fic, Lost: All the Right Kinds of Wrong (Sawyer/Boone), hard R, for 12_stories
Alright, I'll definitely have to become a follower of the Flying Spaghetti Monster because when you start the day with cramps, your mother making you realize even creepier things about the elections and some other crap happens when you haven't been awake for two hours, maybe you need a religion.
Anyway, since I guess that the best remedy for everything is porn... going on with the icon memes, this is for bobbinrob who asked for this icon:
So, this is your Boone bondage! ;) Of course, I couldn't do a drabble. And well, seems that I can only do that stuff with one pairing. Argh, that's weird.
Title: All the Right Kinds of Wrong
Rating: hard R
Pairing: Sawyer/Boone
Word counting: 842
Disclaimer: If Darlton don't care about Boone, I'd love to have him.
Spoilers: For Hearts and Minds.
Summary: For how much Sawyer’s skin is hot against his when they come in contact, for how much he shivers when Sawyer’s teeth bite lightly his shoulder, for how firm but strangely gentle is the hold on his hips, he can’t help thinking that this is a risk, and not a light one.
A/N: for 12_stories, risk, and the day 4 kink prompt at lostsquee, bondage. Will someone explain me why I can only do serious sexing up only with this pairing?
This really is all kinds of wrong, Boone thinks.
The airplane seat in Sawyer’s tent is reclined in order for it to be as horizontal as possible and this is where Boone lays right now, his wrists loosely bound in a long piece of rope, a horrible pink scarf that had to be in someone’s baggage blindfolding him.
If he opens his eyes, he can only see bright pink. Which is why he keeps them closed.
The knot binding his wrists together is really not tight; he could break free from it in ten seconds, nothing in comparison to the one he had to break free from some days before. He doesn’t, though; knowing that he could, if he wanted, is enough.
He feel Sawyer’s fingertips brushing on his skin, tracing random patterns on his chest, up and down, up and down, sometimes in circles, rough and golden on soft and pale. Boone wishes he could see it; but then again, he knows well enough how it looks like. He doesn’t really need to see.
The idea, of course, was Sawyer’s.
If you wanna just fool around fine by me, but y’know, as long as we’re here why shouldn’t we do more than foolin’ around?
Boone had resolved that it really wasn’t that stupid, as an idea.
This business between him and Sawyer really isn’t more than a welcomed distraction. It was damn convenient, after all. For Boone, it meant a couple of hours per day when he managed not to think about Shannon, hatches, destinies and all of Locke’s new age crap; for Sawyer, well, Boone has never took Sawyer for one that ditches sex with no strings attached, especially under their circumstances.
He was right, anyway; Sawyer hadn’t ditched the offer, not at all.
Boone doesn’t really know whether it was a good idea to bring it on this level; because for how much Sawyer’s skin is hot against his when they come in contact, for how much he shivers when Sawyer’s teeth bite lightly his shoulder, for how firm but strangely gentle is the hold on his hips, he can’t help thinking that this is a risk, and not a light one.
Before their Last Tango in Treasure Island started (the name was Sawyer’s making, of course), Sawyer had touched him only once and it had been nothing short of fucking painful.
Right, Boone had gone with the wrong approach, he shouldn’t have done what he was doing in the first place, but still. He remembers clearly his lip splitting open and Sawyer’s bloody fist hitting twice the corner of his mouth; then he doesn’t really remember much, except being completely incapable of walking straight.
Before the last tango started, his experience with ropes had been limited at just one time. Well, he never was much into that kind of kink and neither were his girlfriends. He wonders if Shannon is, sometimes, but then he shrugs it off.
That one time had been a week before or so and it doesn’t really take much to remember the sharp pain ripping through each of his muscles while he tried to reach that damn fucking knife.
Sawyer’s tongue flicks in the crook of his neck and he lets out a moan of pleasure, unable to help it. He’s kind of unable to help most of his reactions, truth to be told.
The rope burns against his skin and he tries not to go back there. If there’s something he’s here for, is actually not to think about it.
Sawyer unbuttons his jeans and Boone finds himself holding his breath.
He knows that he’s flushing. The heat in his cheeks is really unmistakable; he can feel half of his blood running up there.
His arms try to spread a bit, even if it hurts and quite much; then his jeans aren’t there anymore and Boone doesn’t need to see to imagine a curtain of blond hair brushing the skin around his navel. He moans again as soon as Sawyer lifts his head again and takes him in his hand, while his lips crush against Boone’s.
Boone parts his own as soon as it happens and it’s all heat, a faint taste of cigarettes even if Sawyer hasn’t smoked in a while, frantic and rushed, while he can’t help raising up his hips, thrusting against Sawyer’s hand, meeting his strokes.
He doesn’t feel the need to touch him, not right now; he doesn’t have a saying in this, but hell, it isn’t a problem. It’s not like he has ever had a saying in any matter all his life, right?
He comes against Sawyer’s hand, hard, a white light exploding under his closed eyelids, pleasure moans dying in the kiss they’re still sharing.
He can’t shake the faint thrill in the back of his mind telling him that sooner or later he’s going to get burned.
Boone thinks that it can be a risk, alright, but one worth running.
This is all kinds of wrong, he thinks, but the right kinds of wrong.
End.
Anyway, since I guess that the best remedy for everything is porn... going on with the icon memes, this is for bobbinrob who asked for this icon:
So, this is your Boone bondage! ;) Of course, I couldn't do a drabble. And well, seems that I can only do that stuff with one pairing. Argh, that's weird.
Title: All the Right Kinds of Wrong
Rating: hard R
Pairing: Sawyer/Boone
Word counting: 842
Disclaimer: If Darlton don't care about Boone, I'd love to have him.
Spoilers: For Hearts and Minds.
Summary: For how much Sawyer’s skin is hot against his when they come in contact, for how much he shivers when Sawyer’s teeth bite lightly his shoulder, for how firm but strangely gentle is the hold on his hips, he can’t help thinking that this is a risk, and not a light one.
A/N: for 12_stories, risk, and the day 4 kink prompt at lostsquee, bondage. Will someone explain me why I can only do serious sexing up only with this pairing?
This really is all kinds of wrong, Boone thinks.
The airplane seat in Sawyer’s tent is reclined in order for it to be as horizontal as possible and this is where Boone lays right now, his wrists loosely bound in a long piece of rope, a horrible pink scarf that had to be in someone’s baggage blindfolding him.
If he opens his eyes, he can only see bright pink. Which is why he keeps them closed.
The knot binding his wrists together is really not tight; he could break free from it in ten seconds, nothing in comparison to the one he had to break free from some days before. He doesn’t, though; knowing that he could, if he wanted, is enough.
He feel Sawyer’s fingertips brushing on his skin, tracing random patterns on his chest, up and down, up and down, sometimes in circles, rough and golden on soft and pale. Boone wishes he could see it; but then again, he knows well enough how it looks like. He doesn’t really need to see.
The idea, of course, was Sawyer’s.
If you wanna just fool around fine by me, but y’know, as long as we’re here why shouldn’t we do more than foolin’ around?
Boone had resolved that it really wasn’t that stupid, as an idea.
This business between him and Sawyer really isn’t more than a welcomed distraction. It was damn convenient, after all. For Boone, it meant a couple of hours per day when he managed not to think about Shannon, hatches, destinies and all of Locke’s new age crap; for Sawyer, well, Boone has never took Sawyer for one that ditches sex with no strings attached, especially under their circumstances.
He was right, anyway; Sawyer hadn’t ditched the offer, not at all.
Boone doesn’t really know whether it was a good idea to bring it on this level; because for how much Sawyer’s skin is hot against his when they come in contact, for how much he shivers when Sawyer’s teeth bite lightly his shoulder, for how firm but strangely gentle is the hold on his hips, he can’t help thinking that this is a risk, and not a light one.
Before their Last Tango in Treasure Island started (the name was Sawyer’s making, of course), Sawyer had touched him only once and it had been nothing short of fucking painful.
Right, Boone had gone with the wrong approach, he shouldn’t have done what he was doing in the first place, but still. He remembers clearly his lip splitting open and Sawyer’s bloody fist hitting twice the corner of his mouth; then he doesn’t really remember much, except being completely incapable of walking straight.
Before the last tango started, his experience with ropes had been limited at just one time. Well, he never was much into that kind of kink and neither were his girlfriends. He wonders if Shannon is, sometimes, but then he shrugs it off.
That one time had been a week before or so and it doesn’t really take much to remember the sharp pain ripping through each of his muscles while he tried to reach that damn fucking knife.
Sawyer’s tongue flicks in the crook of his neck and he lets out a moan of pleasure, unable to help it. He’s kind of unable to help most of his reactions, truth to be told.
The rope burns against his skin and he tries not to go back there. If there’s something he’s here for, is actually not to think about it.
Sawyer unbuttons his jeans and Boone finds himself holding his breath.
He knows that he’s flushing. The heat in his cheeks is really unmistakable; he can feel half of his blood running up there.
His arms try to spread a bit, even if it hurts and quite much; then his jeans aren’t there anymore and Boone doesn’t need to see to imagine a curtain of blond hair brushing the skin around his navel. He moans again as soon as Sawyer lifts his head again and takes him in his hand, while his lips crush against Boone’s.
Boone parts his own as soon as it happens and it’s all heat, a faint taste of cigarettes even if Sawyer hasn’t smoked in a while, frantic and rushed, while he can’t help raising up his hips, thrusting against Sawyer’s hand, meeting his strokes.
He doesn’t feel the need to touch him, not right now; he doesn’t have a saying in this, but hell, it isn’t a problem. It’s not like he has ever had a saying in any matter all his life, right?
He comes against Sawyer’s hand, hard, a white light exploding under his closed eyelids, pleasure moans dying in the kiss they’re still sharing.
He can’t shake the faint thrill in the back of his mind telling him that sooner or later he’s going to get burned.
Boone thinks that it can be a risk, alright, but one worth running.
This is all kinds of wrong, he thinks, but the right kinds of wrong.
End.