Prison Break - Perfect Match
Title: Perfect Match
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom : Prison Break
Pairing: Michael/Sara
Category: Het
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~ 1030
Summary: They’re high on adrenaline. With a short laugh, Sara thinks that it’s one of the few highs she can still allow herself to experience. (Season 4)
Written for the ‘danger’ square of my kink_bingo.
Many thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
He slams her into the bathroom wall and forces a thigh between hers. It shocks both of them.
Her shoulders hit the plaster, her head thumps against it, and between sloppy kisses, they both gasp at their own roughness, but they don’t slow down, and certainly don’t stop. They welcome the burst of need and urgency with eagerness and a startled grunt. Michael rakes his teeth down her neck deep and harsh enough to leave bruises, and he throws her a wide-eyed glance, hardly believing the way he’s behaving. Sara unbuckles his belt and aims for that very part of him that she wants now, not caring about shirt and buttons or bothering with finesse. Unlike him, she has no problem believing the way she’s behaving and she lets out a satisfied murmur when she grasps him, velvety and warm flesh heavy in her palm.
They just made it by the skin of their teeth. Bullets, Company goons, screeching tires, all that jazz. They’re high on adrenaline. With a short laugh, Sara thinks that it’s one of the few highs she can still allow herself to experience. Michael’s fingers find their way into her underwear, dip into burning hot slickness, and she realizes she could get addicted to this as easily as she used to be addicted to her old vices.
“I’m sorry, I...” he begins tentatively, all the while pushing his fingers into her. He crooks them and she feels her knees buckle. He wraps an arm around her waist, not out of care or whatever useless courtesy, but by mere instinct because there’s no way she’s moving even an inch away from him.
“Don’t be sorry and don’t dare stop.”
She’s quite proud of herself: unlike him, she can speak in full sentences.
“It’s because...”
“I know.” Making it out alive, adrenaline rush, need to expunge the fear and exhaust the whirling energy still buzzing in the pit of their stomachs. “I know.”
But God. Fuck. Fuck - less talking and more touching. As if he’s read her mind, he hoists her up, hooks her knees around his waist and grinds against her lower belly; he’s hard and searing hot against her crotch. This is better, she thinks as she grinds back. Not nearly enough, but better than his unnecessary attempts to talk and explain, and maybe even apologize. She doesn’t want or need apologies.
The door to the main area of the warehouse half-opens near them. Still entangled, they reach out in unison and bang it shut, slide the bolt into its lock and keep going. Later, maybe, maybe, they will blush because everybody out there will know what they’ve been doing, but for now, Sara couldn’t care less; could rip open anyone getting in her way.
“I think it was Sucre...” Michael says.
Again with the talking issue. Can’t he shut up and put his mouth to better use?
“He can pee outside.”
She unwraps her legs from around his hips just long enough to get rid of her jeans. She laughs again, a laugh that ends up in a desperate moan, because as soon as her pants are discarded on the floor, Michael just pushes the delicate fabric of her panties to one side and slides into her. He blurts out a curse at his own covetousness; she merely tightens her grip on him. Who cares about removing damn underwear when you’re that desperate for it? So wrong. So good.
He fills her up. It’s too fast, too much. She should ask him to wait a few seconds and let her adjust, but she expects to combust on the spot if he doesn’t move.
This is new. Sex so far has been passionate but in a sweet and mindful way: warm kisses and caresses and affectionate embraces in the half-light. It’s been the furthest sensation from their current frantic fucking. They stun themselves and one another, cast a different light on their desire for each other and, for once, don’t try to analyze it. Buried up to the hilt in her, even Michael has stopped trying to talk and question what they’re doing. They’ll talk and question later, perhaps, when they’re so sore and sated that they can barely move.
Sara arches her back and fumbles to find a purchase on the wall or on the sink, somewhere, anywhere. She has the feeling she’s going to need to hold on to something very soon; since she can’t find anything, she grips Michael’s shoulders. He stills for a couple of seconds deep inside of her, whispers again that he’s sorry, that he didn’t mean to be so rough, that...
She bites his lower lip and squeezes her internal muscles around him, and he forgets how to speak. Thank God. He pounds into her and, yes, now they’re talking the same language; are on the same wavelength. Her back slides up and down the wall with each thrust, her skull rhythmically banging against the plaster. She can’t help it, she whispers into his ear in a breathless voice, “So this is what being nailed feels like?” and whimpers when he punishes-rewards her with an even sharper jab.
“You’re bad,” he hisses.
She is. She would add that he doesn’t seem to mind, but actions speaking louder than words, she settles for digging her fingernails into his buttocks to egg him on. It works beautifully. Painfully too, but that’s part of the game and part of the pleasure.
He comes first, panting that he loves her and berating himself for untimely orgasms that won’t let him take care of her first. She assures him that it’s okay. And it really is, even more so when he keeps moving inside her, drops one hand between her thighs and raises up the other one to muffle her moans. It’s the hand muzzling her that gets her, the hand, and the smug-saucy gleam in his eyes when he asks her, “Does this feel like being nailed enough for you?”
She cries into his palm, mouth wide open and tongue messily licking his skin.
“That will do,” she pants.
If she’s bad, she points out with a languid smile and a soft kiss, he’s no better. Perfect match.
-Fin-
--Feedback is always welcome :)
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom : Prison Break
Pairing: Michael/Sara
Category: Het
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~ 1030
Summary: They’re high on adrenaline. With a short laugh, Sara thinks that it’s one of the few highs she can still allow herself to experience. (Season 4)
Written for the ‘danger’ square of my kink_bingo.
Many thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
He slams her into the bathroom wall and forces a thigh between hers. It shocks both of them.
Her shoulders hit the plaster, her head thumps against it, and between sloppy kisses, they both gasp at their own roughness, but they don’t slow down, and certainly don’t stop. They welcome the burst of need and urgency with eagerness and a startled grunt. Michael rakes his teeth down her neck deep and harsh enough to leave bruises, and he throws her a wide-eyed glance, hardly believing the way he’s behaving. Sara unbuckles his belt and aims for that very part of him that she wants now, not caring about shirt and buttons or bothering with finesse. Unlike him, she has no problem believing the way she’s behaving and she lets out a satisfied murmur when she grasps him, velvety and warm flesh heavy in her palm.
They just made it by the skin of their teeth. Bullets, Company goons, screeching tires, all that jazz. They’re high on adrenaline. With a short laugh, Sara thinks that it’s one of the few highs she can still allow herself to experience. Michael’s fingers find their way into her underwear, dip into burning hot slickness, and she realizes she could get addicted to this as easily as she used to be addicted to her old vices.
“I’m sorry, I...” he begins tentatively, all the while pushing his fingers into her. He crooks them and she feels her knees buckle. He wraps an arm around her waist, not out of care or whatever useless courtesy, but by mere instinct because there’s no way she’s moving even an inch away from him.
“Don’t be sorry and don’t dare stop.”
She’s quite proud of herself: unlike him, she can speak in full sentences.
“It’s because...”
“I know.” Making it out alive, adrenaline rush, need to expunge the fear and exhaust the whirling energy still buzzing in the pit of their stomachs. “I know.”
But God. Fuck. Fuck - less talking and more touching. As if he’s read her mind, he hoists her up, hooks her knees around his waist and grinds against her lower belly; he’s hard and searing hot against her crotch. This is better, she thinks as she grinds back. Not nearly enough, but better than his unnecessary attempts to talk and explain, and maybe even apologize. She doesn’t want or need apologies.
The door to the main area of the warehouse half-opens near them. Still entangled, they reach out in unison and bang it shut, slide the bolt into its lock and keep going. Later, maybe, maybe, they will blush because everybody out there will know what they’ve been doing, but for now, Sara couldn’t care less; could rip open anyone getting in her way.
“I think it was Sucre...” Michael says.
Again with the talking issue. Can’t he shut up and put his mouth to better use?
“He can pee outside.”
She unwraps her legs from around his hips just long enough to get rid of her jeans. She laughs again, a laugh that ends up in a desperate moan, because as soon as her pants are discarded on the floor, Michael just pushes the delicate fabric of her panties to one side and slides into her. He blurts out a curse at his own covetousness; she merely tightens her grip on him. Who cares about removing damn underwear when you’re that desperate for it? So wrong. So good.
He fills her up. It’s too fast, too much. She should ask him to wait a few seconds and let her adjust, but she expects to combust on the spot if he doesn’t move.
This is new. Sex so far has been passionate but in a sweet and mindful way: warm kisses and caresses and affectionate embraces in the half-light. It’s been the furthest sensation from their current frantic fucking. They stun themselves and one another, cast a different light on their desire for each other and, for once, don’t try to analyze it. Buried up to the hilt in her, even Michael has stopped trying to talk and question what they’re doing. They’ll talk and question later, perhaps, when they’re so sore and sated that they can barely move.
Sara arches her back and fumbles to find a purchase on the wall or on the sink, somewhere, anywhere. She has the feeling she’s going to need to hold on to something very soon; since she can’t find anything, she grips Michael’s shoulders. He stills for a couple of seconds deep inside of her, whispers again that he’s sorry, that he didn’t mean to be so rough, that...
She bites his lower lip and squeezes her internal muscles around him, and he forgets how to speak. Thank God. He pounds into her and, yes, now they’re talking the same language; are on the same wavelength. Her back slides up and down the wall with each thrust, her skull rhythmically banging against the plaster. She can’t help it, she whispers into his ear in a breathless voice, “So this is what being nailed feels like?” and whimpers when he punishes-rewards her with an even sharper jab.
“You’re bad,” he hisses.
She is. She would add that he doesn’t seem to mind, but actions speaking louder than words, she settles for digging her fingernails into his buttocks to egg him on. It works beautifully. Painfully too, but that’s part of the game and part of the pleasure.
He comes first, panting that he loves her and berating himself for untimely orgasms that won’t let him take care of her first. She assures him that it’s okay. And it really is, even more so when he keeps moving inside her, drops one hand between her thighs and raises up the other one to muffle her moans. It’s the hand muzzling her that gets her, the hand, and the smug-saucy gleam in his eyes when he asks her, “Does this feel like being nailed enough for you?”
She cries into his palm, mouth wide open and tongue messily licking his skin.
“That will do,” she pants.
If she’s bad, she points out with a languid smile and a soft kiss, he’s no better. Perfect match.
-Fin-
--Feedback is always welcome :)