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Entry tags:
abc prompts; k+s: incest
Truth be told, Kirsten rode to school with her stepbrother for one reason, and one reason only. It had nothing at all to do with saving money on gas, which, since they'd downgraded from their Hollywood manor to a more reasonable three-bedroom with an office and a pool, seemed to matter all of a sudden. It didn't even have much to do with the sleek black Charger Shane drove, though Kirsten loved the roar of the engine with a wanton sort of fierceness.
No, she let her stepbrother drive her to school solely for the chance at an opportunity like this one.
They'd left school amid the usual banter, which Shane had cut short with a low curse when steam had started leaking from the hood. By the time he pulled over, the leak was more like a geyser. Shane was out in front of the car now in the oppressive late spring heat of Pasadena, t-shirt stripped and wrapped around his hand as he wrestled with thick black hoses under the hood. Between the sun on his back and the steam from what Kirsten speculated was the radiator, he was dripping with sweat. Kirsten herself stood behind the open passenger side door, arms folded on the edge of the roof as she looked on.
Any sympathy she had for his plight was overshadowed by both the frustration generally inspired by his attitude, and the slow-burning heat currently being inspired by his body. His biceps flexed golden brown in the sun, slow trickles of sweat making their creeping way through the contours of his muscles. Kirsten's tongue grazed her lip a half second behind her teeth. She wanted her mouth on his neck, his sounds of pleasure against her lips and humming through his solid chest where her hands rested.
"Hey." Shane's voice snapped her out of her reverie. "Get over here."
With a frown, Kirsten stepped back and shut the door, coming to stand beside him. "You're not getting me dirty," she informed him. He cut her a scathing look that seemed to suggest now wasn't the time to run her mouth, and she amended sullenly, "I guess I'm going straight home."
"Grab the keys out of the ignition and go open the trunk," he said. "There's a toolkit back there."
Silently resenting the fact that his keys weren't in his pocket for her to fetch, Kirsten slunk around to the driver's side to grab them. She sifted through them as she circled to the back of the car — the one from the ignition, the shiny new house key, another that she assumed was his old house key, and a final unidentified key that she determined must have been the key to the trunk. She wouldn't even know the trunk had a separate key if her father hadn't forced her to help Shane unpack when they'd first moved in. Classic cars weren't really her thing. (Then again, she reflected gleefully, if they'd been in her brand new Maserati, they wouldn't be in the middle of this devastatingly attractive turn of events.)
The toolbag was heavy and lovingly worn. She hauled it out of the trunk with no small amount of effort, wincing at the impact against her knees. When she hefted it up to place it on the corner of the car, Shane was quick to help her.
"What's wrong with it?" she asked, eyes tracing the lines of Shane's shoulder blades as he dug through the bag.
"Radiator hose busted," he answered, coming up with a roll of duct tape. "Not really a big deal."
"Then why are you so bitchy?"
Shane rolled his eyes. "Because I should've done some work on her last week, but since we lost that game against York Academy, our practices ran long. If I'd done it, I might've noticed the hose was cracked."
His arms gleamed in the sun and his teeth flashed white as he unrolled a length of tape and ripped it off. Kirsten was transfixed by the veins in his forearms. She pictured sinew contracting and veins popping as he squeezed her hips, bent her over the hot hood of the car, all rough hands and sweat-slick skin and hard, unyielding—
The sound of the hood slamming shut yanked her back to reality, where she was pressing her knees together, leaning her hip against the fender of the car. If Shane noticed her preoccupation, he was ignoring it, because he was already walking around to the trunk to replace the toolkit.
Kirsten watched him over her shoulder as he shut the trunk, then used his already-damp shirt to wipe some of the sweat from his chest and neck. Exhaling through pursed lips, she called back to him, "Is duct tape really going to work?"
"'Till we get home," he answered, opening the driver's door to toss his shirt behind the seat and get in. She climbed in on the other side, only to find him holding out his hand to her, palm-up. When she looked blank, he said, "My keys, Princess."
"Don't call me that." She might have handed him the keys without a fuss, but the condescending tone of the petname — which, before her wicked stepbrother, she'd only ever heard in an adoring context — rubbed her the wrong way, so she held them away from him, out the window.
Shane scowled. "Hand over my keys."
"Come get them yourself." The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, like most words were. Shane instantly made her regret them.
"What are you, twelve?" He shifted, leaning over her, and suddenly all she could smell was his aftershave and musky sweat. Heat rushed her body again in a flash, flooding from her face down to her neck and pooling between her thighs.
She caught her breath and his eyes at the same time, and there was an instant where he wasn't reaching for his keys anymore, just lingering over her, looking down at her. Her heart was in her throat.
Slowly, he inched further over her and closed his fingers around her wrist outside the window. "What's your problem?"
Kirsten swallowed against a dry mouth. "You, jerkoff." She didn't sound like she meant it. He noticed, too.
"Yeah?" He pulled her hand inside, wresting the keys from it with little effort. "Get over it."
He settled back into his seat and she had a chance to breathe while he started the car. Then it was her turn to lean across to him, laying a hand on his chest.
"What the fuck?" He looked up at her just in time for her to press a kiss into his mouth, rushed and clumsy. When they broke apart, their eyes locked.
This was it. He was about to kick her out of the car and make her walk home, and he was going to tell his mom that her new stepdaughter was crazy and she'd leave Kirsten's dad and everything would be ruined and it would be all Kirsten's stupid fault because she couldn't keep her hands off Shane Thompson.
Pulling away, she stumbled over an apology. "Sorry, I — forget it, forget I — I'm sorry." She didn't get any further, because his hand had found the back of her neck, rough and hot, and he was dragging her back in to kiss her properly.
For five, ten searing seconds — she couldn't keep track — she was lost in his hungry mouth and hard hands and the smell of sweat and aftershave. She gasped for breath between each clash of their lips, her fingers twisted in his hair, until a sudden pounding startled her awake.
"It's seven-thirty, Princess; are you coming to school or not?"
Kirsten stared up at her ceiling, panting softly. Her heart was hammering her pulse through every inch of her body.
Her bedroom door opened and her stepbrother stuck his head in, frowning in the direction of her bed. "Tell me you died in your sleep."
"Fuck off," she said, throwing the blankets off and sitting up. He glanced away, reminding her that she was only wearing panties and a tank top.
"Twenty minutes and you're driving yourself to school," he said, and ducked out.
Kirsten rubbed her thighs together uncomfortably. He couldn't pay her to get in his car.
No, she let her stepbrother drive her to school solely for the chance at an opportunity like this one.
They'd left school amid the usual banter, which Shane had cut short with a low curse when steam had started leaking from the hood. By the time he pulled over, the leak was more like a geyser. Shane was out in front of the car now in the oppressive late spring heat of Pasadena, t-shirt stripped and wrapped around his hand as he wrestled with thick black hoses under the hood. Between the sun on his back and the steam from what Kirsten speculated was the radiator, he was dripping with sweat. Kirsten herself stood behind the open passenger side door, arms folded on the edge of the roof as she looked on.
Any sympathy she had for his plight was overshadowed by both the frustration generally inspired by his attitude, and the slow-burning heat currently being inspired by his body. His biceps flexed golden brown in the sun, slow trickles of sweat making their creeping way through the contours of his muscles. Kirsten's tongue grazed her lip a half second behind her teeth. She wanted her mouth on his neck, his sounds of pleasure against her lips and humming through his solid chest where her hands rested.
"Hey." Shane's voice snapped her out of her reverie. "Get over here."
With a frown, Kirsten stepped back and shut the door, coming to stand beside him. "You're not getting me dirty," she informed him. He cut her a scathing look that seemed to suggest now wasn't the time to run her mouth, and she amended sullenly, "I guess I'm going straight home."
"Grab the keys out of the ignition and go open the trunk," he said. "There's a toolkit back there."
Silently resenting the fact that his keys weren't in his pocket for her to fetch, Kirsten slunk around to the driver's side to grab them. She sifted through them as she circled to the back of the car — the one from the ignition, the shiny new house key, another that she assumed was his old house key, and a final unidentified key that she determined must have been the key to the trunk. She wouldn't even know the trunk had a separate key if her father hadn't forced her to help Shane unpack when they'd first moved in. Classic cars weren't really her thing. (Then again, she reflected gleefully, if they'd been in her brand new Maserati, they wouldn't be in the middle of this devastatingly attractive turn of events.)
The toolbag was heavy and lovingly worn. She hauled it out of the trunk with no small amount of effort, wincing at the impact against her knees. When she hefted it up to place it on the corner of the car, Shane was quick to help her.
"What's wrong with it?" she asked, eyes tracing the lines of Shane's shoulder blades as he dug through the bag.
"Radiator hose busted," he answered, coming up with a roll of duct tape. "Not really a big deal."
"Then why are you so bitchy?"
Shane rolled his eyes. "Because I should've done some work on her last week, but since we lost that game against York Academy, our practices ran long. If I'd done it, I might've noticed the hose was cracked."
His arms gleamed in the sun and his teeth flashed white as he unrolled a length of tape and ripped it off. Kirsten was transfixed by the veins in his forearms. She pictured sinew contracting and veins popping as he squeezed her hips, bent her over the hot hood of the car, all rough hands and sweat-slick skin and hard, unyielding—
The sound of the hood slamming shut yanked her back to reality, where she was pressing her knees together, leaning her hip against the fender of the car. If Shane noticed her preoccupation, he was ignoring it, because he was already walking around to the trunk to replace the toolkit.
Kirsten watched him over her shoulder as he shut the trunk, then used his already-damp shirt to wipe some of the sweat from his chest and neck. Exhaling through pursed lips, she called back to him, "Is duct tape really going to work?"
"'Till we get home," he answered, opening the driver's door to toss his shirt behind the seat and get in. She climbed in on the other side, only to find him holding out his hand to her, palm-up. When she looked blank, he said, "My keys, Princess."
"Don't call me that." She might have handed him the keys without a fuss, but the condescending tone of the petname — which, before her wicked stepbrother, she'd only ever heard in an adoring context — rubbed her the wrong way, so she held them away from him, out the window.
Shane scowled. "Hand over my keys."
"Come get them yourself." The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, like most words were. Shane instantly made her regret them.
"What are you, twelve?" He shifted, leaning over her, and suddenly all she could smell was his aftershave and musky sweat. Heat rushed her body again in a flash, flooding from her face down to her neck and pooling between her thighs.
She caught her breath and his eyes at the same time, and there was an instant where he wasn't reaching for his keys anymore, just lingering over her, looking down at her. Her heart was in her throat.
Slowly, he inched further over her and closed his fingers around her wrist outside the window. "What's your problem?"
Kirsten swallowed against a dry mouth. "You, jerkoff." She didn't sound like she meant it. He noticed, too.
"Yeah?" He pulled her hand inside, wresting the keys from it with little effort. "Get over it."
He settled back into his seat and she had a chance to breathe while he started the car. Then it was her turn to lean across to him, laying a hand on his chest.
"What the fuck?" He looked up at her just in time for her to press a kiss into his mouth, rushed and clumsy. When they broke apart, their eyes locked.
This was it. He was about to kick her out of the car and make her walk home, and he was going to tell his mom that her new stepdaughter was crazy and she'd leave Kirsten's dad and everything would be ruined and it would be all Kirsten's stupid fault because she couldn't keep her hands off Shane Thompson.
Pulling away, she stumbled over an apology. "Sorry, I — forget it, forget I — I'm sorry." She didn't get any further, because his hand had found the back of her neck, rough and hot, and he was dragging her back in to kiss her properly.
For five, ten searing seconds — she couldn't keep track — she was lost in his hungry mouth and hard hands and the smell of sweat and aftershave. She gasped for breath between each clash of their lips, her fingers twisted in his hair, until a sudden pounding startled her awake.
"It's seven-thirty, Princess; are you coming to school or not?"
Kirsten stared up at her ceiling, panting softly. Her heart was hammering her pulse through every inch of her body.
Her bedroom door opened and her stepbrother stuck his head in, frowning in the direction of her bed. "Tell me you died in your sleep."
"Fuck off," she said, throwing the blankets off and sitting up. He glanced away, reminding her that she was only wearing panties and a tank top.
"Twenty minutes and you're driving yourself to school," he said, and ducked out.
Kirsten rubbed her thighs together uncomfortably. He couldn't pay her to get in his car.