fic: At this altar
Title: At this altar
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael/Sara
Word Count: 600 or so
Rating: yeah...um...the point of this challenge was NC-17, and um...NC-17 implied? does that count?
Warning: see rating, also, excessive schmoop
Notes: Written for the challenge "Let's get it on" at
pbhiatus_fic , and for
burntcircles , as a birthday request.
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine.
It’s just a hand, with a slow rub up a silky smooth expanse of skin. She watches with interest, eyes locked on long fingers, on fine bones and narrow wrist, dark against pale white, darker still when flesh gives way to blue ink, to man’s pattern instead of God’s. He follows with lips, kissing all the places he’s kissed already with his fingertips, lashes down and studied, like he studies everything. She wonders if he’s taking her apart in his mind, bone and muscle and blood and spirit. She knows he sees it all, but it doesn’t make her nervous, or even slightly self-conscious. She reaches a hand down, cups his chin and strokes a thumb over his cheek. He glances up at her and smiles, still kissing closer and closer, higher and higher up her thigh.
“You’re beautiful,” she says.
He hums against her skin, low notes that vibrate down into her nerves and up her spine. She can feel music in it all the way up in her brain. He pulls his lips back just enough, “I think that’s my line,” he murmurs and they brush against her, and his hand has gone higher still, and rests there, just there. He leaves it as he pulls himself up towards her, so that their eyes are close, their lips closer still. He kisses her lips as gently as he kissed her skin, reverently, mouth moving like he’s saying a prayer and his fingers find the rhythm of it below on her body.
She holds his head in both hands and deepens the kiss, makes little noises in the back of her throat to encourage him. His dexterity is enough to make her swoon, but she resists the fall; she isn’t finished with him yet. Not yet, not ever. She lets go of his head and sweeps her hands down, nails brushing his sides in a slow tickle. He shudders and leaves off what he was doing between her legs to brace himself with both arms above her.
“Hey,” she says, and smiles up at him. “I thought you were busy.”
His focus on her is intense, and she feels precious, and desired, and beloved. “You distracted me,” he says. “You’re always distracting me.”
“I do what I can,” she says, and curls her fingers over the waistband of his shorts, the only clothing left between the two of them. “What are these still doing here?” she asks, and pushes at them until he finally helps, sits up and tosses them away and stares down at her, stares like he will never see enough. “Come on,” she whispers. “Come here.”
He settles back over her gently, and there is nothing between them. She never wants anything to come between them again, not space or time or prisons or even clothes. She pulls at his back, pulling him closer, pulling him in to her in every way she can. He puts his arms around her, holding on as tightly as she is, maybe more so. They hold still with their mouths open against each other, just breathing each other in. She can feel his heart beat against her chest, can feel her own race to keep up.
“I missed you,” he whispers. “I love you.”
He’s too close to focus on, but she can still see him, still knows what he looks like, what the look in his eyes is right now. She knows every part of him. She cants her hips and wraps her legs around him, wraps her arms around him, holding on just like he is holding on, worshipping his body just like he is worshipping hers.
“I’m here now,” she says.
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael/Sara
Word Count: 600 or so
Rating: yeah...um...the point of this challenge was NC-17, and um...NC-17 implied? does that count?
Warning: see rating, also, excessive schmoop
Notes: Written for the challenge "Let's get it on" at
pbhiatus_fic , and for
burntcircles , as a birthday request.
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine.
It’s just a hand, with a slow rub up a silky smooth expanse of skin. She watches with interest, eyes locked on long fingers, on fine bones and narrow wrist, dark against pale white, darker still when flesh gives way to blue ink, to man’s pattern instead of God’s. He follows with lips, kissing all the places he’s kissed already with his fingertips, lashes down and studied, like he studies everything. She wonders if he’s taking her apart in his mind, bone and muscle and blood and spirit. She knows he sees it all, but it doesn’t make her nervous, or even slightly self-conscious. She reaches a hand down, cups his chin and strokes a thumb over his cheek. He glances up at her and smiles, still kissing closer and closer, higher and higher up her thigh.
“You’re beautiful,” she says.
He hums against her skin, low notes that vibrate down into her nerves and up her spine. She can feel music in it all the way up in her brain. He pulls his lips back just enough, “I think that’s my line,” he murmurs and they brush against her, and his hand has gone higher still, and rests there, just there. He leaves it as he pulls himself up towards her, so that their eyes are close, their lips closer still. He kisses her lips as gently as he kissed her skin, reverently, mouth moving like he’s saying a prayer and his fingers find the rhythm of it below on her body.
She holds his head in both hands and deepens the kiss, makes little noises in the back of her throat to encourage him. His dexterity is enough to make her swoon, but she resists the fall; she isn’t finished with him yet. Not yet, not ever. She lets go of his head and sweeps her hands down, nails brushing his sides in a slow tickle. He shudders and leaves off what he was doing between her legs to brace himself with both arms above her.
“Hey,” she says, and smiles up at him. “I thought you were busy.”
His focus on her is intense, and she feels precious, and desired, and beloved. “You distracted me,” he says. “You’re always distracting me.”
“I do what I can,” she says, and curls her fingers over the waistband of his shorts, the only clothing left between the two of them. “What are these still doing here?” she asks, and pushes at them until he finally helps, sits up and tosses them away and stares down at her, stares like he will never see enough. “Come on,” she whispers. “Come here.”
He settles back over her gently, and there is nothing between them. She never wants anything to come between them again, not space or time or prisons or even clothes. She pulls at his back, pulling him closer, pulling him in to her in every way she can. He puts his arms around her, holding on as tightly as she is, maybe more so. They hold still with their mouths open against each other, just breathing each other in. She can feel his heart beat against her chest, can feel her own race to keep up.
“I missed you,” he whispers. “I love you.”
He’s too close to focus on, but she can still see him, still knows what he looks like, what the look in his eyes is right now. She knows every part of him. She cants her hips and wraps her legs around him, wraps her arms around him, holding on just like he is holding on, worshipping his body just like he is worshipping hers.
“I’m here now,” she says.