Fic - Cold Comfort (Sara, Lincoln/Sara) R, 1/1
Title: Cold Comfort
Summary: It's a bar. It's Chicago. They're going nowhere fast. Sara's been here before.
Rating: Hard R
Summary: 430 words. Pre-Series. Definitely AU. Written for pbhiatus_fic 's How do you do? challenge and 2x5's prompt: shadow dances. All mistakes are mine. These characters, however, are not.
Junior year of college, a bar in downtown Chicago.
He eyes her from across the room, dirt under his fingernails, worn leather around his shoulders and he looks at her like he’d fuck her right then and there if he was given the chance. He’s the epitome of her type: handsome and rugged, from the wrong side of the tracks, the perfect fuck you to daddy dearest.
Sara goes after him, all leaning and giggles, twirling the glass tumbler between her fingers, cigarette between her lips.
(She’s been here before.)
+
“Wanna get out of here?” she asks all breathless and low, like she’s been doing this all her life (and it’s close enough, anyway) and his hand is on the small of her back, inviting and gentle as he leads her out of the bar. Her last shot of José pulses through her veins and warms her against the bitter Chicago winter.
A joint, then another, and they talk about nothing in particular, heading nowhere fast.
+
Later, her back against the side of a deserted ally, skirt bunched around her waist, his pants around his ankles. They fuck, fast and angry.
+
Hands on her hips, bruising and tight, his lips on her neck, teeth biting flesh, hard and she finds comfort in the pain. Nails in the skin of his shoulders, head tilted back, glazed eyes staring up at the sky aimlessly, and she has to remind herself to breathe. Sara feels alive, on fire, and it consumes her wholly; fingers between her legs, a sigh from her lips. A car alarm goes off on the distance; neither notice.
He says things like fuck and yeah, baby and comes with a sharp grunt, muffled by the skin of her neck.
+
Feet on the ground, skirt smoothed out with nimble fingers.
There is a fleeting look as he pulls up his pants and she lights a cigarette to pass the time.
Years later she’ll remember this vaguely, haunted by the person she once was, a cautionary tale of sorts that burns bitterly when swallowed. She’ll remember, too, the way he looks at her after, like she’s beautiful and fragile, which is so extremely odd considering.
Sara is the first to look away.
+
He’s speaks first:
“Wanna eat?”
She shrugs. Offers him her cigarette. “Why the hell not?”
+
His shoulder bumps hers as they walk and it’ll occur to her, too, hours later when she’s still drunk and floating, floating, floating, that they never even kissed.
She’s already forgotten his name.
Summary: It's a bar. It's Chicago. They're going nowhere fast. Sara's been here before.
Rating: Hard R
Summary: 430 words. Pre-Series. Definitely AU. Written for pbhiatus_fic 's How do you do? challenge and 2x5's prompt: shadow dances. All mistakes are mine. These characters, however, are not.
Junior year of college, a bar in downtown Chicago.
He eyes her from across the room, dirt under his fingernails, worn leather around his shoulders and he looks at her like he’d fuck her right then and there if he was given the chance. He’s the epitome of her type: handsome and rugged, from the wrong side of the tracks, the perfect fuck you to daddy dearest.
Sara goes after him, all leaning and giggles, twirling the glass tumbler between her fingers, cigarette between her lips.
(She’s been here before.)
+
“Wanna get out of here?” she asks all breathless and low, like she’s been doing this all her life (and it’s close enough, anyway) and his hand is on the small of her back, inviting and gentle as he leads her out of the bar. Her last shot of José pulses through her veins and warms her against the bitter Chicago winter.
A joint, then another, and they talk about nothing in particular, heading nowhere fast.
+
Later, her back against the side of a deserted ally, skirt bunched around her waist, his pants around his ankles. They fuck, fast and angry.
+
Hands on her hips, bruising and tight, his lips on her neck, teeth biting flesh, hard and she finds comfort in the pain. Nails in the skin of his shoulders, head tilted back, glazed eyes staring up at the sky aimlessly, and she has to remind herself to breathe. Sara feels alive, on fire, and it consumes her wholly; fingers between her legs, a sigh from her lips. A car alarm goes off on the distance; neither notice.
He says things like fuck and yeah, baby and comes with a sharp grunt, muffled by the skin of her neck.
+
Feet on the ground, skirt smoothed out with nimble fingers.
There is a fleeting look as he pulls up his pants and she lights a cigarette to pass the time.
Years later she’ll remember this vaguely, haunted by the person she once was, a cautionary tale of sorts that burns bitterly when swallowed. She’ll remember, too, the way he looks at her after, like she’s beautiful and fragile, which is so extremely odd considering.
Sara is the first to look away.
+
He’s speaks first:
“Wanna eat?”
She shrugs. Offers him her cigarette. “Why the hell not?”
+
His shoulder bumps hers as they walk and it’ll occur to her, too, hours later when she’s still drunk and floating, floating, floating, that they never even kissed.
She’s already forgotten his name.