FIC: Hooked (The Island)
Title: Hooked
Author: Galadriel (caras_galadhon)
Fandom: The Island
Pairing: Lincoln 6 Echo/Merrick
Rating: M
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: Absolutely not mine. The Island belongs entirely to Michael Bay and Dreamworks, and I could never, in my wildest dreams, make that many things crash and/or blow up in one single story anyway.
Summary: Lincoln 6 Echo has some time to reflect.
Warning: Pretty serious spoiler warnings for the end of the movie. Kink, non-con. Check the end of the story for specific warnings.
Notes: My god, my fandoms have collided! (Thanks to cinzia for title help and read-through, and to savageseraph for rating help.)
Hooked
By Galadriel
By the time the other Products -- Lincoln was still unsure how to refer to himself and them -- made it through the rubble to hoist him up onto the catwalk, his shoulder had gone numb. He knew, distantly, that the spike was still embedded beneath his skin, deep in the muscle, just as he knew that if it had not been, he would have plunged to his death (and his Sponsor's, he noted, if he had still had one) a long time ago. The pain had faded to a memory (but it was a real memory, he assured himself, his and his alone) that lingered only in the occasional twitches of sinew as he swung gently back and forth.
While patience was something that didn't quite fit him, waiting was still something he was expert at, and so Lincoln passed the time between mortality and salvation studying Dr. Merrick. He looked surprisingly like himself in death, but then, there had been no real death in the Institute, just smiling faces, happy congratulations and clean disappearances, and all Lincoln had with which to compare the doctor's demise was the peculiar expression of surprise he'd seen on Lima's face, as if he had blundered in and disturbed her postmortem rest. Granted, Dr. Merrick's omnipresent glasses were long gone, his neatly-pressed suit and slicked-back hair were rumpled beyond repair, and the longer the two of them hung in midair, the bluer his lips became. Lips that were thinner, tighter than Jordan's, lips that had stretched over white, shiny teeth, mimicking concern as they pursed and moulded around breath. Lips that were closer... further away... closer with each slight sway.
They felt nothing like Jordan's. Not warm, not pliant, not responsive, but there was solace in the doctor's silence, ease in the press of cooling lips to warm, in passive power over the powerful.
By the time the other Products made it through the rubble to hoist Lincoln up onto the catwalk, he was twined with Dr. Merrick, no longer grappling, simply holding on, rocking against him, finding comfort where before there had been none.
END
(July 23, 2005)
Warning: This'll make the second fic I've written featuring necrophilia. Nice, eh? And this one's much tamer than the last!
Crossposted to sons_of_gondor, island_sex.
Author: Galadriel (caras_galadhon)
Fandom: The Island
Pairing: Lincoln 6 Echo/Merrick
Rating: M
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: Absolutely not mine. The Island belongs entirely to Michael Bay and Dreamworks, and I could never, in my wildest dreams, make that many things crash and/or blow up in one single story anyway.
Summary: Lincoln 6 Echo has some time to reflect.
Warning: Pretty serious spoiler warnings for the end of the movie. Kink, non-con. Check the end of the story for specific warnings.
Notes: My god, my fandoms have collided! (Thanks to cinzia for title help and read-through, and to savageseraph for rating help.)
Hooked
By Galadriel
By the time the other Products -- Lincoln was still unsure how to refer to himself and them -- made it through the rubble to hoist him up onto the catwalk, his shoulder had gone numb. He knew, distantly, that the spike was still embedded beneath his skin, deep in the muscle, just as he knew that if it had not been, he would have plunged to his death (and his Sponsor's, he noted, if he had still had one) a long time ago. The pain had faded to a memory (but it was a real memory, he assured himself, his and his alone) that lingered only in the occasional twitches of sinew as he swung gently back and forth.
While patience was something that didn't quite fit him, waiting was still something he was expert at, and so Lincoln passed the time between mortality and salvation studying Dr. Merrick. He looked surprisingly like himself in death, but then, there had been no real death in the Institute, just smiling faces, happy congratulations and clean disappearances, and all Lincoln had with which to compare the doctor's demise was the peculiar expression of surprise he'd seen on Lima's face, as if he had blundered in and disturbed her postmortem rest. Granted, Dr. Merrick's omnipresent glasses were long gone, his neatly-pressed suit and slicked-back hair were rumpled beyond repair, and the longer the two of them hung in midair, the bluer his lips became. Lips that were thinner, tighter than Jordan's, lips that had stretched over white, shiny teeth, mimicking concern as they pursed and moulded around breath. Lips that were closer... further away... closer with each slight sway.
They felt nothing like Jordan's. Not warm, not pliant, not responsive, but there was solace in the doctor's silence, ease in the press of cooling lips to warm, in passive power over the powerful.
By the time the other Products made it through the rubble to hoist Lincoln up onto the catwalk, he was twined with Dr. Merrick, no longer grappling, simply holding on, rocking against him, finding comfort where before there had been none.
END
(July 23, 2005)
Warning: This'll make the second fic I've written featuring necrophilia. Nice, eh? And this one's much tamer than the last!
Crossposted to sons_of_gondor, island_sex.