend, who wanted more Lost femslash. So.
Rating: NC-17 (because I can’t write Kate/Ana and not make it NC-17)
Summary: Vignettes of every single Lost femslash pairing I could fit in. With no spoilers for the latter half of season two.
Author’s Notes: God bless twop, whose recaps were so distracting I couldn’t stop laughing, but who did remind me of plotpoints and things. Also, God bless long and boring languages lessons.
I. Ruby Slippers
With sunburn peeling its way up her once-perfect legs, sand under her fingernails, salt tangled into her blonde hair, bruises on her knees, and mud ingrained frustratingly all over her, Shannon suspects that this is what is known as rock bottom. Lips cracking apart in the heat and clothes drenched in rain and sweat and seawater, on an island where money counts for nothing and good looks won’t keep you safe from the things in the woods that may or may not exist. Shannon is useless here, and she hates it.
She never asked for this. She should never have gone to Australia. She should have stayed running her little con on Boone safe in the US, where there are no islands with polar bears and weird-ass weather patterns to swallow you whole on the way home. Shannon wants to go home, wherever the hell that is now. She wants to be beautiful again, to sink into a nice hot bath, to go back to being shallow. It’s impossible to be shallow here and stay alive.
The tears sting like nothing she’d ever believe, tearing sobs from her lungs that would much rather stay buried inside. Shannon wants to be quiet and she can’t, hugging her grazed knees like they’re the last things left to her, and maybe they are. Boone six feet under, Sayid beautiful but he’ll never be hers, not entirely, and she doesn’t know what to do.
Rustling through the trees behind her and Shannon reflects that now she’s going to get eaten by a lion or a tiger or a polar bear (oh my), just to round off a perfect month. Shannon wishes that she cared. She doesn’t.
But it’s only Kate, and Shannon privately pretends that she isn’t disappointed. She tries to bite her mouth together but she can’t. She can’t stop crying. Kate is whispering her name like she’s half afraid of what she’s seeing, but Shannon doesn’t care anymore. Not about Little Miss Fucking Perfect with half the men on the island wrapped around her little finger. She tries to tell Kate to go away and exactly where to shove her concern, but the words don’t come out right and in a moment Kate is on the ground beside her, wrapping her arms around Shannon’s shaking frame and mumbling meaningless phrases of comfort into her dirty hair. Shannon wants to tell her to let go, but she can’t, and she tells herself that the desperate arms she’s wrapping around Kate’s neck mean nothing.
Kate holds her until Shannon manages to stop the worst of the wailing, and she pulls away as early as she can bring herself to, wiping the back of one hand across her face as though that will somehow make everything better. Kate is silent and waiting, and Shannon wants to say thank you or maybe fuck you but instead she gets to her feet and walks away without looking back, even when Kate shouts after her, because she may have lost absolutely everything, but she’s damned if that means she’s going to turn her back on the habits of a lifetime.
II. Magic Mirror
Kate is not expecting the hands that push her on her back in the fledgling vegetable garden, leaving her breathless and gasping. She barely has time to think things like but what about the welfare of the seedlings before Sun covers her in a fluid motion, dark eyes dancing, laughter bubbling from her mouth. At least until Kate reaches up to pull the other woman’s lips down to her own, kissing her deeply. Sun is still sort of trembling with laughter, and Kate wonders just how long it’s been since someone touched Sun like this, before deciding that that sort of thought is not at all productive.
Sun’s fingers tangle in her hair and Kate rolls them both over, pushing Sun down into the mud instead, smearing dirt onto her knees as she kneels over her. There are tidier places to do this, and probably better ones, but right now they’re the last things on her mind. Her hands skim up Sun’s ribcage, pushing her red tank top up to reveal a stomach impossibly pale, even after all the weeks that they’ve spent in the impossible heat on this island. Kate is tanned and filthy all over, but there’s something unbelievably pure about her, still.
Things are scarier than Kate wants to think about- there are monsters and creatures and maniacs in the forest, and people die around them all the time for no reason, and she has Jack and Sawyer running around her in a slightly unsettling fashion (Sawyer was tied to a tree in the jungle and Sayid had ripped off half his fingernails and he was still begging for a kiss), and she has no idea if she’ll even manage to survive here. But right now, right here, it honestly doesn’t matter, not with the sunlight dappling through the leaves and Sun giggling softly as Kate presses gentle kisses against her stomach.
Here, dried earth clinging to her skin, clothes and hair, Kate thinks that maybe she’s untouchable, that tomorrow they will be rescued, that she has nothing to fear from The Others or The Polarbears or The Crazy Southerners Who Won’t Take No For An Answer.
It’s moments like these that make Kate think that maybe being stranded isn’t so bad at all.
III. Doorless Tower
She can taste Jin’s shadow on the air, even though he won’t come anywhere near her anymore. Hanging over her every time she tries to take a breath. Shannon is wheezing under her eucalyptus smeared fingers but Sun is the one suffocating. Same difference. Things haven’t changed, even though they are on a desert island now, no trace of her father or jasmine flowers or any other part of their old life. The perfect chance to start over, repair the things that have broken between them- but Jin won’t, and Sun can’t.
Shannon breathes in shakily, face no longer pale from panting and suffocation, although she’s still trembling. Sun can’t blame her- she feels a little like gasping for breath herself sometimes. But she just concentrates on smearing pounded-up eucalyptus onto Shannon’s impossibly smooth skin, wondering vaguely if she was as beautiful as Shannon, if Jin would look at her with something other than irritation. The caves are quieting down now that there probably won’t be a chance of seeing a pretty girl get suffocated by her own lungs. Sun will never cease to be surprised at the voyeuristic nature of the human race.
“Your husband seems kind of a dick,” Shannon says quietly, and Sun forces herself to remember that she supposedly can’t understand a word the other woman is saying, so turns her head slowly to give Shannon her far-too-well-practised look of incomprehension. Shannon doesn’t seem to mind that she’s speaking a language to a woman who apparently doesn’t understand it. Sun bites down a smile. Shannon has always been more than a little self-centred.
“Did you have one of those arranged marriages?” Shannon continues, “Do you have those in, like, Korea?” At least she has the right country, Sun reflects. “He’s always shouting at you,” Shannon adds. Sun is considering breaking her vow of silence and the fact that no one is supposed to know that she can speak English, so that she can tell Shannon to please stop talking, right now, before she bursts out laughing or breaks out crying. Both are more-than-viable options, and Sun’s head is pounding. Then Shannon’s tone changes, becoming quieter and more thoughtful.
“It’s horrible being dependent on someone. For every single little thing.” Her voice smacks of bitterness and Sun bites the inside of her mouth until it bleeds, trying not to say a word.
IV. Glass Slippers
Claire has these tiny little wrists and she’s tiny all over, tiny and pale and giggly, and Ana finds herself almost in awe of her. Sunblind, smothered with sand and probably dying of dehydration (it passes the time here, if nothing else), she stands at her outcast end of the beach, ankle-deep in the surf. A silhouette that begs not to be touched.
Ana sees deep purple shapes behind her eyelids and in front of her eyes as she tears her gaze away from the horizon, where there are still no ships and no sign of salvation. Her head is throbbing with pain and she just wants to curl up and sleep until none of this matters any more. Sadly, there’s nowhere to go for that kind of rest but the hatch, the only place with halfway decent beds, and if you go in there there’s all kinds of clanking and beeping and people shuffling around, not exactly conducive for the sleep of the dead.
She gets weaker and crazier every fucking day here.
And Claire is like glass, fragile and shaky, with a baby son that she seems to dread more than love (although what would Ana know? Nothing, a sentiment that has been pounded into her head enough times. She doesn’t know these people and shouldn’t pretend that she has the right to involve herself with their lives). Only she isn’t. Not when it matters. Not when it comes to sunset, when Charlie is exiled to somewhere else on the beach because Claire will not allow him anywhere near her or Aaron, not when the last vestiges of light bleed away and Claire leaves Aaron with Sun or Libby or Locke, and steals her way down to the end of the beach where those with nothing left to live for make camp (but they really should come up with a catchier name for it).
The first time, when Claire’s arms were wrapping around her neck and her lips were warm against Ana’s, Ana asked her if she had any idea what she was doing, and suggested quietly (and reluctantly) that she ought to stop. Claire only laughed and the sound was ugly in the darkness, coming from a young woman that beautiful and that perfect, her nails digging into Ana’s shoulders. Ana learned that she should never ask that question again, and she hasn’t.
The heroin addict ex-rockstar with a habit of getting unsettlingly and dangerously obsessed seems to Ana the more sensible option, if Claire really does have a streak of dark and desperation in her, but maybe he’s crossed too many lines. Ana has killed people and hardly done anything to endear herself since, but she loses herself between Claire’s thighs and wonders what she has that Charlie hasn’t. Perhaps it’s better not to ask.
V. Red Riding Hood
Aaron is adorable when he’s sleeping, and Claire breathes out a silent sigh of relief because the peace and quiet is unbearably necessary right now. Charlie is wearing her nerves to shreds with his constant fussing and she never thought that it would come to this. She thought that she would be giving the baby up. Or, at the very least, she thought that her child would be raised in a room with a cot and hypoallergenic sheets and cartoon characters on the wall. Not lying on a beach in a rough wooden cradle with sand blowing over his face and the sound of shrieking occurring all too frequently. Claire is terrified for her life, and for Aaron’s. It was never supposed to be like this.
Sun has nearly lost Jin and is grateful that he’s back, that she has someone to cling to in the darkness of the nights when things rustle in the forest and you can’t help wondering who is it out there? Have they finally come for me? It turns out that nearly dying is a much simpler way of achieving forgiveness, not that Sun would have wanted it that way (or maybe she would). Quietly, smiling, she watches Aaron sleep in the sunlight, little hands curled into tiny fists. Claire looks exhausted, but happy, for once, which makes a change.
“Thank you,” she says slowly, “For… for everything.”
But she’s shaking and Sun wonders just how ok Claire really is with this whole situation. Sun hugs her close and watches bright light bounce off the blonde hair and offers the only comfort that she can.
VI. Enchanted Sleep
This was not supposed to happen, and ‘sorry’ is not going to cut it.
Ana has enough blood on her hands without adding this… girl’s to it, but it’s too late now. Murderess, perhaps, but there’s no way to apologise to the Asian guy sobbing at her, nor to the other islanders, accusing and terrified looks on their faces. Ana has murdered before, quick and hot in the heat of the moment with the gun kicking in her hands, but this wasn’t like that. This was cold and drenched and terrified and too fast to register, blonde hair on mud, red blood on a pink shirt. This was shock, pure and white-hot. Too swift for an apology. Ana may never feel sane again.
Eko says that he will go to the funeral. Ana knows that she will not. She knows that the killer standing beside the grave will not help with any sense of closure. Besides, the guilt is as thick and sullen as nausea, and she cannot shift it.
But she gets a moment or two alone with the body. Blinks her eyes at Jack, explains that she needs to let go somehow. He lets her, haunted look in his eyes, but Ana can’t work out if he is half afraid of her, or half afraid of something that he’s done. She doesn’t ask for clarification, smoothing shaking hands down her jeans. Nervous of facing a woman who can’t talk back. Ridiculous.
Her name was Shannon. Her hair is no longer slick with rain as Ana pushes a lock of it back so she can see the dead woman’s face properly. Peaceful, quiet. Not quite asleep because sleeping people don’t have bullet holes in their stomachs and dried blood sticky on their shirts, but there’s some measure of calm there. Slim. Pretty. Ana has learnt that she came to the island with a brother, who is now dead, that she was spoilt and selfish and ‘kind of a bitch’. Ana can empathise. She’s never gone out of her way to be liked either.
She isn’t sure that she would have liked Shannon, although that’s neither here nor there now. The blonde woman, mud on her face, blood smeared everywhere, will be with Ana until she dies. It was an accident, it was never her intention, she wouldn’t have done it if she’d waited one more damn second-
Too late for regrets, too far gone for forgiveness (she doesn’t want it anyway). Ana brushes dry lips over Shannon’s forehead, and leaves into the sunlight.
VII. Gingerbread House
I can resist anything, Kate thinks dully, except temptation. And Ana Lucia is temptation in its purest form, stark naked and leaning against a tree, wrists crossed above her head and a smirk on her face. Dying sunlight bleeds across her perfect, bare skin, dark hair tumbling loose around her shoulders. Hair the colour of insanity, if Kate were poetic. As it is, she isn’t, so she just thinks that the sight of Ana offered up and ready is possibly the hottest thing she’s seen in years.
Ana is looking impatient, hands clenching and unclenching, but she can’t move. Kate saw to that. The belt securing her wrists above her head and tight to the tree is not going to budge any time soon. This leaves Kate in control, just the place she wants to be. Ana’s dark eyes, dilated with desire, never leave her. They don’t speak. There are no words.
But they’re losing sunlight and sooner or later someone will come looking for them, and somehow Kate thinks it would be a bad idea to be seen with a naked and tied up Ana, so she finally moves to touch her. Ana tastes like salt and hot metal, as Kate runs her tongue down the side of her neck, biting too hard just to hear the other woman hiss. Kate cups Ana’s breasts in capable hands, squeezing too hard, twisting her nipples mercilessly until she can feel Ana trying not to shriek. One hand slides down Ana’s stomach, down to tease at the inside of desperately slick thighs. Ana moans softly, a sound that sends a hot stab of lust though Kate, and she kisses her to make the sound go before she embarrasses herself. Ana kisses back violently, biting Kate’s lips too hard, tongue fighting hers for dominance.
There’s no resistance as Kate slips two fingers into Ana, hot, slick heat surrounding her and dripping onto her hand. Ana’s mouth pulls away from hers, head tipping back, a soft keening sound that sounds more animal than human pouring from her throat. Kate rubs a thumb over Ana’s clit, first brushing and teasing while Ana tries to move her hips for more friction and fails, then pushing down hard and making her gasp. There’s a wordless pleading pouring from every pore on Ana’s body as she fights Kate, grinding herself against her hand in the hope of more, orgasm just within reach although it’s just about eluding her still.
“Fucking please,” Ana begs, the backs of her wrists scraping themselves raw on the tree trunk as she tries to pull free. Kate simply laughs into the damp skin on her neck, adding a third finger to Ana and listening to her howl, crossing her legs against her own aching, throbbing need. But she takes pity anyhow, although she can and has drawn this out for longer in the past, and in a few moments Ana is panting heavily and trying to bite down a scream.
Kate can barely get the belt undone, her hands are shaking so hard with desperation, and while Ana trembles helplessly and rubs her bleeding wrists, Kate swiftly unbuttons and removes her shorts, giving the other woman a look that needs no explanation. Ana’s face twists into a smirk, and she drops to her knees.
VIII. Pumpkin Coach
This will not last. Kate knows that she cannot save Claire, and that there is little to no point in trying.
But she tries anyway.
Claire is afraid but unashamed, fingers tight in Kate’s hair as they share anxious, soft kisses. Sawyer is dying or maybe dead and Kate thinks and knows that she is crazy, and her lips still taste faintly of Jack, but Claire is tired with a newborn and a crazily obsessed Charlie, so perhaps they’re just about even.
Sooner or later, Kate will choose Jack or Sawyer or be caught by surprise by Sayid or someone, and Claire will give in to Charlie and give him what he wants, and neither of them expects anything different.
But this is a moment, and it is possible.
Seawater swirls around their ankles and Claire is shivering, maybe from cold, maybe because they’re all insane right now. Kate wonders if she’s drowning and is unsurprised to find that she really doesn’t care. She stumbles back a little, Claire cradled in her arms, and kisses her like she’s everything.
She isn’t, and they both know that, and it doesn’t matter.
Stranded like driftwood in the tide with something faintly similar to a sunset in the background, only that would be tacky and make this situation somehow worse, Claire’s fingers digging into Kate’s shoulders because she’s probably the only thing holding them both upright right now.
“I-” Kate begins.
“Don’t,” Claire murmurs, because words would make this different and make this somehow more of a car crash (or perhaps plane crash would be more appropriate, given the situation) than it already is.
So Kate doesn’t, and for a moment allows herself to forget that this is going to end any second… now.
IX. Poisoned Apple
She looks so small unconscious.
Ana digs her nails into her palms and tries not to think things like Oh God, not again, please not again, because she is stronger than this and if she is not, then she is determined to be stronger than this. She thought that she had escaped The Others, at least to a certain degree, that these islanders who all manage to laugh and think of things other than will I wake up tomorrow morning? And if I do, what will have been lost in the night? might somehow have a degree of imperviousness. Safety. It was stupid to assume and Sun has paid for it. God has she paid for it.
Jin is screaming in Korean and no one can understand him, and everyone is shaking and shocked. Ana knows that their first thoughts are going to turn to her, because she killed Shannon that time, but she also hopes that they’ll be logical enough to remember that that was an accident (you do still remember what accidents are, don’t you?) and she isn’t prone to wandering around, attacking at will. They have to remember that, or she is dead.
It’s madness here, all different shades of madness and colour, sand and mud and seawater and blood and Ana can’t think of anywhere on earth she wouldn’t rather be than here. Even losing her baby in a back alley would be preferable to standing here and shivering in the heat because she can’t protect everyone or, for that matter, anyone, and no one expects her to be able to. She used to be strong, the one everyone turned to with hope in their eyes. Everyone looks at Jack now, or maybe Sawyer; the power is no longer Ana’s, and that’s both a relief and a crushing inadequacy complex crashing down on her.
It’s impossible to protect everyone all the time. But Ana feels this injury more than the others, somehow, watching them carry Sun, limp and helpless, into a tent, Jin screaming and pushing everyone away from his bloody wife, anxious and hurt faces on the other islanders. Ana says nothing but privately resolves that she will double her efforts to keep everyone safe, because this must not, and cannot, happen again. She can’t stand to lose any more of them.
She looks so small unconscious.
X. Love’s First Kiss
Claire doesn’t say don’t or please or why; she just lets it happen, too fast for pure thought, exactly the way she wants it. Charlie has Aaron cradled in his arms back at camp, laughter under tarpaulin, and Sayid must be looking for Shannon, but neither of them mention these facts, Shannon’s lips finding hers desperately under the blue sky.
Shannon doesn’t say I think I love you or I need you or yes; she just tangles her fingers in Claire’s impossibly soft blonde waves of hair and kisses that mouth over and over, until she feels halfway sane again. Saner than she has felt since the plane crashed, which is really saying something, considering the fact that she’s still stuck here getting sunburnt and there’s still no sign of any hair straighteners, not even in that weird-ass hatch thing.
There’s nothing but sunlight and shadows and dirt and death and if it hadn’t been for flight 815 they would never, never have met. And it would have been better that way. Better if Shannon had kept on running away with men who were no good for her for no other reason than it made Boone angry and then he paid attention to her. She’s an attention seeker and she knows it and she doesn’t care what people think. They don’t understand or maybe they do. Whatever. The spoilt little rich girl can just about think for herself when she wants to.
Claire would have given up Aaron, felt guilty about it, moved back to Australia after he was born, maybe curled back into herself, maybe tried her best to move on. She can’t imagine a life without her son, not now, but then she’s beginning to suspect that she was sent here by that psychic, and perhaps she is here for a reason. That reason isn’t Shannon, and it doesn’t matter. Not anymore. (That reason can’t be Charlie either; Claire is lost in more ways than one.)
I don’t love you Claire thinks dizzily, counting Shannon’s ribs with her fingers, biting their mouths together and wondering if this is what drowning feels like. Sunlight and shadows, always. Whispers in the trees. I might need saving but I don’t want you to do it.
Shannon laughs, awkward and brittle and halfway to hysteria if she wanted to push it a little more. This isn’t going to work she thinks, sunstroke and salt and trembling with her fingers in Claire’s hair. I’m not even sure I want it to.
“If you don’t say it,” Claire says slowly, bruised lips smiling up at her, “Then it doesn’t make it true.”
So they’ll do this for no reason other than that they can, that Charlie and Sayid both want pieces of them that they can’t give (and maybe never had in the first place), that it’s too hot and too claustrophobic and nothing makes sense now (if it ever did).