you probably think this song is about you (Ben/Kate, PG-13)
Title: you probably think this song is about you
Fandom: LOST
Characters: Ben/Kate
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 214
Summary: It doesn't mean anything. (for 12_stories , orange)
He arrives early, coffee brewing and Aaron still sleeping, and it's just a coincidence that she just got out of the shower and she just happens to be wearing a white dress decorated with faded orange flowers. Ben almost chokes on his greeting - "My, aren't you quite the lady."
"That's me, alright" - and her laugh is strained, breath stopping as Ben follows the trail of water dripping from her hair. He's painfully aware of himself, of his wide-eyed stare, of the blood pulsing through his veins as his fingers stiffen over the place where thin cotton conceals her soft skin, flushed with the summer heat (feels his own hands, cold against her).
Ben doesn't have to lie, to pretend to himself that the kiss is anything but a kiss. He's quite sure her teeth pressed into his lip is just an equation, a statistic of the types of kisses between them, of sweet or desperate or fighting for control or all-of-the-above. Of Kate being Kate and Ben being Ben.
There's no such thing as Stockholm syndrome, not when he's in her house, not when it's her pushing him into her own kitchen counter. Somehow, his fingers find their way around her wrists, his tongue stinging with the taste of strawberries.
It's just a coincidence.
Fandom: LOST
Characters: Ben/Kate
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 214
Summary: It doesn't mean anything. (for 12_stories , orange)
He arrives early, coffee brewing and Aaron still sleeping, and it's just a coincidence that she just got out of the shower and she just happens to be wearing a white dress decorated with faded orange flowers. Ben almost chokes on his greeting - "My, aren't you quite the lady."
"That's me, alright" - and her laugh is strained, breath stopping as Ben follows the trail of water dripping from her hair. He's painfully aware of himself, of his wide-eyed stare, of the blood pulsing through his veins as his fingers stiffen over the place where thin cotton conceals her soft skin, flushed with the summer heat (feels his own hands, cold against her).
Ben doesn't have to lie, to pretend to himself that the kiss is anything but a kiss. He's quite sure her teeth pressed into his lip is just an equation, a statistic of the types of kisses between them, of sweet or desperate or fighting for control or all-of-the-above. Of Kate being Kate and Ben being Ben.
There's no such thing as Stockholm syndrome, not when he's in her house, not when it's her pushing him into her own kitchen counter. Somehow, his fingers find their way around her wrists, his tongue stinging with the taste of strawberries.
It's just a coincidence.