Fic - Everything You Touch Turns to Ash (Lincoln) R, 1/1
Title: Everything You Touch Turns to Ash
Summary: Four women Lincoln never fucked.
Rating: R
Author's Notes: 1,030 words. General Series Spoilers. Obviously AU. For domfangirl 's birthday because she is super awesome and we always talk about Linc and how he needs to get some and thus, this happened. I'm posting it a day early because I'm pulling a double tomorrow and didn't want it to be late. I hope you have a fabulous birthday, dear! You deserve it. All mistakes are mine. These characters, however, are not. Hope you enjoy this.
I. Gretchen
Once upon a time, Lincoln was the type of person who never turned down sex. People always say that men will fuck just about anything and this kind of proves it true.
Except that besides the natural hatred he has for her (and trust him - it comes in spades, because she’s done nothing but make his life a living hell), she’s not that bad looking. Besides, he’s always had a general fondness for powerful women, so this isn’t completely out of the realm of possibilities.
He’s even slightly positive that if they were different people, in a different place, with entirely different agendas it wouldn’t spell out fifty different kinds of wrong,
Somehow it still manages to catch him off guard.
One minute they’re arguing, throwing insults left and right, and the next they’re kissing. Her back is against the wall and her nails are digging into the skin of his shoulder, deep, and he knows she’s drawing blood.
Lincoln matches her bit for bit, though. Bites skin and draws her lip between his own, biting down a tad bit more forcefully than he means. The taste of copper is on her lips and Lincoln kisses it away, pushes himself closer to her, their bodies molded into a long line.
Pants around his ankles, her legs around his waist and it’s quick and messy, weeks of pent-up frustration and he breathes an I hate you against the smooth column of her throat, I really fuckin’ hate you and Gretchen just laughs and laughs, the vibrations flowing right through him.
When they’re done he unceremoniously lets her legs drop to floor, pulls up his pants. Doesn’t look in her direction at all.
The back of her hand wipes at her mouth, and there is a sick, twisted little smile on her lips when she says, “This never happened.”
And it is fine by him, really, except later it pisses him off to no end that he can’t figure out just who played who in this twisted scenario.
II. Jane
It starts with a question:
“Why should I trust you?”
And Jane had looked up at him, hand on hip, and said evenly, “Because they want me dead too,” and Lincoln had believed her enough to entrust her with his son’s life and if he had watched her walk away for a beat longer than is appropriate he blames it on something else entirely.
When all is said and done there’s a beach, with the sun setting on cue and it’s just one of those moments. He’s got his son back and life is good for the first time in years and her hair is something gorgeous in the golden light of the sunset.
(He’ll blame it all on that somewhere down the line, he vows, when another ending has come his way.)
“Thank you,” he says and means it and she nods and smiles, shrugging slightly.
Maybe it’s her who kisses him (probably not, though) and maybe it means something and maybe it’s been a while and Lincoln just wants to feel.
It doesn’t matter, however, because she kisses him back, a free arm curling around his neck, the other fisting in the cotton of his shirt.
Lincoln is not surprised that Jane is as good at this as she is most everything else, and his hips meet hers with a genuinely frantic pace, eyes closed, and it shocks the hell out of him that he thinks of her the entire time instead of somebody else entirely.
Maybe, after, they try to make it work. Build a life. Maybe he takes whatever hope he has left and takes a chance on her. Maybe he tries to move forward, her by her side.
Maybe it doesn’t even matter.
Lincoln’s had his second chance already, remember?
III. Sara
Michael never makes it out of Sona alive.
There’s no Gretchen or Whistler. There’s no battle against the company. No LA and second chances at redemption. He just goes in and doesn’t come out, end of story.
(It should have been the end of their story.)
When it happens, it just sort of happens. There’s is no natural build up.
It’s Panama. It’s the beach. It’s the life after.
They both stay because there’s nothing to go back to. They have no home, no family, nothing and they build a home without even trying, open a surf shop with LJ in toe, the undercurrent strong and palpable, constantly sighing between them in two syllables reminiscent of the name Michael.
When it happens he’s drunk and maybe she is, too (on the wagon, off the wagon, these days it is a constant, vicious cycle for Sara) and he’s rough and angry, fingers grasping her writs and pinning them above their heads.
It’s nice, with the bent knees, and hips meeting hips, and Lincoln fucks Sara like he doesn’t know her at all. It’s fitting, really, because he doesn’t, not even a little bit, and if he is being completley honestly with himself, he likes it that way. It makes it easier.
Their lives are wrapped up in the things they don’t say, the subjects they don’t dare touch. Lincoln closes his eyes, and Sara closes hers, and they kiss, just once, his lips a hint of a whisper on hers, fleeting.
After, his back to hers, and he’ll count her breaths like they mean something. Tomorrow they’ll do it again, and the day after that, too, and perhaps one day this will eventually grow into something different, something worthwhile.
They’ll try to build something from nothing and get nowhere fast.
In the end the both of them see this for what it is: a parting gift, the proverbial fuck you to the ones who left them behind.
IV. Veronica.
All those memories with the arching of backs and skin against skin? All those kisses and touches that kept him warm on the inside? The feel of her skin, the way her spine arches delicately under the light touch of his fingertips?
It never happened. It never, ever, ever happened.
It’s just easier to think of it that way.
Summary: Four women Lincoln never fucked.
Rating: R
Author's Notes: 1,030 words. General Series Spoilers. Obviously AU. For domfangirl 's birthday because she is super awesome and we always talk about Linc and how he needs to get some and thus, this happened. I'm posting it a day early because I'm pulling a double tomorrow and didn't want it to be late. I hope you have a fabulous birthday, dear! You deserve it. All mistakes are mine. These characters, however, are not. Hope you enjoy this.
I. Gretchen
Once upon a time, Lincoln was the type of person who never turned down sex. People always say that men will fuck just about anything and this kind of proves it true.
Except that besides the natural hatred he has for her (and trust him - it comes in spades, because she’s done nothing but make his life a living hell), she’s not that bad looking. Besides, he’s always had a general fondness for powerful women, so this isn’t completely out of the realm of possibilities.
He’s even slightly positive that if they were different people, in a different place, with entirely different agendas it wouldn’t spell out fifty different kinds of wrong,
Somehow it still manages to catch him off guard.
One minute they’re arguing, throwing insults left and right, and the next they’re kissing. Her back is against the wall and her nails are digging into the skin of his shoulder, deep, and he knows she’s drawing blood.
Lincoln matches her bit for bit, though. Bites skin and draws her lip between his own, biting down a tad bit more forcefully than he means. The taste of copper is on her lips and Lincoln kisses it away, pushes himself closer to her, their bodies molded into a long line.
Pants around his ankles, her legs around his waist and it’s quick and messy, weeks of pent-up frustration and he breathes an I hate you against the smooth column of her throat, I really fuckin’ hate you and Gretchen just laughs and laughs, the vibrations flowing right through him.
When they’re done he unceremoniously lets her legs drop to floor, pulls up his pants. Doesn’t look in her direction at all.
The back of her hand wipes at her mouth, and there is a sick, twisted little smile on her lips when she says, “This never happened.”
And it is fine by him, really, except later it pisses him off to no end that he can’t figure out just who played who in this twisted scenario.
II. Jane
It starts with a question:
“Why should I trust you?”
And Jane had looked up at him, hand on hip, and said evenly, “Because they want me dead too,” and Lincoln had believed her enough to entrust her with his son’s life and if he had watched her walk away for a beat longer than is appropriate he blames it on something else entirely.
When all is said and done there’s a beach, with the sun setting on cue and it’s just one of those moments. He’s got his son back and life is good for the first time in years and her hair is something gorgeous in the golden light of the sunset.
(He’ll blame it all on that somewhere down the line, he vows, when another ending has come his way.)
“Thank you,” he says and means it and she nods and smiles, shrugging slightly.
Maybe it’s her who kisses him (probably not, though) and maybe it means something and maybe it’s been a while and Lincoln just wants to feel.
It doesn’t matter, however, because she kisses him back, a free arm curling around his neck, the other fisting in the cotton of his shirt.
Lincoln is not surprised that Jane is as good at this as she is most everything else, and his hips meet hers with a genuinely frantic pace, eyes closed, and it shocks the hell out of him that he thinks of her the entire time instead of somebody else entirely.
Maybe, after, they try to make it work. Build a life. Maybe he takes whatever hope he has left and takes a chance on her. Maybe he tries to move forward, her by her side.
Maybe it doesn’t even matter.
Lincoln’s had his second chance already, remember?
III. Sara
Michael never makes it out of Sona alive.
There’s no Gretchen or Whistler. There’s no battle against the company. No LA and second chances at redemption. He just goes in and doesn’t come out, end of story.
(It should have been the end of their story.)
When it happens, it just sort of happens. There’s is no natural build up.
It’s Panama. It’s the beach. It’s the life after.
They both stay because there’s nothing to go back to. They have no home, no family, nothing and they build a home without even trying, open a surf shop with LJ in toe, the undercurrent strong and palpable, constantly sighing between them in two syllables reminiscent of the name Michael.
When it happens he’s drunk and maybe she is, too (on the wagon, off the wagon, these days it is a constant, vicious cycle for Sara) and he’s rough and angry, fingers grasping her writs and pinning them above their heads.
It’s nice, with the bent knees, and hips meeting hips, and Lincoln fucks Sara like he doesn’t know her at all. It’s fitting, really, because he doesn’t, not even a little bit, and if he is being completley honestly with himself, he likes it that way. It makes it easier.
Their lives are wrapped up in the things they don’t say, the subjects they don’t dare touch. Lincoln closes his eyes, and Sara closes hers, and they kiss, just once, his lips a hint of a whisper on hers, fleeting.
After, his back to hers, and he’ll count her breaths like they mean something. Tomorrow they’ll do it again, and the day after that, too, and perhaps one day this will eventually grow into something different, something worthwhile.
They’ll try to build something from nothing and get nowhere fast.
In the end the both of them see this for what it is: a parting gift, the proverbial fuck you to the ones who left them behind.
IV. Veronica.
All those memories with the arching of backs and skin against skin? All those kisses and touches that kept him warm on the inside? The feel of her skin, the way her spine arches delicately under the light touch of his fingertips?
It never happened. It never, ever, ever happened.
It’s just easier to think of it that way.