Prison Break - Knowing Better
Title: Knowing Better
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Sara/Michael
Category: Het
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~ 385
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: She’s been there, done that and knows better. But... (Season 1)
Author’s Note: Written for April’s Fool mini-round at rounds-of-kink. Prompts: forbidden pleasures, mug’s game. Don’t let the prompts fool you, though, it’s probably more angsty than kinky.
Beta: Many thanks to torigates.
She’s not aroused because the very thought is forbidden, nor is she turned on because of the obvious, mandatory interdict. She doesn’t get off on the notion that it’s - that he is - off limits or, even more so, than she is off limits for him.
She used to revel in such moving sands. She got caught quite a few times and was deep enough in it to actually, foolishly enjoy it. It’s not the case anymore, and she certainly hopes it won’t happen again. She’s been there, done that and knows better.
But...
Some days, it’s just impossible to discard the fact that she’s supposed to touch him. It’s a pregnant part of her task, and she takes pride in doing it correctly, thoroughly, decently. Personal morality and professional ethics are sufficient to prevent her from doing anything that isn’t strictly necessary, but not enough to keep her from enjoying the contact. Contacts, plural: human contact, eye contact, skin contact. Check his throat, check his heart, breathe in his scent. Albeit a rather thin one, stethoscope and latex gloves are an armor. As long as she keeps her literal and metaphorical lab coat on, it’s okay.
Some evenings, it clings to her and refuses to leave her alone. She doesn’t really mind. She knows she must distance herself from her job, knows how to do it and is aware it’s not always entirely possible. As long as it doesn’t become disproportionate - and she’s not there yet - it’s okay.
Some nights, it’s not so okay anymore though. On those nights, she wakes up drenched - she won’t linger on the specifics - and almost feverish, roused from some dream by her thumping heartbeats and ragged breathing. She resorts to the pretext that she’s half asleep, still half dreaming, to roll onto her back and arch up under her own touch. She doesn’t even bother keeping at bay memories of soft, whispered voice and sensations of incidental brushes of hands. She thrives in them and lets them wash over her.
It would be a mug’s game anyway, to want to control and restrain her sleeping self, the one who mockingly overlooks that she’s been there, done that and knows better. Actually, maybe it’s not so much about forbiddance, interdicts, taboos and finding release. Maybe it’s a lot worse than that.
* *
Comments are always appreciated and cherished ;)
April 4, 2009
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Sara/Michael
Category: Het
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~ 385
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: She’s been there, done that and knows better. But... (Season 1)
Author’s Note: Written for April’s Fool mini-round at rounds-of-kink. Prompts: forbidden pleasures, mug’s game. Don’t let the prompts fool you, though, it’s probably more angsty than kinky.
Beta: Many thanks to torigates.
She’s not aroused because the very thought is forbidden, nor is she turned on because of the obvious, mandatory interdict. She doesn’t get off on the notion that it’s - that he is - off limits or, even more so, than she is off limits for him.
She used to revel in such moving sands. She got caught quite a few times and was deep enough in it to actually, foolishly enjoy it. It’s not the case anymore, and she certainly hopes it won’t happen again. She’s been there, done that and knows better.
But...
Some days, it’s just impossible to discard the fact that she’s supposed to touch him. It’s a pregnant part of her task, and she takes pride in doing it correctly, thoroughly, decently. Personal morality and professional ethics are sufficient to prevent her from doing anything that isn’t strictly necessary, but not enough to keep her from enjoying the contact. Contacts, plural: human contact, eye contact, skin contact. Check his throat, check his heart, breathe in his scent. Albeit a rather thin one, stethoscope and latex gloves are an armor. As long as she keeps her literal and metaphorical lab coat on, it’s okay.
Some evenings, it clings to her and refuses to leave her alone. She doesn’t really mind. She knows she must distance herself from her job, knows how to do it and is aware it’s not always entirely possible. As long as it doesn’t become disproportionate - and she’s not there yet - it’s okay.
Some nights, it’s not so okay anymore though. On those nights, she wakes up drenched - she won’t linger on the specifics - and almost feverish, roused from some dream by her thumping heartbeats and ragged breathing. She resorts to the pretext that she’s half asleep, still half dreaming, to roll onto her back and arch up under her own touch. She doesn’t even bother keeping at bay memories of soft, whispered voice and sensations of incidental brushes of hands. She thrives in them and lets them wash over her.
It would be a mug’s game anyway, to want to control and restrain her sleeping self, the one who mockingly overlooks that she’s been there, done that and knows better. Actually, maybe it’s not so much about forbiddance, interdicts, taboos and finding release. Maybe it’s a lot worse than that.
* *
Comments are always appreciated and cherished ;)
April 4, 2009