Fic: Prom Date (1/1)
Title: Prom Date
Rating: PG-13
Character(s)/Pairing: Boone Carlyle, Shannon Rutherford; mild, one-sided Boone/Shannon
Word Count: 1,598
Summary: Some days, Boone Carlyle kind of hates his life. For janie_tangerine, who requested “Boone and crossdressing” at The lostsquee 2009 Lost Summer Luau, and for the 18coda Prompt #15 - Senza. Pre-Season One; Mild Spoilers through 1.19 - Deus Ex Machina.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For janie_tangerine: I had hoped to come up with something better for your day, especially considering humor is absolutely not my strong suit AT ALL, but when I read your request, this was the idea that wanted to be written. No slash, and not quite crossdressing, really, but hopefully it’s not too terrible.
Prom Date
Some days, Boone Carlyle kind of hates his life.
“Jesus, Boone, are you stuck?”
In point of fact, he had been stuck, until about three seconds ago, because he’s a man, goddamnit; he’s a man and he doesn’t have the bone structure to fit in a size fucking two.
“No,” he answers slowly, not quite believing he’s actually been reduced to this. “I’m not stuck.”
The long suffering sigh that follows makes Boone draw in the breath displaced, and with his lungs that full, he finally understands why women wear those corset bondage numbers, because this thing is a helluva lot more doable on the inhale.
“Then what the hell’s taking so long?”
In retrospect, he feels bad for his senior prom date. Really fucking bad, and he kind of wants to go and find her right now, wherever she is, and let her know that he’s sorry he put her through this. He hadn’t known.
His hands run down the worryingly-lithe figure cut from his abs, over his nonexistent hips, down the slow curl of his thighs, all draped in the very same three layers of chiffon, silk, and silk, in that order, silver over midnight over black, and the shiny things on the overlay better be real fucking diamonds if the price tag digging in his armpit is any indication.
“I’m not coming out in this.” He turns around a bit, cringing at the ruffle of the fabric as he moves, avoiding his own eyes in the mirror and staring instead at the evidence of how his tube socks do absolutely nothing for this hemline.
“What do you mean, you’re not coming out?” And it’s that whine, god, that whine, because Shannon’s still just a little girl underneath everything - she never grew up. “That was the whole point of you putting it on in the first place, you moron.” He can hear her pouting, because the dressing rooms here have those really fucking puffy sofas for people to lounge in as they wait, and he knows exactly what it means, how it gauges her displeasure: the sound of the cushions deflating rapidly under her shifting weight, sticking to her spray tan. “So I could see it.”
“This whole room is reflective, Shan,” he protests, because all these mirrors everywhere really are beginning to freak him out. “You can’t seriously tell me that you couldn’t see it when it was on you.”
“This is important,” she hisses back at him, and he doesn’t have to see her to know the clench of her teeth, or the way she doesn’t turn red, really, when she’s mad, but more a strange pale plum, underneath the tan and the platinum highlights - he’d always thought he the way she flushed was cute, even when they were little - the soft color underneath her childhood fury, her tears. “I can look at myself in a mirror all I want, but that won’t show me how it moves.”
Seriously. Seriously? “How it moves?”
“Yes, Boone. How the dress goddamn moves.”
Boone rolls his eyes, and he finds that he’s really glad for the door at the moment, and for the fact that Shannon isn’t wearing her heels, because no one should ever, ever see him prancing around like he does to test the elusive movement of the ruffly bottom half of this getup.
“It moves fine.”
In fact, it moves rather nicely. The way the deep navy spills down in soft, shining ripples, draped with the two halves of starry chiffon, gathered in shells at the sides and open down the middle from the knees to the floor - he can just picture her in it, the way the fabric would sway with her hips, mesmerizing...
Her huff breaks the mental image like glass, and he blinks hard at his doe-eyed reflection when she scoffs loudly from beyond the dividers: “Like you’d know.”
“My mother owns a wedding empire, Shannon; I’ve been around frilly fucking gowns since I was seven.” It was the reason he’d only had girls for friends until high school, for fuck’s sake. “So yeah, I think I’d know.”
“Damnit, Boone.” He can hear the slap of her flip flops against the carpeting, and he flinches as if they’re catching him across the cheek - he’s so very, very pathetic. “Stop being such a pussy and just let me see the dress.”
“Don’t you have friends who can do this for you?” he tries as a last resort, even as he straightens the dress, tugs it down so that it falls right - it’s awkward, because he doesn’t have anything in the chest area to hold up the strapless design, but it’s so fucking tiny that it clings enough to make it work. “Like, you know, female friends?” He takes a deep breath as he runs a hand through his hair, and damnit - there are sparkles in it. “Or gay friends?” His hand falls on the door, popping the lock open at the handle. “Those would work, too, you know-”
“Shut up, Boone.”
And Shannon, of course, is her fucking impatient self, and has herself pressed up against the door as they both go to pull it. And he trips a little, legs caught to close in the dress, and she’s all up in his personal space now so that when he goes to breathe, his silk-covered chest brushes against her tits.
Fucking perfect.
She draws back, eyeing him up, and he’s really glad he’d gotten a little too much sun on duty yesterday, because the heat crawling up his neck would probably raise some eyebrows - or else, two perfectly-waxed blonde eyebrows. It probably clashes like a bitch with the blue, as well, now that he thinks of it - probably makes him look like the fourth of fucking July.
And he guesses he’s pretty accurate in that estimation when, after her eyes rake over the full length of the dress as Boone steps out of the fitting room and takes a couple of steps, she stops, meeting his eyes as she bursts into laughter.
“God, Boone,” she gasps a little, covering her mouth as she stares bug eyed at him. “Are your nipples always that hard?”
Okay, so maybe it wasn’t the color scheme. He’s just glad for the empire waist on this damn thing, and that he had the foresight to wear briefs this morning, else it’d be really fucking obvious what else was getting hard. Yeah.
“How the hell are you a lifeguard with those?” She’s still giggling, pointing at his pecs, and Boone’s not at all in the mood for her shit, after everything. He’s in a damn dress. “We could get you some pasties!” And fuck it, she clasps her fucking hands. Like it’s cute.
He grimaces, nodding derisively as he stalks back to the fitting stall. “Fuck you,” he growls, and she’s still catching her breath as his feet catch the bottle of the dress and he half-stumbles into the dressing room.
“It looks good on you!” she calls to the closing door as he goes to change.
She gets his middle finger over the wall-divider in reply.
He pays for the dress (and Shannon doesn’t even reach for her credit card, how fucking typical), and he barely even spares a glance at the collection of one-way tickets to New York that stay tucked behind the cash in his billfold - each with a different cancelled date that he attributes aloud to bad timing, or landlords screwing him over, or even the fucking weather once or twice, but never to the fact that he just wants to stay in L.A. long enough to see her walk at her high school graduation. Because no one would understand that.
She’s talking about whatever football-playing douchebag asked her to prom, or else, he thinks she’s talking about that, he doesn’t really know, he just lets the sound of her voice kind of melt around him - still too high pitched to take seriously, he hopes she’ll grow out of that - but soothing, constant; he doesn’t even flinch when he catches the cashier’s name off the receipt she pushes towards him - Theresa - for the endless cadence of her inane, meaningless chatter.
He turns to her and hands her the bag, which her hand is already waiting to grab at, expectant, and the talking dies down. He misses it a little.
“Shoes?” she asks innocently, and her smile isn’t wicked, just bright, and it settles warm and soft against his chest so that he can’t help but nod and smile back.
Most of the time, Boone Carlyle really hates his life.
But once in a while, he kinda fucking loves it, too.
Rating: PG-13
Character(s)/Pairing: Boone Carlyle, Shannon Rutherford; mild, one-sided Boone/Shannon
Word Count: 1,598
Summary: Some days, Boone Carlyle kind of hates his life. For janie_tangerine, who requested “Boone and crossdressing” at The lostsquee 2009 Lost Summer Luau, and for the 18coda Prompt #15 - Senza. Pre-Season One; Mild Spoilers through 1.19 - Deus Ex Machina.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For janie_tangerine: I had hoped to come up with something better for your day, especially considering humor is absolutely not my strong suit AT ALL, but when I read your request, this was the idea that wanted to be written. No slash, and not quite crossdressing, really, but hopefully it’s not too terrible.
Prom Date
Some days, Boone Carlyle kind of hates his life.
“Jesus, Boone, are you stuck?”
In point of fact, he had been stuck, until about three seconds ago, because he’s a man, goddamnit; he’s a man and he doesn’t have the bone structure to fit in a size fucking two.
“No,” he answers slowly, not quite believing he’s actually been reduced to this. “I’m not stuck.”
The long suffering sigh that follows makes Boone draw in the breath displaced, and with his lungs that full, he finally understands why women wear those corset bondage numbers, because this thing is a helluva lot more doable on the inhale.
“Then what the hell’s taking so long?”
In retrospect, he feels bad for his senior prom date. Really fucking bad, and he kind of wants to go and find her right now, wherever she is, and let her know that he’s sorry he put her through this. He hadn’t known.
His hands run down the worryingly-lithe figure cut from his abs, over his nonexistent hips, down the slow curl of his thighs, all draped in the very same three layers of chiffon, silk, and silk, in that order, silver over midnight over black, and the shiny things on the overlay better be real fucking diamonds if the price tag digging in his armpit is any indication.
“I’m not coming out in this.” He turns around a bit, cringing at the ruffle of the fabric as he moves, avoiding his own eyes in the mirror and staring instead at the evidence of how his tube socks do absolutely nothing for this hemline.
“What do you mean, you’re not coming out?” And it’s that whine, god, that whine, because Shannon’s still just a little girl underneath everything - she never grew up. “That was the whole point of you putting it on in the first place, you moron.” He can hear her pouting, because the dressing rooms here have those really fucking puffy sofas for people to lounge in as they wait, and he knows exactly what it means, how it gauges her displeasure: the sound of the cushions deflating rapidly under her shifting weight, sticking to her spray tan. “So I could see it.”
“This whole room is reflective, Shan,” he protests, because all these mirrors everywhere really are beginning to freak him out. “You can’t seriously tell me that you couldn’t see it when it was on you.”
“This is important,” she hisses back at him, and he doesn’t have to see her to know the clench of her teeth, or the way she doesn’t turn red, really, when she’s mad, but more a strange pale plum, underneath the tan and the platinum highlights - he’d always thought he the way she flushed was cute, even when they were little - the soft color underneath her childhood fury, her tears. “I can look at myself in a mirror all I want, but that won’t show me how it moves.”
Seriously. Seriously? “How it moves?”
“Yes, Boone. How the dress goddamn moves.”
Boone rolls his eyes, and he finds that he’s really glad for the door at the moment, and for the fact that Shannon isn’t wearing her heels, because no one should ever, ever see him prancing around like he does to test the elusive movement of the ruffly bottom half of this getup.
“It moves fine.”
In fact, it moves rather nicely. The way the deep navy spills down in soft, shining ripples, draped with the two halves of starry chiffon, gathered in shells at the sides and open down the middle from the knees to the floor - he can just picture her in it, the way the fabric would sway with her hips, mesmerizing...
Her huff breaks the mental image like glass, and he blinks hard at his doe-eyed reflection when she scoffs loudly from beyond the dividers: “Like you’d know.”
“My mother owns a wedding empire, Shannon; I’ve been around frilly fucking gowns since I was seven.” It was the reason he’d only had girls for friends until high school, for fuck’s sake. “So yeah, I think I’d know.”
“Damnit, Boone.” He can hear the slap of her flip flops against the carpeting, and he flinches as if they’re catching him across the cheek - he’s so very, very pathetic. “Stop being such a pussy and just let me see the dress.”
“Don’t you have friends who can do this for you?” he tries as a last resort, even as he straightens the dress, tugs it down so that it falls right - it’s awkward, because he doesn’t have anything in the chest area to hold up the strapless design, but it’s so fucking tiny that it clings enough to make it work. “Like, you know, female friends?” He takes a deep breath as he runs a hand through his hair, and damnit - there are sparkles in it. “Or gay friends?” His hand falls on the door, popping the lock open at the handle. “Those would work, too, you know-”
“Shut up, Boone.”
And Shannon, of course, is her fucking impatient self, and has herself pressed up against the door as they both go to pull it. And he trips a little, legs caught to close in the dress, and she’s all up in his personal space now so that when he goes to breathe, his silk-covered chest brushes against her tits.
Fucking perfect.
She draws back, eyeing him up, and he’s really glad he’d gotten a little too much sun on duty yesterday, because the heat crawling up his neck would probably raise some eyebrows - or else, two perfectly-waxed blonde eyebrows. It probably clashes like a bitch with the blue, as well, now that he thinks of it - probably makes him look like the fourth of fucking July.
And he guesses he’s pretty accurate in that estimation when, after her eyes rake over the full length of the dress as Boone steps out of the fitting room and takes a couple of steps, she stops, meeting his eyes as she bursts into laughter.
“God, Boone,” she gasps a little, covering her mouth as she stares bug eyed at him. “Are your nipples always that hard?”
Okay, so maybe it wasn’t the color scheme. He’s just glad for the empire waist on this damn thing, and that he had the foresight to wear briefs this morning, else it’d be really fucking obvious what else was getting hard. Yeah.
“How the hell are you a lifeguard with those?” She’s still giggling, pointing at his pecs, and Boone’s not at all in the mood for her shit, after everything. He’s in a damn dress. “We could get you some pasties!” And fuck it, she clasps her fucking hands. Like it’s cute.
He grimaces, nodding derisively as he stalks back to the fitting stall. “Fuck you,” he growls, and she’s still catching her breath as his feet catch the bottle of the dress and he half-stumbles into the dressing room.
“It looks good on you!” she calls to the closing door as he goes to change.
She gets his middle finger over the wall-divider in reply.
He pays for the dress (and Shannon doesn’t even reach for her credit card, how fucking typical), and he barely even spares a glance at the collection of one-way tickets to New York that stay tucked behind the cash in his billfold - each with a different cancelled date that he attributes aloud to bad timing, or landlords screwing him over, or even the fucking weather once or twice, but never to the fact that he just wants to stay in L.A. long enough to see her walk at her high school graduation. Because no one would understand that.
She’s talking about whatever football-playing douchebag asked her to prom, or else, he thinks she’s talking about that, he doesn’t really know, he just lets the sound of her voice kind of melt around him - still too high pitched to take seriously, he hopes she’ll grow out of that - but soothing, constant; he doesn’t even flinch when he catches the cashier’s name off the receipt she pushes towards him - Theresa - for the endless cadence of her inane, meaningless chatter.
He turns to her and hands her the bag, which her hand is already waiting to grab at, expectant, and the talking dies down. He misses it a little.
“Shoes?” she asks innocently, and her smile isn’t wicked, just bright, and it settles warm and soft against his chest so that he can’t help but nod and smile back.
Most of the time, Boone Carlyle really hates his life.
But once in a while, he kinda fucking loves it, too.