(no subject)

[slybrunette]

 And yet I still managed to write fic, despite (or possibly in spite of) school. 

Title: My Dirty Little Secret
Fandom: Lost
Characters/Pairings: Boone/Shannon.
Word Count: 508
Rating: R
Prompt: Written for Porn Battle V, although I can't PWP, so it's not straight porn.
Summary: Pre-series. They'll both say that Sydney was the first time -- the only time -- but that's not entirely true. It was everything but, up until that point. 

She’s an obsession of his.

 

It’s been that way since they first met. It wasn’t until he hit puberty that he realized that it wasn’t brotherly feelings either, or at least not just brotherly feelings. It took even longer for him to fully realize that not only were these feelings out of place, but also very, very wrong.

 

There began the denial. And when the denial didn’t work, he just tried to take comfort in the fact that no one knew about it but him.

 

Except she knows. Or at least she certainly behaves like she does.

 

She brushes against him when she doesn’t have to, she crawls into his bed even when they’re far too old to be doing this, in these barely there outfits she calls sleepwear. He’s the first one she calls when she’s in trouble, even before her dad is dead, even before she’s run out of options of people to turn to, people that will still take her in, will still help her without questioning how she got into whatever mess she made in the first place.

 

It gets worse when her dad dies. It gets worse when she starts hooking up with whatever rich guy will have her. It gets worse when he starts having to bail her out about once every month. It gets worse when she fights with him like she needs it, like it makes her feel more alive.

 

It gets worse when she starts kissing him.

 

They’ll both say Sydney was the first time – the only time – but that’s not entirely true. It was everything but, up until that point.

 

And by everything but, he means the kissing, the groping, some other less savory topics. Everything but the home run, as the high schoolers would say.

 

There was the time in France, where she ended up straddling him, on top of the hotel room bed, skirt spread out over the both of them, the only barrier between them her panties and his jeans. She’d said she tripped. Interesting way to trip. Interesting way to land.

 

There was Italy too, the year she turned nineteen. And she was wasted – the drinking age is low enough that she can do this and not worry about legalities – which was probably why she dropped to her knees in the upstairs bedroom, and took him into her mouth. He remembers her mouth, hot and wet, and her nails that dug so far into his skin that they left marks for weeks.

 

It’s always overseas, always when he comes to save her from one guy or another.

 

He’s never tried to stop it either. Nothing beyond the usual “Shan, stop” that he only half-means and, recognizing that, she tends to ignore him. It’s usually swallowed by her mouth on his, disappearing along with his self control.

 

He should hate himself the morning after. Until Sydney, until he realized what was really going on, he never had. He pretended but he never did, not really. Because he loves her. He does.

 

Worse yet, he’s obsessed.