Prison Break Fic: Luna de Miel (1/1)
Title: Luna de Miel (1/1)
Characters: Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi
Rating: PG-15
Genre: Het, Non-epilogue compliant
Length: 280 words
Author's Note: Written for msgenevieve, with a healthy serving of hugs.
When it is finally over, he makes a vow to live his life well as an act of contrition and homage. In a quiet house kissed by the blue of the sky and the salt in the air, he lies in bed with his wife.
He savors the days, telling her, piece by piece, all the things he has not had the time to say, things he has set aside and stored gently, like carefully folded keepsakes, in his mind.
He tells her, The first time we kissed, I became just a man, my heart laid bare, and you the woman who could cut me down with a glance. For days I struggled to forget the sweep of your eyes as I leaned close, the whisper of your palms against my face.
In the dry heat by the road in the middle of nowhere, no one could deny the heave of your anger. But I had not expected to see you again, so under my guilt, silently, my happiness grew.
You were, too often, too beautiful to behold.
He tells her these things slowly, unfolding each secret into her ear.
In time he reveals the many ways he studied her in the severe light of the infirmary, learning her face, then her body, by heart. How, when he needed to stay sane, he let her softness drive him to distraction.
He takes pains to describe them thoroughly, lingering excruciatingly over each detail, and he watches the ardor deepen the copper of her eyes, tastes it on her tongue, in every twist of her limbs, in the thread of ecstasy in her voice.
And as the night cools she settles in his arms, her own secrets pulsing against her skin, ready to tumble, flaming, from her lips to his.
Characters: Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi
Rating: PG-15
Genre: Het, Non-epilogue compliant
Length: 280 words
Author's Note: Written for msgenevieve, with a healthy serving of hugs.
When it is finally over, he makes a vow to live his life well as an act of contrition and homage. In a quiet house kissed by the blue of the sky and the salt in the air, he lies in bed with his wife.
He savors the days, telling her, piece by piece, all the things he has not had the time to say, things he has set aside and stored gently, like carefully folded keepsakes, in his mind.
He tells her, The first time we kissed, I became just a man, my heart laid bare, and you the woman who could cut me down with a glance. For days I struggled to forget the sweep of your eyes as I leaned close, the whisper of your palms against my face.
In the dry heat by the road in the middle of nowhere, no one could deny the heave of your anger. But I had not expected to see you again, so under my guilt, silently, my happiness grew.
You were, too often, too beautiful to behold.
He tells her these things slowly, unfolding each secret into her ear.
In time he reveals the many ways he studied her in the severe light of the infirmary, learning her face, then her body, by heart. How, when he needed to stay sane, he let her softness drive him to distraction.
He takes pains to describe them thoroughly, lingering excruciatingly over each detail, and he watches the ardor deepen the copper of her eyes, tastes it on her tongue, in every twist of her limbs, in the thread of ecstasy in her voice.
And as the night cools she settles in his arms, her own secrets pulsing against her skin, ready to tumble, flaming, from her lips to his.