Fic: Sin-Eater (Michael/Lincoln, NC-17)
Title: Sin-Eater
Author: callmetofu
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Michael/Lincoln
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Incest, Ageplay, Darkness
Disclaimer: Not Mine
Notes: Written for rounds_of_kink for the prompt by deadbeat_nymph. Michael wants to be free of guilt, anxiety and responsibility. Kink: Ageplay
Beta: deadbeat_nymph
Sin-Eater
Past
You know what he wants, what Michael needs, even if it takes him an alcohol overdose or a breakdown to admit. It's not that you aren't perceptive. Just that you have made a life out of not looking too hard at others. Especially not the ones you love.
He always was a hyperactive kid, one that went back and forth between clinginess and solitary exploration. When he was a kid, he'd sometimes come into your bed. You would laugh at him and call him baby and play with his face, painting lines and smiley faces on his cheeks with your finger. He'd pout and pretend he didn't like it; but he'd always come back.
It's not that Michael likes it, only sometimes. It's Michael's deal and he springs it on you when he wants it. Hasn't happened in a long time.
Last time Mike was in his twenties, just a few exams shy from ending college. He had this smoky look in his eyes and you pulled him into a bear hug on the couch. Played with him. You were so drunk it was so fucking funny and he rolled his eyes like you weren't good at this.
Never happened again after that.
You'll always remember that look on his face, that day, that you went for Steadman. You weren't good enough, not good enough to be a parent, not good enough to be a man. It stuck with you. You called him on the phone that night, but it didn't make a difference, at least that's what you thought.
Mike is a grown man now, you know it for sure the moment he comes to you in prison. He wears a web of lies and secrets like a second skin now and he is good at it and in a way you are proud. It's how he always should have been, so who are you to object.
Condition
It doesn't last. Cracks begin to show. You try your best, try to be supportive. Try to be the good brother that you should be. New hopes and fears live in Mike's eyes now, you can tell. It's Michael's life now really. It doesn't leave much you can do. You have always been prepared for this, on some level you have craved it all your life, to be free, free of each other. You know how to act, but it's still strange when it happens.
No matter what you do Michael keeps on giving, no longer just for you but for everyone he can find it seems sometimes. Every other man you would expect to grow cold. Yes, there is anger, yes there's rage, but above all Michael just keeps on breaking. All you do is stand by, but you just can't bring yourself to take his freedom. Even when you try to help, it's always Michael who can catch himself, even when the close calls keep on getting closer.
Not your job. Maybe hasn't been for a long time.
Maybe never again.
Not unless Michael asks.
It should all get better once you stop running, you tell yourself, but you always had a feeling it wouldn't work out that way. Nowhere to run anymore just means time for all those thoughts to come back, even if Michael hides it well behind his face. You buried your own, you are good at that. Can never tell how it is with Michael.
You know there's an armor of strength wrapped tight around a bunch of pain and need. You turn your eyes away because it's not your style. Not your job to knock down that protective layer, feel the cracks and rip them open. It's Mike's achievement, built carefully through many years.
Above all, it's no longer your place to be the one to soothe his bleeding heart. It's not something you think of, just something that is real and you know every time you look into his face.
You try hard not to do that.
He's got that look now as he stares at you across the room. His gaze can spear a man, full of secrets you are too embarrassed to ever admit to anyone. A silent conversation takes place unnoticed in the crowded room until he gets up to step out of the door.
You respond uneasily and scratch your neck before you rise to follow.
Transfer
There's a certain heaviness to Michael's step now, the way his shoulders move. It wasn't there before. The weight of everything he's seen bears down on him. It hasn't slumped his shoulders, yet, it has only made him stronger. You didn't think he'd make it. Truth to be told, you thought neither of you would, but even if you don't like to think about it, Michael, your precious baby brother, is stronger than you ever knew.
He has adapted. Everything about him is a stance of authority. By now it's a second nature. One that Michael slips on like a mask. There are no wrong notes in his projection. At least none that you can detect. It is him and it's not.
Now he walks in front of you, the sound of his feet getting lighter with each step. He draws his shoulders back and through his washed out sweater you can see the bunched up muscles drawing tight and then relaxing. Almost indiscernibly he begins to shake.
Like following an invisible script you slide your arms around him, pull him in. Your hand strokes the back of his neck, a signal of possession, no matter how tender you try to be.
“You mine?” you ask and he gives you this long, hard look like he wonders whether he should break the charade. Next thing his features soften and with wide eyes he slumps forward with a whispered Yes. Yes.
You pull him against your chest and walk him over to the bed. Bonelessly he sinks down, his eyes wide and his jaw slack. He shivers in your arms and doesn't resist when you ease him down into the cushions and pull his sweater over his head.
“You are mine,” you tell him and kiss the side of his cheek. “There's nothing you can do.” It strikes a chord within him, because his eyes roll back into his head and his breath turns into deep, labored rasps.
You run your hands over his chest, feeling the buttons of his shirt rub against your palm.
“You don't want this,” you whisper in his ear. Your hand trails lower. He's achingly hard already and you wrap your hand around his weeping cock inside his smooth elastic pants. “It's not your fault. You didn't ask for this.”
His breathing speeds up and you no longer need a plan. You throw line after line out there, while you massage his leaking shaft, more of its precome slicking up your palm. Michael's body reacts, showing just what it yearns for and you follow his intended scenario as you guess your way along the way. You don't want to know why he's doing it, what dead men's shadows dance behind Michael's eyes as he twists under your touch.
“Slut,” you whisper and he moans and arches upwards. Your hand curls around the back of his head, regretting that there isn't enough hair to be tugged. “You hate me,” you instruct and his eyes blaze up. “You hate what I'm doing, but I'm making you. You can't fight it.” The delicate flesh of his ear haunts your lips and you taste it with your teeth. Tension still radiates from him as you grip his arms firmly.
“Daddy,” he moans and a shiver crawls down your spine, because Michael's has never had one, has never known what it means; because it's not Michael who should call you that, especially not like this. The proximity to him is killing you, just the heat of his body next to yours, the way the air escapes his inviting, half opened lips. This is not for you, you remind yourself, it's for him, and you continue.
“You are just a kid,” you say and your lips breathe across his nipples through the protective layer of his shirt. Underneath, his muscles still fight, wanting but still unwilling to give up the meticulously constructed veneer of control. When it slips you are no longer you, only what Michael needs.
A silent tear runs out of the corner of his eye, but he bucks up, his dick hard up against his belly, leaking precome down its length. “You are my baby. You can't help yourself,” you whisper and warm your arms around his body. He starts to tremble in your arms and the tears flow more freely now.
“Baby,” he repeats, his voice choked up, croaking light and childish in his throat. His eyes look up, wide and innocent before he buries his face against your chest. “Baby, baby,” he keeps saying, his eyes closed now and his lips trembling. Then his face slides deeper, rubbing deep against your crotch. He makes you want to run, but he's not gonna let you get away with this. He exposes you and makes you hard.
“Please,” he says. “Please, hurt me,” and you obey. His cheek is in your palm and you kiss his ear as he turns his face away. There's no tension in his wrists as you slap him down on the cheap mattress, his sinuous body responding to your touch as he surrenders himself completely.
“Linkie,” Michael begs. “Linkie,” and it's bad and wrong. He calls you by your childhood name, what he used to call you as a baby. You try hard not to listen.
“It's so big,” he murmurs and it takes a while for you to register what he means as you press up alongside his body. Michael's mouth is wet and swollen like a red open wound. You run your palms across his chest and he moans. “What's happening to me?”
“Gonna make you feel good. Can you feel it?” You babble without plan now. Your brain no longer gets a vote. Must be the right things you say, from the way that Michael moves while you whisper dirtily into ear. You got him flipped on his belly, plump ass in the air, with legs spread and his pants pushed down. He is yours now and you want him. Every second you have to wait is torture. You still have to prepare him, lick your thumb, odd and large against your tongue, before you turn to him.
Tears stream freely down his face now, like a kid being violated, but he still groans your name. “Linkie, Linkie, fuck me, please.” His ass rocks up and his muscles clench. “I need it so bad. Dirty, dirty, dirty. Make me clean.”
Your thumb slides in easily and before long, you get another finger in, widening him. You can't think. Can't think about how hot and tight it is. Unexpected smooth like velvet. If you stop to think about it you will come all over yourself just like that. You slap his ass with one hand and push deeper.
Michael is open and so needy, pushing up against your hand, moving with you. You can feel his body twisting when you have hit the right spot. “Umm, I have to...” you begin.
“No.” His head jerks up. “Make it hurt.”
You crush him into the mattress because that is what he wants.
“I did it. I made you do it. If it weren't for me, nothing would ever have happened.” You slap his ass and he jerks, red streaks forming on his skin. It no longer feels like a game. “I broke you. I hurt you. I made you.”
You kiss along the line of his jaw.
“All your sins.” Kiss. “Belong to me.”
Release
Afterwards he lies demurely next to you, his head submissively placed on your chest. Your arm is wrapped around his shoulders and you desperately try to remember that they are the shoulders of a grown man.
It was a lie you tell yourself. You told him what he needed to hear. You are not to blame.
Michael's breath dances lightly across skin, a soundless thank you. He takes a big breath and pulls himself up at last. You join him, rising from the bed, readjusting your clothes just like him. You both are still sweat stained, but the sweater pulled over head, a calm face and it seems that every trace of what he just did is gone.
You stand together without a word. When he looks at you like that, for a moment it feels like you know what it's like to be him. What it means to carry the sins of the world on your back and to wish to pay for them. It's all wrong, because that's not what you do, not how you roll. You can't be Michael, ever. It's just wrong, un-you to stand in his place, move in his skin.
Looking at him, for a moment it makes you want to bend over and brace yourself against the wall and beg him to fuck you, to punish you and take away all that you have done. Everything you know you have done, even when you haven't.
And a moment later you do.
You stand, your palms against the rough surface. He's behind you, his fingers curling around your hips. He knows best how it's done, yanks down your pants without emotion. A modicum of preparation and Michael's inside you and - god - it fucking burns. It takes all your self control not to whirl around and elbow him, waiting for the satisfying crunch of bone.
Breathing hard you brace yourself. You aren't sure what you are doing or why, but the way Michael moves tells you that it's important. This isn't about you. It's about what you carry for both of you. He knows exactly how it's supposed to be done and you wonder how often Michael has thought of it. Thought of having it being done to him or has had it done.
For the first time in a long while Michael's mind seems tantalizingly close, bubbling up from the surface and you decide it's a place you never wanna be. You let yourself fall. Sweat dripping down your back, slicking, slipping. Your mind is instinct and darkness, a wild animal under Michael's control. You are connected, deep inside, in a way you've never been. Bodies moving in accord you give yourself. Rough and painful heat, and strings of thoughts turn to gibberish.
Fuck. Why did you ever agree to this? Both your grunts fill the air as Michael slams into you and your brain still concentrates to decide on fight or flight. You gnash your teeth together.
He slams into you with mechanical precision, hitting that spot over and over again as you grunt welcomingly. Michael's hands claw into the small of your back and he thrusts faster, that tightly wound determination unraveling and for a moment you think that maybe you could get used to this. Tingling electricity travels up your spine originating somewhere down at the back of your calves.
Seconds later you feel it, Michael, going rigid, hitting the peak. A hoarse cry of success rips from Michael's throat as he slams into you and releases, spasming wildly. Behind you Michael's knees buckle as he spends himself inside of you till his legs begin to tremble.
Losing his grip, he slumps against your back and whispers in your ear, You are forgiven.
Author: callmetofu
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Michael/Lincoln
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Incest, Ageplay, Darkness
Disclaimer: Not Mine
Notes: Written for rounds_of_kink for the prompt by deadbeat_nymph. Michael wants to be free of guilt, anxiety and responsibility. Kink: Ageplay
Beta: deadbeat_nymph
Sin-Eater
Past
You know what he wants, what Michael needs, even if it takes him an alcohol overdose or a breakdown to admit. It's not that you aren't perceptive. Just that you have made a life out of not looking too hard at others. Especially not the ones you love.
He always was a hyperactive kid, one that went back and forth between clinginess and solitary exploration. When he was a kid, he'd sometimes come into your bed. You would laugh at him and call him baby and play with his face, painting lines and smiley faces on his cheeks with your finger. He'd pout and pretend he didn't like it; but he'd always come back.
It's not that Michael likes it, only sometimes. It's Michael's deal and he springs it on you when he wants it. Hasn't happened in a long time.
Last time Mike was in his twenties, just a few exams shy from ending college. He had this smoky look in his eyes and you pulled him into a bear hug on the couch. Played with him. You were so drunk it was so fucking funny and he rolled his eyes like you weren't good at this.
Never happened again after that.
You'll always remember that look on his face, that day, that you went for Steadman. You weren't good enough, not good enough to be a parent, not good enough to be a man. It stuck with you. You called him on the phone that night, but it didn't make a difference, at least that's what you thought.
Mike is a grown man now, you know it for sure the moment he comes to you in prison. He wears a web of lies and secrets like a second skin now and he is good at it and in a way you are proud. It's how he always should have been, so who are you to object.
Condition
It doesn't last. Cracks begin to show. You try your best, try to be supportive. Try to be the good brother that you should be. New hopes and fears live in Mike's eyes now, you can tell. It's Michael's life now really. It doesn't leave much you can do. You have always been prepared for this, on some level you have craved it all your life, to be free, free of each other. You know how to act, but it's still strange when it happens.
No matter what you do Michael keeps on giving, no longer just for you but for everyone he can find it seems sometimes. Every other man you would expect to grow cold. Yes, there is anger, yes there's rage, but above all Michael just keeps on breaking. All you do is stand by, but you just can't bring yourself to take his freedom. Even when you try to help, it's always Michael who can catch himself, even when the close calls keep on getting closer.
Not your job. Maybe hasn't been for a long time.
Maybe never again.
Not unless Michael asks.
It should all get better once you stop running, you tell yourself, but you always had a feeling it wouldn't work out that way. Nowhere to run anymore just means time for all those thoughts to come back, even if Michael hides it well behind his face. You buried your own, you are good at that. Can never tell how it is with Michael.
You know there's an armor of strength wrapped tight around a bunch of pain and need. You turn your eyes away because it's not your style. Not your job to knock down that protective layer, feel the cracks and rip them open. It's Mike's achievement, built carefully through many years.
Above all, it's no longer your place to be the one to soothe his bleeding heart. It's not something you think of, just something that is real and you know every time you look into his face.
You try hard not to do that.
He's got that look now as he stares at you across the room. His gaze can spear a man, full of secrets you are too embarrassed to ever admit to anyone. A silent conversation takes place unnoticed in the crowded room until he gets up to step out of the door.
You respond uneasily and scratch your neck before you rise to follow.
Transfer
There's a certain heaviness to Michael's step now, the way his shoulders move. It wasn't there before. The weight of everything he's seen bears down on him. It hasn't slumped his shoulders, yet, it has only made him stronger. You didn't think he'd make it. Truth to be told, you thought neither of you would, but even if you don't like to think about it, Michael, your precious baby brother, is stronger than you ever knew.
He has adapted. Everything about him is a stance of authority. By now it's a second nature. One that Michael slips on like a mask. There are no wrong notes in his projection. At least none that you can detect. It is him and it's not.
Now he walks in front of you, the sound of his feet getting lighter with each step. He draws his shoulders back and through his washed out sweater you can see the bunched up muscles drawing tight and then relaxing. Almost indiscernibly he begins to shake.
Like following an invisible script you slide your arms around him, pull him in. Your hand strokes the back of his neck, a signal of possession, no matter how tender you try to be.
“You mine?” you ask and he gives you this long, hard look like he wonders whether he should break the charade. Next thing his features soften and with wide eyes he slumps forward with a whispered Yes. Yes.
You pull him against your chest and walk him over to the bed. Bonelessly he sinks down, his eyes wide and his jaw slack. He shivers in your arms and doesn't resist when you ease him down into the cushions and pull his sweater over his head.
“You are mine,” you tell him and kiss the side of his cheek. “There's nothing you can do.” It strikes a chord within him, because his eyes roll back into his head and his breath turns into deep, labored rasps.
You run your hands over his chest, feeling the buttons of his shirt rub against your palm.
“You don't want this,” you whisper in his ear. Your hand trails lower. He's achingly hard already and you wrap your hand around his weeping cock inside his smooth elastic pants. “It's not your fault. You didn't ask for this.”
His breathing speeds up and you no longer need a plan. You throw line after line out there, while you massage his leaking shaft, more of its precome slicking up your palm. Michael's body reacts, showing just what it yearns for and you follow his intended scenario as you guess your way along the way. You don't want to know why he's doing it, what dead men's shadows dance behind Michael's eyes as he twists under your touch.
“Slut,” you whisper and he moans and arches upwards. Your hand curls around the back of his head, regretting that there isn't enough hair to be tugged. “You hate me,” you instruct and his eyes blaze up. “You hate what I'm doing, but I'm making you. You can't fight it.” The delicate flesh of his ear haunts your lips and you taste it with your teeth. Tension still radiates from him as you grip his arms firmly.
“Daddy,” he moans and a shiver crawls down your spine, because Michael's has never had one, has never known what it means; because it's not Michael who should call you that, especially not like this. The proximity to him is killing you, just the heat of his body next to yours, the way the air escapes his inviting, half opened lips. This is not for you, you remind yourself, it's for him, and you continue.
“You are just a kid,” you say and your lips breathe across his nipples through the protective layer of his shirt. Underneath, his muscles still fight, wanting but still unwilling to give up the meticulously constructed veneer of control. When it slips you are no longer you, only what Michael needs.
A silent tear runs out of the corner of his eye, but he bucks up, his dick hard up against his belly, leaking precome down its length. “You are my baby. You can't help yourself,” you whisper and warm your arms around his body. He starts to tremble in your arms and the tears flow more freely now.
“Baby,” he repeats, his voice choked up, croaking light and childish in his throat. His eyes look up, wide and innocent before he buries his face against your chest. “Baby, baby,” he keeps saying, his eyes closed now and his lips trembling. Then his face slides deeper, rubbing deep against your crotch. He makes you want to run, but he's not gonna let you get away with this. He exposes you and makes you hard.
“Please,” he says. “Please, hurt me,” and you obey. His cheek is in your palm and you kiss his ear as he turns his face away. There's no tension in his wrists as you slap him down on the cheap mattress, his sinuous body responding to your touch as he surrenders himself completely.
“Linkie,” Michael begs. “Linkie,” and it's bad and wrong. He calls you by your childhood name, what he used to call you as a baby. You try hard not to listen.
“It's so big,” he murmurs and it takes a while for you to register what he means as you press up alongside his body. Michael's mouth is wet and swollen like a red open wound. You run your palms across his chest and he moans. “What's happening to me?”
“Gonna make you feel good. Can you feel it?” You babble without plan now. Your brain no longer gets a vote. Must be the right things you say, from the way that Michael moves while you whisper dirtily into ear. You got him flipped on his belly, plump ass in the air, with legs spread and his pants pushed down. He is yours now and you want him. Every second you have to wait is torture. You still have to prepare him, lick your thumb, odd and large against your tongue, before you turn to him.
Tears stream freely down his face now, like a kid being violated, but he still groans your name. “Linkie, Linkie, fuck me, please.” His ass rocks up and his muscles clench. “I need it so bad. Dirty, dirty, dirty. Make me clean.”
Your thumb slides in easily and before long, you get another finger in, widening him. You can't think. Can't think about how hot and tight it is. Unexpected smooth like velvet. If you stop to think about it you will come all over yourself just like that. You slap his ass with one hand and push deeper.
Michael is open and so needy, pushing up against your hand, moving with you. You can feel his body twisting when you have hit the right spot. “Umm, I have to...” you begin.
“No.” His head jerks up. “Make it hurt.”
You crush him into the mattress because that is what he wants.
“I did it. I made you do it. If it weren't for me, nothing would ever have happened.” You slap his ass and he jerks, red streaks forming on his skin. It no longer feels like a game. “I broke you. I hurt you. I made you.”
You kiss along the line of his jaw.
“All your sins.” Kiss. “Belong to me.”
Release
Afterwards he lies demurely next to you, his head submissively placed on your chest. Your arm is wrapped around his shoulders and you desperately try to remember that they are the shoulders of a grown man.
It was a lie you tell yourself. You told him what he needed to hear. You are not to blame.
Michael's breath dances lightly across skin, a soundless thank you. He takes a big breath and pulls himself up at last. You join him, rising from the bed, readjusting your clothes just like him. You both are still sweat stained, but the sweater pulled over head, a calm face and it seems that every trace of what he just did is gone.
You stand together without a word. When he looks at you like that, for a moment it feels like you know what it's like to be him. What it means to carry the sins of the world on your back and to wish to pay for them. It's all wrong, because that's not what you do, not how you roll. You can't be Michael, ever. It's just wrong, un-you to stand in his place, move in his skin.
Looking at him, for a moment it makes you want to bend over and brace yourself against the wall and beg him to fuck you, to punish you and take away all that you have done. Everything you know you have done, even when you haven't.
And a moment later you do.
You stand, your palms against the rough surface. He's behind you, his fingers curling around your hips. He knows best how it's done, yanks down your pants without emotion. A modicum of preparation and Michael's inside you and - god - it fucking burns. It takes all your self control not to whirl around and elbow him, waiting for the satisfying crunch of bone.
Breathing hard you brace yourself. You aren't sure what you are doing or why, but the way Michael moves tells you that it's important. This isn't about you. It's about what you carry for both of you. He knows exactly how it's supposed to be done and you wonder how often Michael has thought of it. Thought of having it being done to him or has had it done.
For the first time in a long while Michael's mind seems tantalizingly close, bubbling up from the surface and you decide it's a place you never wanna be. You let yourself fall. Sweat dripping down your back, slicking, slipping. Your mind is instinct and darkness, a wild animal under Michael's control. You are connected, deep inside, in a way you've never been. Bodies moving in accord you give yourself. Rough and painful heat, and strings of thoughts turn to gibberish.
Fuck. Why did you ever agree to this? Both your grunts fill the air as Michael slams into you and your brain still concentrates to decide on fight or flight. You gnash your teeth together.
He slams into you with mechanical precision, hitting that spot over and over again as you grunt welcomingly. Michael's hands claw into the small of your back and he thrusts faster, that tightly wound determination unraveling and for a moment you think that maybe you could get used to this. Tingling electricity travels up your spine originating somewhere down at the back of your calves.
Seconds later you feel it, Michael, going rigid, hitting the peak. A hoarse cry of success rips from Michael's throat as he slams into you and releases, spasming wildly. Behind you Michael's knees buckle as he spends himself inside of you till his legs begin to tremble.
Losing his grip, he slumps against your back and whispers in your ear, You are forgiven.