Prison Break - Matters of Stillness
Title: Matters of Stillness
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Michael /Lincoln
Category: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Incest
Word Count: ~ 1505
Summary: It’s the hands that interest Michael (at least for now). (Pre-series, crackastic.)
Author’s Note: Written for rounds-of-kink’s Halloween mini-round.
Prompts and kinks for rounds-of-kink: Charcoal; Hand fetishization.
Many thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
“Don’t move,” Michael orders.
Lincoln waves his left hand to swear, “I’m not,” and drops it again immediately as Michael clicks his tongue in disapproval. He’s sitting in bed with his back to the headboard, the sheets pooled at his waist, and his hands dangling freely between his bent knees.
It’s the hands that interest Michael (at least for now). Drawing board on his own knees and charcoal pencil between his fingers, he’s working in earnest. It’s the nice kind of ‘working’, granted, as he picked a subject he’s quite fond of.
“Why don’t you draw them doing this, instead?” Lincoln suggests.
Michael briefly looks up to find Lincoln lowering the sheets and wrapping one of those hands around his awakening erection. Michael gurgles a bit, glares and tightens his hold on his pencil.
“Because I doubt it would be appropriate for my art class.”
“You shouldn’t bring your homework to bed, then,” Lincoln points out wisely. He doesn’t stop there and graces Michael with more Lincolnian insight. “I thought minoring in art was just a pretense to ogle naked women, anyway?”
Michael glares some more. “Pull up the sheets, take the pose and do not move,” he enunciates slowly; threateningly. To no avail.
“Would you be less bitchy if...” Lincoln muses sotto voce.
He moves fast - he can move fucking fast for someone so bulky, not to mention someone still entangled in messy sheets - sneaks his hand under the drawing board and closes it around Michael’s awakening erection. Michael, no matter what his bastard of a brother may say, does not squeal in annoyance/delight. He can’t help striking a rogue line across his otherwise perfect drawing, though.
“You’re happy, now?” he bitches.
“Let’s see. Hard-on and forced immobility? It could be fun if you did something with that, but you’re drawing in bed, Mike.”
Threats rarely work with Lincoln because he knows Michael won’t have the willpower to enforce them; promises are a better alternative.
“If you take the pose and let me finish my drawing, I’ll suck you when I’m done.”
Lincoln squints and automatically starts moving back, but doesn’t reassume his previous position against the headboard yet. Michael realizes his brother realized he still has some room to maneuver.
“What else?”
Michael purses his lips and, against his will and better judgment, offers, “I’ll swallow.”
“Like you won’t anyway.”
Yeah. Not one hundred percent wrong.
“You’re an asshole.”
“You’re hardly better: you’ve brought your homework to bed.”
Michael sighs in frustration. No matter how enticing moving on to other activities sounds, he wants and needs to finish this - he means the charcoal. The sooner the better.
“I’ll lie on my back and let you...” He doesn’t really care to say it out loud so he points an index finger to his mouth and arches an eyebrow. Lincoln loves that. A lot. As a matter of fact, the suggestion seems to please him, and he’s back in position in two seconds tops. Sheets up, bent knees, dangling hands, no exposed cock.
“You have a deal.”
Thank God. Or... whoever might me more appropriate, given the circumstances.
He focuses on the charcoal again, fixes the accidental rogue line, and absorbs himself in the fascinating curve of Lincoln’s right thumb. Maybe his brother is right; maybe minoring in art is a pretense to ogle - although, not naked women, but rather...
He loves Lincoln’s hands. They’re hard-working man’s hands, strong and large, with short blunt nails and calluses at the base of the fingers. And they’re astonishingly soft hands in the way they touch, hold and caress, as if Lincoln is aware of his own strength and wary not to misuse it on Michael. Michael has seen his brother beat men to a pulp, got a few beatings himself; he’s also reveled in his brother’s touch - soothing, comforting, teasing, pleasuring him.
The contrast, the undercurrent of danger, is rather hot. Not always, mind you, but right now, it’s burning hot. Something he didn’t think of when he picked his subject and brought his homework to bed.
Damn sense memory. He can almost feel Lincoln’s grip on his cock, and said cock swells, hardens and perks up insanely fast. It strains against the underside of his drawing board, making his position more than awkward. Damn cock. Damn Lincoln. He bites his lips, concentrates on his work to the best of his ability and works on the sturdy line of Lincoln’s middle finger. Middle finger that, in about twenty minutes, will be in...
Never has a middle finger been rendered so beautifully on paper. Or it could be lust speaking - screaming.
“Michael?”
“I’m almost done. Just... Don’t move.”
He pants. He can imagine one or two of those damn fingers working their way into his ass - or maybe into his mouth? - while Linc’s other hand would stroke his cock.
“Michael, you’re beet red.”
Just a few more seconds, a few more shadows, a few more bitten back grunts. He carefully lays the drawing board and the charcoal pencils by the bed and lurches himself at Lincoln. He tries to roll onto his back and pull his brother on top of him and up his torso. Lincoln being Lincoln, solid thighs should already be framing his face, and Michael won’t admit it but kind of wishes it was the case.
“Wait, not so fast,” Lincoln demands, kicking the sheets out of the way and pulling Michael tight against him.
He ends up engulfed into Lincoln’s bear-like embrace, with Lincoln’s coveted hands seeming to be everywhere on him at the same time. He moans and ruts down, all shame and restraint forgotten.
It takes Lincoln pushing two digits past his lips and then aiming for his lower back for Michael to realize what his brother is up to.
“I’ve promised you...” he begins.
“I’ll collect, don’t worry. But first...”
Best cocoon ever. It’s made of warm and rough hands playing with his buttocks and wrapping around his cock - the aforementioned calluses scrape the velvety skin and do wonders to him - so gently that he wants to sob; warm body rolling on top of his and blanketing him, protective and demanding all at once; searing hot mouth taking his. He lets out a strangled sound, his chest feeling too small to contain his heart, his skin tight and aflame.
“You have...” Lincoln nods at Michael’s chest. The slightly sweaty skin is smudged with mashed-up charcoal.
“Fuck it!”
“Fuck you,” Lincoln offers into his neck, low and dirty. This is what the two fingers thrusting into him are already doing, by the way. Michael gasps and holds onto Lincoln, mouth agape and head thrown back, wanting, needing, willing to take anything Linc will give him. “You’re losing it, Michael,” his brother laughs with affection. “Big time.”
“I know. Just...”
Just. Lincoln just needs to crook his fingers inside him; just needs to drag his left hand up Michael’s cock and circle its head with his thumb and forefinger; just needs to lay a ridiculously chaste kiss on his lips. Michael screams and twists in Lincoln’s arms. He may also utter declarations of deep and eternal love with cheesy words he’ll deny having ever used.
After, Lincoln holds up his hand again, this time to submit it to Michael’s inspection. It’s covered with come, sticky and translucent white on Lincoln’s tanned skin. Michael scrunches his nose, tries to summon up the decency to blush, and only manages to feel happily territorial about Lincoln and the way he’s marked him.
“You could draw it like that,” Lincoln suggests. “Maybe for your biology class?”
“You’re still an asshole.”
The insult would probably sound more like an actual insult if Michael wasn’t breathless and flushed, eyes heavily-lidded, body satiated and offered to Lincoln’s lasciviousness all at once.
“You’re fucked out,” Lincoln shoots back. He licks his fingers clean like it’s no big deal, like he doesn’t know what effect it has on Michael, and Michael’s very spent cock finds a way to twitch. It’s almost painful - the best kind of painful. “Now, on your back, and open your mouth.”
“You’re a smug asshole,” Michael says again.
He complies, though. He’s promised. Moreover, it’s hardly an ordeal. He lies back and watches Lincoln settle and straddle his shoulders. He cups his hips. Later, if Lincoln is nice - or the good kind of not-nice at all - he’ll move onto his ass; later.
Velvety hard flesh rubs against the stubble of his cheeks and teases the corner of his mouth.
He’s pretty sure he’ll be hard again by the time Lincoln is finished.
Scratch that. Large hands are closing around his head, covering his ears and grazing the back of his skull, so he’ll be hard again before Lincoln is even finished.
Lincoln guides an impressive - especially from that underside angle - erection between Michael’s eager lips. So fucking good. Almost as good as those damn hands. He lifts his chin, trying to get more, faster, deeper.
Lincoln smirks down at him and gently forces Michael’s head to rest on the pillow.
“Don’t move,” he orders.
-Fin-
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Michael /Lincoln
Category: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Incest
Word Count: ~ 1505
Summary: It’s the hands that interest Michael (at least for now). (Pre-series, crackastic.)
Author’s Note: Written for rounds-of-kink’s Halloween mini-round.
Prompts and kinks for rounds-of-kink: Charcoal; Hand fetishization.
Many thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
“Don’t move,” Michael orders.
Lincoln waves his left hand to swear, “I’m not,” and drops it again immediately as Michael clicks his tongue in disapproval. He’s sitting in bed with his back to the headboard, the sheets pooled at his waist, and his hands dangling freely between his bent knees.
It’s the hands that interest Michael (at least for now). Drawing board on his own knees and charcoal pencil between his fingers, he’s working in earnest. It’s the nice kind of ‘working’, granted, as he picked a subject he’s quite fond of.
“Why don’t you draw them doing this, instead?” Lincoln suggests.
Michael briefly looks up to find Lincoln lowering the sheets and wrapping one of those hands around his awakening erection. Michael gurgles a bit, glares and tightens his hold on his pencil.
“Because I doubt it would be appropriate for my art class.”
“You shouldn’t bring your homework to bed, then,” Lincoln points out wisely. He doesn’t stop there and graces Michael with more Lincolnian insight. “I thought minoring in art was just a pretense to ogle naked women, anyway?”
Michael glares some more. “Pull up the sheets, take the pose and do not move,” he enunciates slowly; threateningly. To no avail.
“Would you be less bitchy if...” Lincoln muses sotto voce.
He moves fast - he can move fucking fast for someone so bulky, not to mention someone still entangled in messy sheets - sneaks his hand under the drawing board and closes it around Michael’s awakening erection. Michael, no matter what his bastard of a brother may say, does not squeal in annoyance/delight. He can’t help striking a rogue line across his otherwise perfect drawing, though.
“You’re happy, now?” he bitches.
“Let’s see. Hard-on and forced immobility? It could be fun if you did something with that, but you’re drawing in bed, Mike.”
Threats rarely work with Lincoln because he knows Michael won’t have the willpower to enforce them; promises are a better alternative.
“If you take the pose and let me finish my drawing, I’ll suck you when I’m done.”
Lincoln squints and automatically starts moving back, but doesn’t reassume his previous position against the headboard yet. Michael realizes his brother realized he still has some room to maneuver.
“What else?”
Michael purses his lips and, against his will and better judgment, offers, “I’ll swallow.”
“Like you won’t anyway.”
Yeah. Not one hundred percent wrong.
“You’re an asshole.”
“You’re hardly better: you’ve brought your homework to bed.”
Michael sighs in frustration. No matter how enticing moving on to other activities sounds, he wants and needs to finish this - he means the charcoal. The sooner the better.
“I’ll lie on my back and let you...” He doesn’t really care to say it out loud so he points an index finger to his mouth and arches an eyebrow. Lincoln loves that. A lot. As a matter of fact, the suggestion seems to please him, and he’s back in position in two seconds tops. Sheets up, bent knees, dangling hands, no exposed cock.
“You have a deal.”
Thank God. Or... whoever might me more appropriate, given the circumstances.
He focuses on the charcoal again, fixes the accidental rogue line, and absorbs himself in the fascinating curve of Lincoln’s right thumb. Maybe his brother is right; maybe minoring in art is a pretense to ogle - although, not naked women, but rather...
He loves Lincoln’s hands. They’re hard-working man’s hands, strong and large, with short blunt nails and calluses at the base of the fingers. And they’re astonishingly soft hands in the way they touch, hold and caress, as if Lincoln is aware of his own strength and wary not to misuse it on Michael. Michael has seen his brother beat men to a pulp, got a few beatings himself; he’s also reveled in his brother’s touch - soothing, comforting, teasing, pleasuring him.
The contrast, the undercurrent of danger, is rather hot. Not always, mind you, but right now, it’s burning hot. Something he didn’t think of when he picked his subject and brought his homework to bed.
Damn sense memory. He can almost feel Lincoln’s grip on his cock, and said cock swells, hardens and perks up insanely fast. It strains against the underside of his drawing board, making his position more than awkward. Damn cock. Damn Lincoln. He bites his lips, concentrates on his work to the best of his ability and works on the sturdy line of Lincoln’s middle finger. Middle finger that, in about twenty minutes, will be in...
Never has a middle finger been rendered so beautifully on paper. Or it could be lust speaking - screaming.
“Michael?”
“I’m almost done. Just... Don’t move.”
He pants. He can imagine one or two of those damn fingers working their way into his ass - or maybe into his mouth? - while Linc’s other hand would stroke his cock.
“Michael, you’re beet red.”
Just a few more seconds, a few more shadows, a few more bitten back grunts. He carefully lays the drawing board and the charcoal pencils by the bed and lurches himself at Lincoln. He tries to roll onto his back and pull his brother on top of him and up his torso. Lincoln being Lincoln, solid thighs should already be framing his face, and Michael won’t admit it but kind of wishes it was the case.
“Wait, not so fast,” Lincoln demands, kicking the sheets out of the way and pulling Michael tight against him.
He ends up engulfed into Lincoln’s bear-like embrace, with Lincoln’s coveted hands seeming to be everywhere on him at the same time. He moans and ruts down, all shame and restraint forgotten.
It takes Lincoln pushing two digits past his lips and then aiming for his lower back for Michael to realize what his brother is up to.
“I’ve promised you...” he begins.
“I’ll collect, don’t worry. But first...”
Best cocoon ever. It’s made of warm and rough hands playing with his buttocks and wrapping around his cock - the aforementioned calluses scrape the velvety skin and do wonders to him - so gently that he wants to sob; warm body rolling on top of his and blanketing him, protective and demanding all at once; searing hot mouth taking his. He lets out a strangled sound, his chest feeling too small to contain his heart, his skin tight and aflame.
“You have...” Lincoln nods at Michael’s chest. The slightly sweaty skin is smudged with mashed-up charcoal.
“Fuck it!”
“Fuck you,” Lincoln offers into his neck, low and dirty. This is what the two fingers thrusting into him are already doing, by the way. Michael gasps and holds onto Lincoln, mouth agape and head thrown back, wanting, needing, willing to take anything Linc will give him. “You’re losing it, Michael,” his brother laughs with affection. “Big time.”
“I know. Just...”
Just. Lincoln just needs to crook his fingers inside him; just needs to drag his left hand up Michael’s cock and circle its head with his thumb and forefinger; just needs to lay a ridiculously chaste kiss on his lips. Michael screams and twists in Lincoln’s arms. He may also utter declarations of deep and eternal love with cheesy words he’ll deny having ever used.
After, Lincoln holds up his hand again, this time to submit it to Michael’s inspection. It’s covered with come, sticky and translucent white on Lincoln’s tanned skin. Michael scrunches his nose, tries to summon up the decency to blush, and only manages to feel happily territorial about Lincoln and the way he’s marked him.
“You could draw it like that,” Lincoln suggests. “Maybe for your biology class?”
“You’re still an asshole.”
The insult would probably sound more like an actual insult if Michael wasn’t breathless and flushed, eyes heavily-lidded, body satiated and offered to Lincoln’s lasciviousness all at once.
“You’re fucked out,” Lincoln shoots back. He licks his fingers clean like it’s no big deal, like he doesn’t know what effect it has on Michael, and Michael’s very spent cock finds a way to twitch. It’s almost painful - the best kind of painful. “Now, on your back, and open your mouth.”
“You’re a smug asshole,” Michael says again.
He complies, though. He’s promised. Moreover, it’s hardly an ordeal. He lies back and watches Lincoln settle and straddle his shoulders. He cups his hips. Later, if Lincoln is nice - or the good kind of not-nice at all - he’ll move onto his ass; later.
Velvety hard flesh rubs against the stubble of his cheeks and teases the corner of his mouth.
He’s pretty sure he’ll be hard again by the time Lincoln is finished.
Scratch that. Large hands are closing around his head, covering his ears and grazing the back of his skull, so he’ll be hard again before Lincoln is even finished.
Lincoln guides an impressive - especially from that underside angle - erection between Michael’s eager lips. So fucking good. Almost as good as those damn hands. He lifts his chin, trying to get more, faster, deeper.
Lincoln smirks down at him and gently forces Michael’s head to rest on the pillow.
“Don’t move,” he orders.
-Fin-