(no subject)
Last two porn battle entries. That was fun. Both were written in about 10-15 minutes apiece, against deadline.
Title: Forgotten
Fandom: Lost
Characters/Pairings: Shannon/Boone
Word Count: 649
Rating: R
Prompt: Shannon/Boone, glitter for Porn Battle VI
Summary: Set in Season 1. "Shan," he gets out, watching her on her hands and knees on the ground, which seems to have become a fine mixture of sand and something silver and shiny.
He walks in on a disaster.
“Shan,” he gets out, watching her on her hands and knees on the ground, which seems to have become a fine mixture of sand and something silver and shiny.
“Close that.” She very nearly hisses, referring to the flap of the tent that he’s got half-open. The wind is blowing, ever so much, which is probably what she’s concerned about. He obliges.
“What is that?” Boone asks, watching her trying to round up the silver stuff, futilely, and then it clicks in his head. “Is that glitter?”
“What does it look like?” This time it sounds more like a frustrated shout. “I dropped it and it spilled all over the place.”
He just watches her.
After a moment, her eyes shoot up to his. “Aren’t you going to help?”
“It’s glitter, Shan.” He says, by way of telling her no. “Not that important.”
“Of course not.” Somehow, she’s going to spin this to be his fault. “Whatever. I don’t need your help.”
Against his better judgment, he stoops down on his knees, right in front of her, not to help her but merely to hold her attention and halt her movements. “Seriously, stop this. It’s glitter; it can be replaced.”
She glares up at him, even while her hands keep moving, and her voice belies something vulnerable just underneath the surface. “Where, Boone, where? Do you see a store here? This is all we’ve got.”
It’s instinct to grab her by the arms and pull her to him. Absolute instinct. She struggles against him, bony elbows getting him in the ribs once, but he’s stronger than her, and so she ends up half in his lap, not for the first time and probably not for the last. She still squirms. “We’ve been here a week; no need to give up hope entirely.”
“If they haven’t found us already they aren’t going to find us now.” She speaks something close to truth and he knows it, but he won’t give her the satisfaction of being right, so he doesn’t say anything, just keeps a firm grip on her arms until she relaxes against him. It takes a moment but she does, letting out a breath, as her shoulders tilt a little to the left, into him, and settles there. “Optimism or whatever isn’t going to get us anywhere.”
He traces his fingers over the strip of bare skin where her shirt and skirt don’t quite meet; she shifts towards his touch.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?”
“Isn’t it easier when I don’t talk?” He counters, and it makes her turn in his grasp, so that she’s facing him, instead of half-sideways but mostly with her back to him.
It really isn’t all that surprising when she kisses him. They’ve known each other too long for much to be surprising. His mouth is ready for hers, slightly open, warm and wet, and she fists his shirt to bring her body into full contact with his, not an inch of daylight, or anything else between them.
They end up on the ground, her on top of him (it’s going to be tough explaining this glitter thing to everyone else - how it got all over him), and she rolls her hips, up and down, slow, and they can’t get their clothes off quick enough.
She stays close to him, for a minute or two afterward, turned towards him, her head on his chest, his arm on her waist, and for those few short minutes he can close his eyes and go back to a time where things were simpler and they were inseparable.
Things change. Shannon puts her clothes back on, tears out afterwards like she’s mad, going from zero to sixty just as quick as ever. She avoids him for the rest of the day.
The glitter lies forgotten.
After a while, so does home.
---
Title: Better Luck Next Time
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Characters/Pairings: George/Lexie
Word Count: 499
Rating: PG-13/light R
Prompt: George/Lexie, clear for Porn Battle VI
Summary: Post Season 4 - future-ish. Her eyes are clear. That's what he finds so strange about this.
Her eyes are clear.
That’s what he finds so strange about this. They aren’t glassy - he’s accustomed to that, by now, because Meredith hadn’t looked at him straight, not until she cried, and Izzie’s always shined, towards the end, when they were trying so hard to get back to a place they shouldn’t have been in the first place. Callie wasn’t much different. George’s got a laundry list of these failed relationships - too many of them were mixed with alcohol.
Lexie’s are focused and she doesn’t taste of alcohol, not tequila or champagne or anything else he’s used to.
Maybe it would be better if she was drunk. If they were. Maybe it would make this less awkward.
Right now it seems to be a series of “you’re on my hair”, “not there”, and “maybe we should turn on the lights”. Suffice to say, they may be sober, but they’re fumbling like they aren’t.
Somehow they both seem to be as adept at this as newborn kittens.
“Okay, bed, not couch,” she finally says, and it’s dark, really, really dark, and he can’t see a thing and he missed her mouth completely, and so his head is currently in the crook of her neck, just resting there, because he needs to take a moment, and they need to take a moment, and stop before this turns into him and Izzie all over again.
At least the chemistry is there.
So they move from the couch to the bedroom, specifically hers because it’s the closest, and some of their clothes end up on the floor on the way there, which is helpful, and then he’s on top of her again, and their back to the fumbling.
Except this time it gets better. There’s more space; that helps.
His hands skim over the skin of her stomach, lower, and she shivers a bit in anticipation, and he thinks maybe the reason they’re so awkward is that they are over-thinking it.
He says as much, and she giggles against his mouth in half-agreement, and then they slip into something like rhythm.
They almost end up on the floor, when she arches underneath him, thanks to being too close to the edge of the bed. That could’ve gone better. But their hands scramble for purchase on the sheets and they manage to get back in sync.
She comes with a breathy gasp. No name, but that’s better than the wrong name.
He comes with a groan, and the sheets have tangled around them and he has to fight to roll off of her, but he does, breathing heavily.
She’s laughing then, not mockingly but amused, and it makes him laugh, which is really not what you normally do after sex, but then she smiles and says, “maybe we should try that again,” and you know it isn’t the worst idea he’s ever heard.
They’ve got it figured out by the end of the night, through trial and error, and it’s well worth it.