Prison Break - Un-fetishistic
Title: Un-fetishistic
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Michael/Sara
Category: Het
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~ 1220
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: She’s a bad woman. A terrible woman. An awesome woman. (Post-series, alternate canon)
Author’s note: Written for Porn Battle XIV @ oxoniensis for the prompts Michael/Sara, Nipple
Many thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
It’s not a fetish.
Really, it’s not. No matter what Sara likes to pretend to chafe him.
It’s late and the breeze that is a bit cooler than usual makes Sara’s breasts prick up under her dress. Two small nubs pushing at the thin cotton, their outline visible but not so much that it’s revealing, the skin tauter because of tiny shivers. Perfect tease that draws Michael’s eyes to her cleavage rather than to her face.
When he looks up, she’s staring at him and smiling so fake-innocently that, if the perky nipples aren’t indecent, her grin definitely is. She straightens in her chair, throws her shoulders back, pushes her chest forward, and he flushes and stutters the end of his sentence.
She’s a bad woman. A terrible woman. An awesome woman.
Something deep in his reptilian brain - or maybe in his guts - gets insanely possessive and orders him to get up and wrap a sweater around her shoulders or that shawl that she’s abandoned on the back of her chair; anything that would hide the impertinent nipples. He doesn’t move because it’s not his decision to make. And also because if he did that, he couldn’t enjoy the show anymore.
No big deal, the display is meant for him. Her breasts are out of Lincoln’s immediate line of sight, and he’s become rather good at looking women in the eye since he’s been with Sofia anyway; better than Michael, apparently. And Sofia couldn’t care less. It’s just him. Him whose breathing is picking up, him who would like his brother and sister-in-law to go away already, him who can’t wait to...
Sara smiles at him again, more gently this time, the teasing gone, the complicity and affection obvious. It’s hardly more helpful than her initial smirk.
Later in their bedroom, she throws her bathrobe over an armchair and slides into bed naked. Her breasts are full and heavy, the skin smoother than outside where the relative cool had raised tiny goose bumps over her chest, the nipples tender and pale pink. Michael can’t help it; when she lies against him, he strokes them and brushes his thumbs over them until they stiffen and darken slightly under the caress.
“Men...” Sara breathes out indulgently as he moves and hoists her up so that her breasts are level with his mouth. “What’s the big deal...” His tongue licks the delicate peak, and Sara hums approvingly, the end of whatever she was about to say lost in a small and oh so pleasant gasp.
He rolls her onto her back, no delicacy or finesse, just a sweeping move that has the bed creak slightly and Sara laugh into his neck, and he starts to feast on her. Without shame or restraint. He presses her breasts together and squeezes gently, their fullness and roundness matching the cup of his joined hands to perfection.
The first touch of his tongue has her panting. He’s nicer than her, though: he doesn’t tease, does he? The tip of his tongue, and then the flat of it, a strong and steady lick, his tongue wrapping around her. She whispers “Again” and “More” quite a few times, and he obliges her each time, obliges her until she can’t speak anymore, only whimpers above his head. Fingers, tongue and lips busy, hints of teeth and nails because he knows her and what she likes, he takes care to lavish the same attention on both breasts; to make sure that the tender and pale pink nipples equally harden and redden, pointy and pebbled, that Sara’s pants and whimpers morph into pleading moans. Her hands around his head, she tries to guide him, to direct his mouth where she wants it, but he won’t let it happen and all she can do is rub herself against his face. With a frustrated grunt, she lets her legs fall wide open and arches up into him.
This, he thinks as the nubs of flesh he’s sucking on greedily seem to fill his mouth. It’s not a fetish. Not the nipple thing, anyway, but this, Sara offered and losing it because of well-aimed caresses and kisses surely is one. This is the picture that flashed through his mind earlier, at the end of the dinner when she flaunted herself at him, because he knows how she responds when he touches her that way - she may know his weakness, but he’s well aware of hers. He keeps sucking hard until the sounds coming out of her become raw and desperate, until her knees press into his hips, eager to pull him closer.
“Michael... Come on...” she half protests, half-begs.
“You sure?”
She blinks questioningly. She is and he knows it. She’s warm, wet and so very ready, and he cannot not have noticed it. If the moans, the writhing or the damn rock hard nipples haven’t clued him in, surely her arousal making her inner thighs and anywhere she’s ground against him slick and slippery has, hasn’t it?
“Michael...” she growls dangerously low.
“It’s just, I thought women didn’t like it when you only pay attention to their breasts and then move right away onto...”
“Just fuck me already,” she cuts him off, her tone stern and no-nonsensical.
Oh... Dirty words and straightforward demands falling from those lips that usually utter nice things and reasonable words. He’d forgotten the kind of effect it has on him. She hasn’t, obviously, because she pours into his ear a litany of four-letter words and interesting promises about what she’s going to do to him - and let him do to her - if he’s a good husband and just...
He breaks - they want the same thing, don’t they? - and slides into her in one long, swift move.
She doesn’t last. To his heart’s and ego’s satisfaction, he’s barely sheathed in her before she’s already rolling her hips wildly and clenching around him, her muscles rippling in a fast staccato, her hands pushing his face tight against her chest.
And, to be fair, he doesn’t last either. He comes like twenty seconds after her as the waves of her own pleasure are still shaking her, his mouth and fingers worrying her breasts. Her nipples are dark red and coated with saliva, swollen and tight, and he knows - knows - he should stop but he can’t. She gasps in oversensitivity, but doesn’t try to push him away - he will have to think about the pleasure of aching, later, much later. Her legs wrapped around his hips, her nails digging into his back, her out-of-breath murmurs against his temple, and he’s gone for good.
* *
He wakes up to the morning air breezing into the bedroom through the large windows, and to Sara giving him a crooked smile as her forefinger delicately plays with his nipple.
“I was wondering,” she whispers, “if that fetish was reciprocal.”
He circles her wrist, kisses the palm of her hand, then sets her free, content when she resumes her ministrations.
“It’s not a fetish,” he says softly. “It’s just...”
... you. She doesn’t give him the chance to voice this, though. She closes her lips around him, and she starts licking and sucking, and damn, but it’s not half bad from the receiving end either.
“I know,” she admits, her breath warm and caressing on his skin. “I know.”
FIN
--Feedback in any shape or form is always welcomed and appreciated :)
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Michael/Sara
Category: Het
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~ 1220
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: She’s a bad woman. A terrible woman. An awesome woman. (Post-series, alternate canon)
Author’s note: Written for Porn Battle XIV @ oxoniensis for the prompts Michael/Sara, Nipple
Many thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
It’s not a fetish.
Really, it’s not. No matter what Sara likes to pretend to chafe him.
It’s late and the breeze that is a bit cooler than usual makes Sara’s breasts prick up under her dress. Two small nubs pushing at the thin cotton, their outline visible but not so much that it’s revealing, the skin tauter because of tiny shivers. Perfect tease that draws Michael’s eyes to her cleavage rather than to her face.
When he looks up, she’s staring at him and smiling so fake-innocently that, if the perky nipples aren’t indecent, her grin definitely is. She straightens in her chair, throws her shoulders back, pushes her chest forward, and he flushes and stutters the end of his sentence.
She’s a bad woman. A terrible woman. An awesome woman.
Something deep in his reptilian brain - or maybe in his guts - gets insanely possessive and orders him to get up and wrap a sweater around her shoulders or that shawl that she’s abandoned on the back of her chair; anything that would hide the impertinent nipples. He doesn’t move because it’s not his decision to make. And also because if he did that, he couldn’t enjoy the show anymore.
No big deal, the display is meant for him. Her breasts are out of Lincoln’s immediate line of sight, and he’s become rather good at looking women in the eye since he’s been with Sofia anyway; better than Michael, apparently. And Sofia couldn’t care less. It’s just him. Him whose breathing is picking up, him who would like his brother and sister-in-law to go away already, him who can’t wait to...
Sara smiles at him again, more gently this time, the teasing gone, the complicity and affection obvious. It’s hardly more helpful than her initial smirk.
Later in their bedroom, she throws her bathrobe over an armchair and slides into bed naked. Her breasts are full and heavy, the skin smoother than outside where the relative cool had raised tiny goose bumps over her chest, the nipples tender and pale pink. Michael can’t help it; when she lies against him, he strokes them and brushes his thumbs over them until they stiffen and darken slightly under the caress.
“Men...” Sara breathes out indulgently as he moves and hoists her up so that her breasts are level with his mouth. “What’s the big deal...” His tongue licks the delicate peak, and Sara hums approvingly, the end of whatever she was about to say lost in a small and oh so pleasant gasp.
He rolls her onto her back, no delicacy or finesse, just a sweeping move that has the bed creak slightly and Sara laugh into his neck, and he starts to feast on her. Without shame or restraint. He presses her breasts together and squeezes gently, their fullness and roundness matching the cup of his joined hands to perfection.
The first touch of his tongue has her panting. He’s nicer than her, though: he doesn’t tease, does he? The tip of his tongue, and then the flat of it, a strong and steady lick, his tongue wrapping around her. She whispers “Again” and “More” quite a few times, and he obliges her each time, obliges her until she can’t speak anymore, only whimpers above his head. Fingers, tongue and lips busy, hints of teeth and nails because he knows her and what she likes, he takes care to lavish the same attention on both breasts; to make sure that the tender and pale pink nipples equally harden and redden, pointy and pebbled, that Sara’s pants and whimpers morph into pleading moans. Her hands around his head, she tries to guide him, to direct his mouth where she wants it, but he won’t let it happen and all she can do is rub herself against his face. With a frustrated grunt, she lets her legs fall wide open and arches up into him.
This, he thinks as the nubs of flesh he’s sucking on greedily seem to fill his mouth. It’s not a fetish. Not the nipple thing, anyway, but this, Sara offered and losing it because of well-aimed caresses and kisses surely is one. This is the picture that flashed through his mind earlier, at the end of the dinner when she flaunted herself at him, because he knows how she responds when he touches her that way - she may know his weakness, but he’s well aware of hers. He keeps sucking hard until the sounds coming out of her become raw and desperate, until her knees press into his hips, eager to pull him closer.
“Michael... Come on...” she half protests, half-begs.
“You sure?”
She blinks questioningly. She is and he knows it. She’s warm, wet and so very ready, and he cannot not have noticed it. If the moans, the writhing or the damn rock hard nipples haven’t clued him in, surely her arousal making her inner thighs and anywhere she’s ground against him slick and slippery has, hasn’t it?
“Michael...” she growls dangerously low.
“It’s just, I thought women didn’t like it when you only pay attention to their breasts and then move right away onto...”
“Just fuck me already,” she cuts him off, her tone stern and no-nonsensical.
Oh... Dirty words and straightforward demands falling from those lips that usually utter nice things and reasonable words. He’d forgotten the kind of effect it has on him. She hasn’t, obviously, because she pours into his ear a litany of four-letter words and interesting promises about what she’s going to do to him - and let him do to her - if he’s a good husband and just...
He breaks - they want the same thing, don’t they? - and slides into her in one long, swift move.
She doesn’t last. To his heart’s and ego’s satisfaction, he’s barely sheathed in her before she’s already rolling her hips wildly and clenching around him, her muscles rippling in a fast staccato, her hands pushing his face tight against her chest.
And, to be fair, he doesn’t last either. He comes like twenty seconds after her as the waves of her own pleasure are still shaking her, his mouth and fingers worrying her breasts. Her nipples are dark red and coated with saliva, swollen and tight, and he knows - knows - he should stop but he can’t. She gasps in oversensitivity, but doesn’t try to push him away - he will have to think about the pleasure of aching, later, much later. Her legs wrapped around his hips, her nails digging into his back, her out-of-breath murmurs against his temple, and he’s gone for good.
* *
He wakes up to the morning air breezing into the bedroom through the large windows, and to Sara giving him a crooked smile as her forefinger delicately plays with his nipple.
“I was wondering,” she whispers, “if that fetish was reciprocal.”
He circles her wrist, kisses the palm of her hand, then sets her free, content when she resumes her ministrations.
“It’s not a fetish,” he says softly. “It’s just...”
... you. She doesn’t give him the chance to voice this, though. She closes her lips around him, and she starts licking and sucking, and damn, but it’s not half bad from the receiving end either.
“I know,” she admits, her breath warm and caressing on his skin. “I know.”
FIN
--Feedback in any shape or form is always welcomed and appreciated :)