Prison Break - It Never Happens
Title: It never happens
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael/Lincoln
Category: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Incest
Word Count: ~ 1595
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: They act as though it never happens. They never, ever talk about it, not before, not during, not after. (Pre-series.)
Author’s note: I wrote this over a year ago: maybe it’s about time I post it...
Many thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
It never happens.
Yes, sometimes, Michael falls asleep against Lincoln on the couch or sneaks into his bed and curls into his brother, and then one thing leading to another... but it never happens.
They act as though it never happens. They never, ever talk about it, not before, not during, not after. Tacit rules, silent nights except for a few harsh breaths and muted gasps, rustles of too-little-clothing and skin sliding against skin. It’s not real if they don’t acknowledge it, is it? Words make things real. Without words, it’s just an illusion, a restrained fantasy, hushed pleasure, dried semen and faint bruises on their skin washed away by the shower the morning after.
A finger across Lincoln’s lips just in case he’d want to ask a question or protest, the covers quickly lifted up and the mattress dipping, and Michael’s back is plastered against his brother’s chest, his hands grabbing Lincoln’s and moving them where he wants them. Needs them. Lincoln bites his neck right where it meets his shoulder, and soothes the fire with an open-mouthed kiss. Goosebumps rise on Michael’s burning skin. He knows Lincoln can feel them too, the goosebumps, under his fingertips, on the tip of his tongue. Undone by the sharp clutch of teeth and a sloppy kiss: it really doesn’t take much, but at least, Lincoln is hard and straining against the small of his back, as affected as Michael is.
He turns around in the circle of Lincoln’s arms. His face in the crook of his brother’s neck, he tastes warm and salty skin. Only the neck, a sweep across the earlobe and the jaw, and that’s it; for now. They rarely kiss on the mouth but with the way Lincoln welcomes and holds him, Michael forecasts it is going to be a night with kisses. Heated ones, even more desperate due to their rarity.
He hitches his leg up Lincoln’s hip in a movement that brings their erections in contact, pressing almost too hard against one another’s. The thin cotton of their pajamas is soon damp with precome and sweat, smelling of arousal and need, of promises of much awaited release and as much needed comfort. They need this. Sometimes, they just need this. Why would they do it, otherwise? It’s not the kind of thing you do for a cheap thrill, is it? Fucked up and fucked.
They roll across the bed. Lincoln wants him on his back - doesn’t Linc always want him on his back? - and Michael wants some semblance of control. Lincoln wins in the end, because he’s bigger, stronger, and because Michael does want some semblance of control but gets off so badly on Lincoln pinning him to the mattress and looming over him that he’s easy to overpower. He rears beneath Linc. In retaliation, Lincoln pushes his wrists into the pillow on each side of his head and edges a knee between his legs. It’s a retaliation that feels like a reward, even more so when Michael can grind on Lincoln’s thigh. It’s a retaliation that Lincoln seems to peg as insufficient, though, because after making sure with a stern look that Michael won’t move, he removes his right hand from Michael’s arm and dips it between them. Before realizing what’s going on, Michael ends up with his ass bare and his cock exposed, his pajamas bottoms pushed down and wrapped around his knees.
It’s a smooth downfall from there. Lincoln knows him; he knows that nothing pushes the control freak in him over the edge faster and better than his big brother taking control. Pinned down, helpless, taken care of, loud and forbidden moans swallowed into kisses. That’s the dirtier secret at the core of Michael’s dirty secrets, how efficiently Lincoln having the upper hand gets to him. He pleads with his eyes before moving his free hand. Lincoln crushes his lips and bites them for his audacity, but he allows Michael’s hand to roam and pull down the elastic band of his own pajamas, just a bit, just enough to free Lincoln’s cock. Michael gently presses it against his belly. Its girth, its weight, the stiff-sleek sensation, it all makes him quiver; thick and hard and yet so fragile, just like the rest of Lincoln.
Their erections slide together. That’s as far as they ever take it. It’s already far enough, bad enough, anyway. Good enough, too, better than anything with anyone else, but that’s another can of worms.
Michael writhes. The cotton pants around his knees prevent him from moving as freely as he’d want, from parting his legs wider and using them to hold onto Lincoln. The frustration drives him crazy and forces small whimpers out of him; the frustration also enhances his arousal and his pleasure - everything he wants and needs is right within his reach and yet he can’t quite touch it. Tantalus at its best, and he has to be twisted to enjoy it so much. If the sparkle in Lincoln’s eyes is anything to go by, Lincoln is well aware of it. Chances are he did all this on purpose. Bastard.
Linc keeps a slow and steady rhythm, merciless as though he wasn’t affected by the situation and Michael’s response when Michael knows perfectly well it’s not the case. He’s hot and harder than Michael can ever remember him, leaving trails of precome on Michael’s sweaty skin. Yet he keeps moving slow and even, confident. It’s unfair how, when they do this, Lincoln is the one who’s able to master and subjugate his body and his reactions, Lincoln who can’t be trusted near a bottle of whisky or a joint of shit, but who can tease and push his brother until Michael feels like begging and screaming at the top of his lungs.
Lincoln comes first, with his whole body rippling in pleasure, warm come seeping lazily and spreading all over Michael’s cock and stomach. Michael would bet even that was thought out. Linc can’t ignore the effect it has on him, that planned and ultimate loss of control. A large hand, rough and soft at the same time, holds him down as Linc keeps humping him and thrusting effortlessly. Tears prickle the corner of Michael’s eyes. He blinks them away furiously. He’s a fucking grown-up and he’s not going to cry in need over... that. Over the pleasure and the impossibility to voice it because Lincoln is still kissing him and devouring any sound Michael may try to utter.
Then, the kissing stops, Lincoln lifts up a bit above him and slips a finger between his lips. Michael starts sucking on the digit, realizing what he’s doing and what it looks like only when Lincoln smirks.
“I’m sorry.” Lincoln’s voice is as unapologetic as unapologetic goes, contradicting his statement and, on a side note, breaking the implicit rules of silence they have always followed. “For coming before you. On you. You felt so good.” His finger runs across Michael’s lips, leaving his mouth empty. Michael hates himself for missing it and trying to draw it back. “I made a damn mess of you down there. But you like it, don’t you? Mm, my little slut?”
He looks at Lincoln with wide eyes. The insult shocks and thrills him all at once - and it shocks him how much it thrills him. Not only do they never talk about what they do, but they never talk while doing it either, and certainly not using that kind of language. Lincoln’s words inflame his cheeks and makes electricity jolt down his spine, to his belly, into his balls. He arches up on pure instinct, half hoping there is more coming. Lincoln must have figured it out because he whispers it again and again into his ear, dark and possessive. Before Michael can dwell on the words and their implication, Lincoln kisses him hard and gags him with his hand.
“Yeah, I think you liked it,” he says as Michael protests from between his fingers - feeble, ambivalent protest, on the verge of begging for more. “Show me how much you liked it, Mikey. Come on.”
It’s not pretty, the way Michael loses it. What’s even worse is that he loses it on command, merely on Lincoln’s demand, for a few filthy phrases and well-aimed rolls of hips, frustration and need flaring and finally morphing into frenzied pleasure. Semen and tears surge and spurt onto Lincoln’s skin - with Linc pinning him down and silencing him, these are the only ways left for his release to gush out of him, weeping and come and body too tight to contain it all. His brother kisses the salty moisture on his face and grinds into the one on his stomach, mixing it with his own. Michael thinks the dirty talk Lincoln subjected him seconds ago has been replaced with something sounding like iloveyou, but the blood pounding hard and fast in his head and in his groin makes him unable to be sure about what he sees or hears, right now.
He wishes he could stay awake, but even over that he won’t have any control tonight. His eyes close of their own volition. He’s drained, throat, heart, hands, thighs, and cock, muscles, skin and nerves, whole body worn out and aching so good. He falls asleep with his pajamas still bunched around his knees and his stomach a mess of drying fluids, debauched and not caring in the slightest, his face marked with traces of tears and kisses, and only Lincoln’s arms to hold him together.
He doubts they can pretend anymore that it never happens.
END
--Feedback is always welcome and appreciated :)
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael/Lincoln
Category: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Incest
Word Count: ~ 1595
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: They act as though it never happens. They never, ever talk about it, not before, not during, not after. (Pre-series.)
Author’s note: I wrote this over a year ago: maybe it’s about time I post it...
Many thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
It never happens.
Yes, sometimes, Michael falls asleep against Lincoln on the couch or sneaks into his bed and curls into his brother, and then one thing leading to another... but it never happens.
They act as though it never happens. They never, ever talk about it, not before, not during, not after. Tacit rules, silent nights except for a few harsh breaths and muted gasps, rustles of too-little-clothing and skin sliding against skin. It’s not real if they don’t acknowledge it, is it? Words make things real. Without words, it’s just an illusion, a restrained fantasy, hushed pleasure, dried semen and faint bruises on their skin washed away by the shower the morning after.
A finger across Lincoln’s lips just in case he’d want to ask a question or protest, the covers quickly lifted up and the mattress dipping, and Michael’s back is plastered against his brother’s chest, his hands grabbing Lincoln’s and moving them where he wants them. Needs them. Lincoln bites his neck right where it meets his shoulder, and soothes the fire with an open-mouthed kiss. Goosebumps rise on Michael’s burning skin. He knows Lincoln can feel them too, the goosebumps, under his fingertips, on the tip of his tongue. Undone by the sharp clutch of teeth and a sloppy kiss: it really doesn’t take much, but at least, Lincoln is hard and straining against the small of his back, as affected as Michael is.
He turns around in the circle of Lincoln’s arms. His face in the crook of his brother’s neck, he tastes warm and salty skin. Only the neck, a sweep across the earlobe and the jaw, and that’s it; for now. They rarely kiss on the mouth but with the way Lincoln welcomes and holds him, Michael forecasts it is going to be a night with kisses. Heated ones, even more desperate due to their rarity.
He hitches his leg up Lincoln’s hip in a movement that brings their erections in contact, pressing almost too hard against one another’s. The thin cotton of their pajamas is soon damp with precome and sweat, smelling of arousal and need, of promises of much awaited release and as much needed comfort. They need this. Sometimes, they just need this. Why would they do it, otherwise? It’s not the kind of thing you do for a cheap thrill, is it? Fucked up and fucked.
They roll across the bed. Lincoln wants him on his back - doesn’t Linc always want him on his back? - and Michael wants some semblance of control. Lincoln wins in the end, because he’s bigger, stronger, and because Michael does want some semblance of control but gets off so badly on Lincoln pinning him to the mattress and looming over him that he’s easy to overpower. He rears beneath Linc. In retaliation, Lincoln pushes his wrists into the pillow on each side of his head and edges a knee between his legs. It’s a retaliation that feels like a reward, even more so when Michael can grind on Lincoln’s thigh. It’s a retaliation that Lincoln seems to peg as insufficient, though, because after making sure with a stern look that Michael won’t move, he removes his right hand from Michael’s arm and dips it between them. Before realizing what’s going on, Michael ends up with his ass bare and his cock exposed, his pajamas bottoms pushed down and wrapped around his knees.
It’s a smooth downfall from there. Lincoln knows him; he knows that nothing pushes the control freak in him over the edge faster and better than his big brother taking control. Pinned down, helpless, taken care of, loud and forbidden moans swallowed into kisses. That’s the dirtier secret at the core of Michael’s dirty secrets, how efficiently Lincoln having the upper hand gets to him. He pleads with his eyes before moving his free hand. Lincoln crushes his lips and bites them for his audacity, but he allows Michael’s hand to roam and pull down the elastic band of his own pajamas, just a bit, just enough to free Lincoln’s cock. Michael gently presses it against his belly. Its girth, its weight, the stiff-sleek sensation, it all makes him quiver; thick and hard and yet so fragile, just like the rest of Lincoln.
Their erections slide together. That’s as far as they ever take it. It’s already far enough, bad enough, anyway. Good enough, too, better than anything with anyone else, but that’s another can of worms.
Michael writhes. The cotton pants around his knees prevent him from moving as freely as he’d want, from parting his legs wider and using them to hold onto Lincoln. The frustration drives him crazy and forces small whimpers out of him; the frustration also enhances his arousal and his pleasure - everything he wants and needs is right within his reach and yet he can’t quite touch it. Tantalus at its best, and he has to be twisted to enjoy it so much. If the sparkle in Lincoln’s eyes is anything to go by, Lincoln is well aware of it. Chances are he did all this on purpose. Bastard.
Linc keeps a slow and steady rhythm, merciless as though he wasn’t affected by the situation and Michael’s response when Michael knows perfectly well it’s not the case. He’s hot and harder than Michael can ever remember him, leaving trails of precome on Michael’s sweaty skin. Yet he keeps moving slow and even, confident. It’s unfair how, when they do this, Lincoln is the one who’s able to master and subjugate his body and his reactions, Lincoln who can’t be trusted near a bottle of whisky or a joint of shit, but who can tease and push his brother until Michael feels like begging and screaming at the top of his lungs.
Lincoln comes first, with his whole body rippling in pleasure, warm come seeping lazily and spreading all over Michael’s cock and stomach. Michael would bet even that was thought out. Linc can’t ignore the effect it has on him, that planned and ultimate loss of control. A large hand, rough and soft at the same time, holds him down as Linc keeps humping him and thrusting effortlessly. Tears prickle the corner of Michael’s eyes. He blinks them away furiously. He’s a fucking grown-up and he’s not going to cry in need over... that. Over the pleasure and the impossibility to voice it because Lincoln is still kissing him and devouring any sound Michael may try to utter.
Then, the kissing stops, Lincoln lifts up a bit above him and slips a finger between his lips. Michael starts sucking on the digit, realizing what he’s doing and what it looks like only when Lincoln smirks.
“I’m sorry.” Lincoln’s voice is as unapologetic as unapologetic goes, contradicting his statement and, on a side note, breaking the implicit rules of silence they have always followed. “For coming before you. On you. You felt so good.” His finger runs across Michael’s lips, leaving his mouth empty. Michael hates himself for missing it and trying to draw it back. “I made a damn mess of you down there. But you like it, don’t you? Mm, my little slut?”
He looks at Lincoln with wide eyes. The insult shocks and thrills him all at once - and it shocks him how much it thrills him. Not only do they never talk about what they do, but they never talk while doing it either, and certainly not using that kind of language. Lincoln’s words inflame his cheeks and makes electricity jolt down his spine, to his belly, into his balls. He arches up on pure instinct, half hoping there is more coming. Lincoln must have figured it out because he whispers it again and again into his ear, dark and possessive. Before Michael can dwell on the words and their implication, Lincoln kisses him hard and gags him with his hand.
“Yeah, I think you liked it,” he says as Michael protests from between his fingers - feeble, ambivalent protest, on the verge of begging for more. “Show me how much you liked it, Mikey. Come on.”
It’s not pretty, the way Michael loses it. What’s even worse is that he loses it on command, merely on Lincoln’s demand, for a few filthy phrases and well-aimed rolls of hips, frustration and need flaring and finally morphing into frenzied pleasure. Semen and tears surge and spurt onto Lincoln’s skin - with Linc pinning him down and silencing him, these are the only ways left for his release to gush out of him, weeping and come and body too tight to contain it all. His brother kisses the salty moisture on his face and grinds into the one on his stomach, mixing it with his own. Michael thinks the dirty talk Lincoln subjected him seconds ago has been replaced with something sounding like iloveyou, but the blood pounding hard and fast in his head and in his groin makes him unable to be sure about what he sees or hears, right now.
He wishes he could stay awake, but even over that he won’t have any control tonight. His eyes close of their own volition. He’s drained, throat, heart, hands, thighs, and cock, muscles, skin and nerves, whole body worn out and aching so good. He falls asleep with his pajamas still bunched around his knees and his stomach a mess of drying fluids, debauched and not caring in the slightest, his face marked with traces of tears and kisses, and only Lincoln’s arms to hold him together.
He doubts they can pretend anymore that it never happens.
END
--Feedback is always welcome and appreciated :)