Pairing: Michael/OMC, thoughts of Lincoln (Slash)
Spoilers and/or Warnings: Hints of brothercest.
Summary: There is nothing that truly approximates the person we really want…
Author's Notes: Written for fanfic100, where I have the slash pairing of Lincoln and Michael. This is for prompt #49, “Club.” This is also the revised version of this story written for 60_minute_fics, for the prompt "Leather Pants." Visual prompt, anyone?
On Thursday nights, no-one expects things to get serious. No-one’s really looking for anything permanent or real.
When Michael weakens… he holds out until Thursday before he gives in to that longing that never dies.
He stops by his apartment for a bite to eat and a quick shower. Then he stands in front of the closet, running over his options and kidding himself about whether this is even a choice anymore.
In the back, where a curious glance won’t find them, hang a leather jacket and a pair of matching pants.
It’s totally not him, this whole rough-trade image. That’s part of the attraction—he knows it now. The straight-arrow person who goes to his office job during the week, who is responsible and courteous and intensely serious above all else—that man does not go out to bars and pick up other men. That man tells himself that there’s another future for him, one with a wife and children and a vacation home.
This other man is someone Michael doesn’t even know.
This man has deep-seated desires for things he will never have. For someone he is not allowed to want, and for a life that is never going to happen. Michael doesn’t really know how to let go of this man, how to keep him from coming back and ripping through all the tidy threads of his button-down life with his intense and unspeakable need to keep returning to the same hopeless, endlessly wrong fantasy.
When Michael’s all dressed up-- when he becomes this other man for awhile-- it’s so much easier to pretend that he’s not really that person… not both of those people all at once. He’s a wet-dream personified, nothing like the real Michael at all. There is no way Michael can reconcile these two halves, so it’s better to keep them compartmentalized as far away from each other as possible.
Leather pants, white tank-shirt, studded belt and ass-kicker boots. He adds dark glasses—ridiculously unnecessary at night, but it’s part of the look—and slips on the jacket last. The mirror tells him he is clearly not-Michael now, and that his chances for scoring look damn good.
Two El stops away, on the other side of town, lies The Backdoor. It’s far away from where Michael lives or works, and it lowers the risk of running into anyone he really knows. It’s smoky inside, the band cranked up loud already with a mix of old and new metal. The beat comes in shock-waves through the floor, through Michael’s feet, and he is moving to it as soon as he steps through the door.
It’s hot inside the club, but he ignores that for now, moving with confidence over to the bar. He orders scotch neat, one glass down and a second one to sip as he watches the crowd and scopes out his possibilities.
There. Leaning against a column, the man is tall and muscled, his hair dark against fair skin. He’s wearing tight blue jeans, a white t-shirt, and a leather jacket of his own. Even from here, Michael is ready to just take that package for a ride.
Those eyes scan the room as the music goes on, and Michael takes off his jacket to draw them over with that movement. The eyes meet his—brown, Michael thinks, not blue, but it’s never quite perfect. Michael lets his mouth form a lazy smile, lets it grow as it reels the man in. In seconds, they are side-by-side, each sizing the other up.
“I’m Gary,” the other man says (though Michael doubts it, because no-one ever uses real names at first). “David,” Michael answers, and they shake like this is business. And perhaps it is.
They make small-talk, sports to start with, music next. Michael watches the way that heavy-lidded gaze travels to his chest, his mouth, his crotch and back up to his eyes again. He is hard already listening to that voice, and thank god it’s deep and rumbling the way it should be. A higher pitch would have killed the illusion completely.
A hand moves to his arm, stroking lightly as they move closer together. They meet in a kiss, halfway through a sentence about nothing, and the ache for More travels down a path from Michael’s tongue right to his groin. Blurred, heated kissing follows and Michael is straining against the front of those pants. Tight, so damned tight and smooth, with the crotch reverse-lined with more of that buttery leather. The pants jack him slightly every time he moves. Ohhhhhh his thoughts tantalize through the sensations. It’s going to be good this time.
And his mouth murmurs, “Outside?”
They slip out the back door, into the alley where the air is cool and clear again. In a spot unbroken by moonlight, they push back against the wall and resume their exploration. Michael licks and bites that neck with enough restraint not to bruise or draw blood. He’s trapped there, brick on one side and slow, rolling thrusts up against him on the other.
God it’s good, so good just from this alone. He could get off like this, and would be happy except for the cleaning up. But it wouldn’t be enough in the long run—it wouldn’t hit all of his needs quite hard enough. And he’d be back here before the week was up, which is not how this works. He is not going to let this become a way of life. He’s set up rules for himself just to keep that from happening.
Michael’s hands flow roughly across the man’s muscled chest, the feeling of its size making him just that much harder. He reaches for the zipper, their mouths tasting each other once more. Michael teases with his tongue, pushing in and out quickly before lightly nipping those almost full-enough lips. Then he urges their positions reversed, and slides to his knees where the real beginning beckons.
He tears the condom wrapper open with his teeth, sliding the latex sheath over the impressive length of his partner. His mouth follows it right on down, taking in that fullness with a barely muffled groan. His thumbs run up inside the man’s thighs as he moves his head slowly, sucking firmly and pulling off slightly to stress that plump and yielding tip. Down again, harder, until he hears strained breathing and the hands on his shoulders are tight.
Michael pulls off again, stands up and unzips his own pants in one quick motion. He shoves them down, bracing himself up against the wall and leaning back slightly as slick fingers and then welcome heat slide on home.
Rocking, thrusting, they move together in an agony of sensation. The hand around Michael’s ribs holds him still while the hand on his cock pulls and jerks. Everything folds and scatters and stretches and lets go. Harder—faster—and then suddenly it hits, and Michael’s head leans back into that broad shoulder behind him and he is coming all over the wall.
Harsh cries fill his head—maybe his own, maybe his partner’s—and Michael rolls through that glorious disorientation that calls him back to this again and again.
Afterward, they lean together. Michael’s hand covers the one across his groin, and he sways in time to the music still blaring through that closed door. The mouth on his neck, lapping slowly up under his ear, makes him shudder and gasp as that sense-memory replays itself.
When they face each other their eyes are black as the night itself, their lips swollen with the aftereffects of the encounter.
“Do you do this more than once?” The question climbs up out of the night.
“No,” Michael says. That’s the way it has to be.
“Me either,” the man answers. And there might be regret, if either of them were real right now. If any of this had ever happened.
The man smiles slowly, his eyes memorizing Michael’s face. Then he turns and steps into the moonlight, walking down the alley to the street beyond.
Michael leans against the wall and watches him go. It’s always over too soon, this bittersweet taste of his unfulfilled dreams. But this is what he’s allowed. Because the other goes by a name too forbidden to say.
It was so close with this guy tonight. Maybe the closest it’s ever been. But it doesn’t matter.
For all the similarities, and the incredible rush of sliding inside that fantasy… that man still wasn’t Lincoln.
And without that, he will never be the one that Michael wants.
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