Prison Break - Undressing Technicalities (The Ballet)
Title: Undressing Technicalities (The Ballet)
Author: clair-de-lune
Pairing: Michael/Sara/Lincoln
Categories: Het, slash
Rating: R
Word Count: ~ 885
Warning: Incest
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: That’s the rule the three of them laid out: no guilt, no apologies. (Post-series, non-epilogue compliant)
Author’s Note: Set in the Secretive ‘universe’.
Many thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
First and foremost: no strip-tease. Not after what happened because Lincoln thought a strip-tease would be a good idea.
Other than that...
- - - - -
Michael always undresses her as though he isn’t entirely sure she’s real and here and his. Delicate, careful and slow to the point of making her crazy with need or impatience depending on her mood. Maybe it’s not entirely unintentional of him, twisted brat that he is. It doesn’t infer anything about the way he will take her - or have her take him - later, though, and that’s a good thing. A delicious thing that keeps her on her toes, wondering and imagining and...
Lincoln sucks at waiting and watching. Lincoln isn’t big on patience, so all the while, he paces and fidgets, licks his lips and illicitly brushes the expanses of smooth skin his brother is oh so unhurriedly baring. Michael frowns, scolds and slaps his hands away. Sara almost feels like thanking Lincoln for rushing things a little bit. Almost. She smiles, sighs and arches as Michael’s long fingers move up her legs and down her back. Against all odds and logic, Lincoln threatens to start without them. They could tease him, but they’re nicer than that so they kiss him - lips, neck, torso...
- - - - -
Lincoln always undresses her as though he thinks he’s going to find out something new, something he didn’t see the dozens of times he removed her clothes before. She laughs at him. He tells her there’s always something new to find out. She never looks exactly the same: he strokes the curve of her hip, where different shades of golden tan show up depending on the bathing suit she’s been wearing. She never smells exactly the same: he buries his nose between her breasts and breathes her in. She never tastes exactly the same: he dips his hands between her thighs and sucks on his fingers. She moans, and Michael groans.
Michael does enjoy watching, but he watches sitting on the edge of the bed or the chair, fighting not to spring up, fingers digging into the sheets or scraping the wicker. Lust and a hint of jealousy mingling, although he doesn’t know who he’s jealous of, Sara or Lincoln. It doesn’t matter, anyway; in the end, jealousy is a moot point.
- - - - -
Sometimes, in the heat of the moment, clothes stay on. They just push up, down and aside anything that represents a hindrance, and topple into bed; pin whoever needs to be pinned against the wall; spread one of them across the couch. There is an entwinement of arms and legs, flashes of sweaty skin, dress and shirts bundling at the waist, up the chest and down the hips, mishmash of sighs and moans, fuck and so hot and oh, God - and the one with the pottiest mouth might not be the obvious one.
They undress after and joke about reversed timing.
- - - - -
Sara is greedy. Or is it the intent to give both of them the same attention? Not that they really care about the explanation; they usually have more urgent things to think about. The fact is when she’s in charge, she undresses them in perfect symmetry. She hopes that Michael appreciates said symmetry for its true worth, by the way. A tee-shirt from each of them, same for pants or shorts, and a half-derisive, half-aroused “Classy, Lincoln” when Linc hasn’t bothered with underwear that day.
She keeps her clothes on all the while, which makes her, as Michael points out, greedy for skin and power. But since Lincoln thinks that “It’s damn hot,” and Michael isn’t far from agreeing, there’s no reason for her to stop, right?
- - - - -
Every now and then, they undress one another and she’s the one who watches. She’s better at it than Lincoln and less edgy than Michael, but barely. They know it, but they only put on a show for her occasionally. Most of the time, they’re just wrapped into each other, remembering she’s here when she gets rid of her clothes, and her dress or her bra flies across the room and lands at their feet.
They grin at her and don’t apologize. That’s the rule the three of them laid out: no guilt, no apologies. They do finish stripping her down so fast that she hardly has the time to realize what’s going on, though.
- - - - -
And then, there are the times when clothes slip to the floor in triangular synchronization, opened and pushed up or down, buttons and zippers undone, taking away with them the last shreds of composure or restraint. Fingers indifferently tug on a shirt, pants, a bra, a belt, whatever as long as more skin is exposed and offered for kisses and caresses. Slow and lazy, almost sultry; or fast and frenzied, a button flying here, a stitching ripping there, collateral damages none of them pay attention to. Clothes draw a messy trail from the front door to the bedroom or an untidy pile by the couch that even Michael won’t care about. They’re discarded and forgotten as their owners sigh and move together. A little ballet relying on trust and love and complicity to be danced gracefully.
-End-
--Comments are always welcome.
Author: clair-de-lune
Pairing: Michael/Sara/Lincoln
Categories: Het, slash
Rating: R
Word Count: ~ 885
Warning: Incest
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: That’s the rule the three of them laid out: no guilt, no apologies. (Post-series, non-epilogue compliant)
Author’s Note: Set in the Secretive ‘universe’.
Many thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
First and foremost: no strip-tease. Not after what happened because Lincoln thought a strip-tease would be a good idea.
Other than that...
- - - - -
Michael always undresses her as though he isn’t entirely sure she’s real and here and his. Delicate, careful and slow to the point of making her crazy with need or impatience depending on her mood. Maybe it’s not entirely unintentional of him, twisted brat that he is. It doesn’t infer anything about the way he will take her - or have her take him - later, though, and that’s a good thing. A delicious thing that keeps her on her toes, wondering and imagining and...
Lincoln sucks at waiting and watching. Lincoln isn’t big on patience, so all the while, he paces and fidgets, licks his lips and illicitly brushes the expanses of smooth skin his brother is oh so unhurriedly baring. Michael frowns, scolds and slaps his hands away. Sara almost feels like thanking Lincoln for rushing things a little bit. Almost. She smiles, sighs and arches as Michael’s long fingers move up her legs and down her back. Against all odds and logic, Lincoln threatens to start without them. They could tease him, but they’re nicer than that so they kiss him - lips, neck, torso...
- - - - -
Lincoln always undresses her as though he thinks he’s going to find out something new, something he didn’t see the dozens of times he removed her clothes before. She laughs at him. He tells her there’s always something new to find out. She never looks exactly the same: he strokes the curve of her hip, where different shades of golden tan show up depending on the bathing suit she’s been wearing. She never smells exactly the same: he buries his nose between her breasts and breathes her in. She never tastes exactly the same: he dips his hands between her thighs and sucks on his fingers. She moans, and Michael groans.
Michael does enjoy watching, but he watches sitting on the edge of the bed or the chair, fighting not to spring up, fingers digging into the sheets or scraping the wicker. Lust and a hint of jealousy mingling, although he doesn’t know who he’s jealous of, Sara or Lincoln. It doesn’t matter, anyway; in the end, jealousy is a moot point.
- - - - -
Sometimes, in the heat of the moment, clothes stay on. They just push up, down and aside anything that represents a hindrance, and topple into bed; pin whoever needs to be pinned against the wall; spread one of them across the couch. There is an entwinement of arms and legs, flashes of sweaty skin, dress and shirts bundling at the waist, up the chest and down the hips, mishmash of sighs and moans, fuck and so hot and oh, God - and the one with the pottiest mouth might not be the obvious one.
They undress after and joke about reversed timing.
- - - - -
Sara is greedy. Or is it the intent to give both of them the same attention? Not that they really care about the explanation; they usually have more urgent things to think about. The fact is when she’s in charge, she undresses them in perfect symmetry. She hopes that Michael appreciates said symmetry for its true worth, by the way. A tee-shirt from each of them, same for pants or shorts, and a half-derisive, half-aroused “Classy, Lincoln” when Linc hasn’t bothered with underwear that day.
She keeps her clothes on all the while, which makes her, as Michael points out, greedy for skin and power. But since Lincoln thinks that “It’s damn hot,” and Michael isn’t far from agreeing, there’s no reason for her to stop, right?
- - - - -
Every now and then, they undress one another and she’s the one who watches. She’s better at it than Lincoln and less edgy than Michael, but barely. They know it, but they only put on a show for her occasionally. Most of the time, they’re just wrapped into each other, remembering she’s here when she gets rid of her clothes, and her dress or her bra flies across the room and lands at their feet.
They grin at her and don’t apologize. That’s the rule the three of them laid out: no guilt, no apologies. They do finish stripping her down so fast that she hardly has the time to realize what’s going on, though.
- - - - -
And then, there are the times when clothes slip to the floor in triangular synchronization, opened and pushed up or down, buttons and zippers undone, taking away with them the last shreds of composure or restraint. Fingers indifferently tug on a shirt, pants, a bra, a belt, whatever as long as more skin is exposed and offered for kisses and caresses. Slow and lazy, almost sultry; or fast and frenzied, a button flying here, a stitching ripping there, collateral damages none of them pay attention to. Clothes draw a messy trail from the front door to the bedroom or an untidy pile by the couch that even Michael won’t care about. They’re discarded and forgotten as their owners sigh and move together. A little ballet relying on trust and love and complicity to be danced gracefully.
-End-
--Comments are always welcome.