I, along with a few others, like 10 foot poles.
Title: A Guy Walks Into A Bar
Author: happywriter06
Fandom: Prison Break
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Michael Scofield/Fernando Sucre, Lincoln Burrows
Category: Slash (Pre-series, AU)
Summary: He doesn’t do this. Doesn’t pick up guys in bars.
Notes: Look at that rating and pairing. I finally did it. Only took *counts* 4 tries at the M/M stuff. I was so nervous about this I had niektete and clair_de_lune beta this. Thanks! Any remaining mistakes are mine. For foxriver_fic’s February Challenge using prompts 7 (gentle touch of a calloused hand) and 27 (anger and liquor).
He should have insisted that Linc meet him at his place. He’s tired. It’s been a long day. It’s been a long week. If he was home, he could at least get some sleep. That is until Linc showed up at some ungodly hour.
“Hey,” says the guy that has just slid onto the seat next to him. He looks like he belongs here in his distressed brown leather jacket and well-worn jeans. Michael knows that he doesn’t blend in because he hadn’t bothered to go home and change out of his blue-gray, perfectly tailored suit. After all, Linc had insisted they meet right away. It was nearly nine when he called.
Michael smiles in greeting. He’s pissed but the smile comes easy anyway. Blame the alcohol. Blame the alcohol in his empty stomach. Blame the fact that this guy is hot and Michael can’t remember the last time he’s thought that about anyone.
He doesn’t mean to stare but it’s his thing (he knows this about himself) and he’s got nothing better to do but make the most of his time as he waits. Why not enjoy the view? The guy turns under Michael’s scrutiny, his black-brown eyes happy. He has a great smile, one that takes over his whole face, one punctuated by dimples.
Michael’s not the only one that likes what he sees. Sucre hadn’t paid much attention to the guy in the suit except to notice how his body language said he definitely doesn’t want to be here. Sucre said ‘hey’ because just as he sat down this guy turned around to look at him. He had to do a double take. He wasn’t expecting eyes that blue and lips that pink. He wasn’t going to say anything else to the guy in the suit because he’s clearly out of his league.
That is until he felt those blue eyes studying him.
“What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?” Michael can tell he’s Latino by his olive skin and his voice. Michael thinks this guy’s been here awhile because there’s only the faintest hint of an accent.
“Waiting for my brother,” Michael says, glancing towards the opening door that reveals two young women entering. “Doesn’t look like he’s going to show up.” He turns back to the guy. “Got any brothers?” Michael asks, his anger back.
“Nope. Just sisters.”
“Lucky you.”
“You don’t know my sisters.”
Their laughter fills the space between them until the moment pasts. Then the bartender approaches to ask if Michael wants another. Sucre catches Michael’s eyes as he casts a quick glance in Sucre’s direction before telling her no and placeing some money on the bar. “Keep the change.”
Sucre knows that look. He’s given it enough times. He’s gotten it enough times that he knows it’s up to him what happens next. There’s no question in his mind what he’s going to do. It’s just a matter of when. He knows this place and no one needs to see him leaving right after this guy.
Twenty minutes later Michael’s still waiting and has sobered up some. He doesn’t do this. Doesn’t pick up guys in bars. He figures that maybe the guy has had second thoughts. Or maybe Michael, as he thinks to himself, I misread the situation wrong. It all happened so fast. It might break some kind of record. He’s stepping to the curb to hail a cab when he hears the same ‘hey’ he’d heard earlier only it’s louder to account for the sounds of the city at night.
“Looks like I came out just in time,” Sucre says as Michael turns.
He doesn’t even think of saying no, not when he’s smiling at Michael like that again. “Looks like.”
Slipping into the cab, Michael immediately tells the cabbie to take them to his place. It was instinct to tell the cabbie to take him home. His companion didn’t object, which Michael took as a sign there was no need to ask, “Unless you prefer your place?”
They don’t talk during the cab ride over except to tell each other their names. He’d told him, “You look like a Miguel.” When Michael asked him what’s his name in English, Michael said, “Fernando sounds much better.” Not that anyone outside of his family calls him Fernando. “Most people call me Sucre. There are a lot of Fernandos in my part of town.”
The silence does nothing to ease Michael’s nerves. He doesn’t pick up guys in bars, except when he does (and this is his first time). He’s usually the one being picked up and it’s usually on business trips by guys even more guarded about keeping this kind of thing secret. Plus, he hasn’t been with anyone in a while. Between work and work and work, he hasn’t had the time or the inclination. He knew going to meet Linc was a bad idea. This is all his fault.
From the other end of the seat, Sucre can see Michael’s nervous. For his part, Sucre isn’t. He can’t really put a finger on why. It’s not like he drank enough to not be nervous. And he should maybe be nervous considering who Sucre thinks Michael is. He thinks he’s rich or close to it, the kind of guy that would normally look down his nose at a guy like him under different circumstances.
He watches the scenery change from slightly rundown homes and young guys on corners to high rises and well-dressed couples strolling through downtown. He watches the city as Michael watches him. He can still feel that Michael’s edgy so more than once he turns and smiles. It seems to make Michael feel better, at least for the moment, because he smiles back. Sucre even considers reaching over to put a hand on his knee but figures that might make things worse.
“This is my place,” Michael announces as they step across the threshold. He doesn’t flick on the light since it would ruin the view. He’s been in this place a couple of years now and he still doesn’t tire of it. There’s something about watching the city at night from this high up when it’s all lit up and his apartment is dark. It’s even better in the summertime when he leaves the doors open to feel the breeze off the river. He probably hasn’t tired of it yet because he doesn’t get to enjoy it much.
When Linc first saw it, he said it’s a chick magnet. It works on guys, too. Well, the two guys that he’s ever had over. There’s something about the idea of being fucked or fucking someone against cold glass when no one can see you. Everyone wants to do it.
So he’s not surprised when the second he reaches Sucre, it’s the same second the cold of the glass starts to seep through the silk of his shirt into his skin from the back as Sucre’s heat seeps in through the front.
Sucre tastes like beer and peppers, their heat now mellowed by time and alcohol. Their tongues slip and slide against each other as Sucre grinds his hips into Michael’s. Michael pushes Sucre’s jacket off his shoulders and down his arms. It makes a soft thud against the hardwood floor. He trails his fingers back up Sucre’s arms feeling the mix of surprisingly soft skin and hard muscle that twitches under his touch.
“Suave,” he hears Sucre murmur against his lips. Michael remembers that means soft in Spanish. He can’t say the same about Sucre’s hands as they make their way under his shirt. Not that he’s complaining. His calloused hands running up his torso feels goods, makes the goosebumps that were already there stand out some more. Sucre’s hands scrape over Michael’s nipples, which causes Michael to suck in a breath.
“Te gusta?” Sucre asks as he leans in to kiss the skin of Michael’s throat because he’s just exposed it to such attention. Which just causes Sucre to grind his hips some more. Male or female, there’s something about whoever he’s with doing that.
He can’t quite put his finger on what Michael smells like. It’s probably some expensive as cologne he can’t afford. And he tastes like? He doesn’t know that either. It doesn’t really matter. All Sucre knows is Michael’s taste and his smell flood his body with desire.
“Sí,” Michael breathes out, glad that he took Spanish. Linc said take French. “The language of love. You know girls like that shit and you need all the help you can get.”
Pretty soon both of their shirts have joined Sucre’s jacket on the floor. Sucre works his way down Michael’s chest and stomach alternately kissing and licking. Michael shivers as the air hits his wet skin. He breathes deeply as he waits for Sucre to touch him there. He’s hard, been hard since before they stepped inside. He closes his eyes in anticipation and to say a little prayer that he won’t come too soon. It’s been that long since he’s been with anyone, even himself, so it’s entirely possible.
Then Sucre’s hot mouth is on him and it’s all he can do not to slide down the glass. He seems to have broken out into a sweat as Sucre’s lips begin work their way up and down his shaft.
He continues with the deep breaths as Sucre increases the friction steadily. This guy definitely knows what he’s doing with his mouth and then his hands, one gently gripping Michael’s hip to keep him in place and the fingers of the other every so often brushing against his anus. He can’t help but thrust forward when that happens, and that of course does nothing to keep him from wanting to come now.
“Sucre,” he whispers.
“Oh, Papi, I like it when you say my name like that.” He’s whispering, too as he stands to kiss Michael hard on the mouth. Michael smiles as he tastes himself on Sucre’s lips. Not that he has long to dwell on that as his dick is trapped between their bodies demanding Sucre’s attention once again.
It’s painful, the rough fabric of Sucre’s jeans rubbing against the delicate skin of his erection. Yet, it feels good. It feels so good that Michael’s sure it won’t be long before he coming. “Sucre,” he manages to get out but Sucre pays him no mind. He just swallows Michael’s moans as he comes hard.
“Sorry,” Michael says in between gasps for air, his hands lightly gripping Sucre’s shoulders. Michael can tell that Sucre could care less about his pants as he stares into his eyes. Michael’s satisfied as he relaxes his grip and the rest of his body. He’s totally spent, but he can feel and see that Sucre isn’t, that he’s still fired up and ready to go. His eyes are still dark with desire.
“S’kay,” he says, running his thumb along Michael’s jaw. “Turn around,” he gently commands.
Michael turns but not before totally removing the rest of his clothing and his shoes. He plants his feet wide and braces himself as best he can considering his hands are slick with sweat.
The clank of Sucre’s belt buckle hitting the floor is loud in the still quiet, except for their breathing, of the room. Then he hears the tearing of foil and he’s suddenly grateful one of them remembered.
“Relax,” Sucre tells him, his voice low as one hand rests on Michael’s shoulder and the other is placed at Michael’s entrance. “Listo?” Michael only nods as Sucre kisses the back of his neck before he’s sliding a finger inside.
Obviously relaxing is easier said than done as Michael tightens around his finger. Sucre coaxes him to let go with more kisses and whispered words. “Feels good, Papi?” Sucre asks. Before Michael can even respond - verbal or otherwise - Sucre’s already asking him if he’s ready for the real thing. Sucre’s ready, so very ready.
Sucre’s vaguely aware Michael isn’t prepped enough but he’s not going to last much longer. Michael doesn’t seem to mind though because he’s saying yes, desperation lacing each word as his forehead rests against the glass. It takes three thrusts before Michael’s ass is pressed firmly against his groin. They both stop once Sucre’s buried inside, savoring the moment. Then Michael is moving and Sucre holds his breath.
“Don’t do that Papi,” he hisses. “Por favor.”
“Por favor, Fernando,” Michael practically purrs. Sucre can see Michael’s smirk reflected in the glass.
Michael can feel Sucre’s nails make half moons in the skin of his hips as Sucre grips him hard. His thrusts are rougher now, which makes Michael feel like he’s being split in two. He revels in the steady push pull of Sucre’s cock as his world seems to narrow to the heat in his midsection. Sucre’s words - not quite English, not quite Spanish - mingle with the low moans he manages to coach from Michael.
It’s not long before he feels Sucre stop cold. Then he leans into him, his forehead resting against Michael’s neck. He’s breathing hard, still has his hands on Michael’s hips. It takes some time before they both catch their breaths.
“The bathroom is down the hall on the right.”
Once Sucre is no longer inside of him, Michael feels weightless, feels like there’s no glass under his hands or floor under his feet as he makes his way to his bedroom. He doesn’t slide under the covers, just falls into bed. He’s on the precipice of sleep when he can feel he’s not alone. He opens his eyes, barely making out the shape of Sucre standing in the doorway. He thinks he must be smiling because Sucre walks towards the bed and then lies down next to him.
***
His bedroom is awash in bright light as the sun streams in through the floor to ceiling windows. He blinks, trying to adjust to the unforgiving light as he props himself up on his elbows. He feels sticky. His legs hurts. His ass stings. And the spot next to him looks like someone slept there. He doesn’t have to be a genius to figure out he didn’t come home alone last night. He hopes like hell he didn’t bring home just anyone.
He’s in the bathroom brushing his teeth when he hears a string of curses in Spanish. Grabbing his robe, he makes his way into kitchen. “Morning,” he says tentatively to the man standing at his stove. Michael observes he may have brought home just anybody but at least this anybody has a nice ass. He can tell because the man is completely naked.
“Buenos días,” Sucre says as he turns. Looking at Michael, he can read relief in his eyes. He would be offended except he’s been there.
Then Michael’s eyes have left his face. If he wasn’t already naked, he’d feel stripped bare under Michael’s stare as he seems to take in every inch of his body.
“It’s all your fault,” Sucre tells him, mock serious.
“What is?” Michael asks as he pulls his eyes back up to meet Sucre’s.
“Me in your kitchen naked. My clothes are in the washing machine. Hope you don’t mind because you can’t expect me to leave here with jizz on my pants.”
“You could have gotten my robe.”
“I didn’t want to get too comfortable,” Sucre tells him going back to his work.
Michael laughs. “Yeah, we wouldn’t want that.” He makes his way back to his bedroom. When he comes back to the kitchen, he’s in sweats and has his robe in his hand. “Here,” he says to Sucre.
“Gracias, Papi.”
Sucre is slipping into the robe when there is a knock at the door. Startled, Michael goes to answer it. Looking through the peephole, he can see Linc shifting nervously in the hallway. He lets out an annoyed huff before opening the door but only enough so he can slip through it.
“What I’m not welcome now?” Linc asks angrily, all nervousness gone.
Michael pays no attention to Linc’s attitude. “I got company,” Michael tells him. He doesn’t know why he’s speaking so low.
A slow, proud smile spreads across Linc’s face. “My boy.” Michael just rolls his eyes. “Did she like the view?”
“Worked like a charm.”
“I told you. Anyway, don’t let me interrupt. I’ll come back later. I’ll call first.” He gives Michael’s shoulder a squeeze before moving down the hall. He’s almost to the elevator, Michael still outside his door, when he turns to ask, “You met this girl last night?”
“Yeah,” Michael asks, unsure as to where this is going.
“And you didn’t want to meet me. See what happened? You finally got laid.”
Author: happywriter06
Fandom: Prison Break
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Michael Scofield/Fernando Sucre, Lincoln Burrows
Category: Slash (Pre-series, AU)
Summary: He doesn’t do this. Doesn’t pick up guys in bars.
Notes: Look at that rating and pairing. I finally did it. Only took *counts* 4 tries at the M/M stuff. I was so nervous about this I had niektete and clair_de_lune beta this. Thanks! Any remaining mistakes are mine. For foxriver_fic’s February Challenge using prompts 7 (gentle touch of a calloused hand) and 27 (anger and liquor).
He should have insisted that Linc meet him at his place. He’s tired. It’s been a long day. It’s been a long week. If he was home, he could at least get some sleep. That is until Linc showed up at some ungodly hour.
“Hey,” says the guy that has just slid onto the seat next to him. He looks like he belongs here in his distressed brown leather jacket and well-worn jeans. Michael knows that he doesn’t blend in because he hadn’t bothered to go home and change out of his blue-gray, perfectly tailored suit. After all, Linc had insisted they meet right away. It was nearly nine when he called.
Michael smiles in greeting. He’s pissed but the smile comes easy anyway. Blame the alcohol. Blame the alcohol in his empty stomach. Blame the fact that this guy is hot and Michael can’t remember the last time he’s thought that about anyone.
He doesn’t mean to stare but it’s his thing (he knows this about himself) and he’s got nothing better to do but make the most of his time as he waits. Why not enjoy the view? The guy turns under Michael’s scrutiny, his black-brown eyes happy. He has a great smile, one that takes over his whole face, one punctuated by dimples.
Michael’s not the only one that likes what he sees. Sucre hadn’t paid much attention to the guy in the suit except to notice how his body language said he definitely doesn’t want to be here. Sucre said ‘hey’ because just as he sat down this guy turned around to look at him. He had to do a double take. He wasn’t expecting eyes that blue and lips that pink. He wasn’t going to say anything else to the guy in the suit because he’s clearly out of his league.
That is until he felt those blue eyes studying him.
“What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?” Michael can tell he’s Latino by his olive skin and his voice. Michael thinks this guy’s been here awhile because there’s only the faintest hint of an accent.
“Waiting for my brother,” Michael says, glancing towards the opening door that reveals two young women entering. “Doesn’t look like he’s going to show up.” He turns back to the guy. “Got any brothers?” Michael asks, his anger back.
“Nope. Just sisters.”
“Lucky you.”
“You don’t know my sisters.”
Their laughter fills the space between them until the moment pasts. Then the bartender approaches to ask if Michael wants another. Sucre catches Michael’s eyes as he casts a quick glance in Sucre’s direction before telling her no and placeing some money on the bar. “Keep the change.”
Sucre knows that look. He’s given it enough times. He’s gotten it enough times that he knows it’s up to him what happens next. There’s no question in his mind what he’s going to do. It’s just a matter of when. He knows this place and no one needs to see him leaving right after this guy.
Twenty minutes later Michael’s still waiting and has sobered up some. He doesn’t do this. Doesn’t pick up guys in bars. He figures that maybe the guy has had second thoughts. Or maybe Michael, as he thinks to himself, I misread the situation wrong. It all happened so fast. It might break some kind of record. He’s stepping to the curb to hail a cab when he hears the same ‘hey’ he’d heard earlier only it’s louder to account for the sounds of the city at night.
“Looks like I came out just in time,” Sucre says as Michael turns.
He doesn’t even think of saying no, not when he’s smiling at Michael like that again. “Looks like.”
Slipping into the cab, Michael immediately tells the cabbie to take them to his place. It was instinct to tell the cabbie to take him home. His companion didn’t object, which Michael took as a sign there was no need to ask, “Unless you prefer your place?”
They don’t talk during the cab ride over except to tell each other their names. He’d told him, “You look like a Miguel.” When Michael asked him what’s his name in English, Michael said, “Fernando sounds much better.” Not that anyone outside of his family calls him Fernando. “Most people call me Sucre. There are a lot of Fernandos in my part of town.”
The silence does nothing to ease Michael’s nerves. He doesn’t pick up guys in bars, except when he does (and this is his first time). He’s usually the one being picked up and it’s usually on business trips by guys even more guarded about keeping this kind of thing secret. Plus, he hasn’t been with anyone in a while. Between work and work and work, he hasn’t had the time or the inclination. He knew going to meet Linc was a bad idea. This is all his fault.
From the other end of the seat, Sucre can see Michael’s nervous. For his part, Sucre isn’t. He can’t really put a finger on why. It’s not like he drank enough to not be nervous. And he should maybe be nervous considering who Sucre thinks Michael is. He thinks he’s rich or close to it, the kind of guy that would normally look down his nose at a guy like him under different circumstances.
He watches the scenery change from slightly rundown homes and young guys on corners to high rises and well-dressed couples strolling through downtown. He watches the city as Michael watches him. He can still feel that Michael’s edgy so more than once he turns and smiles. It seems to make Michael feel better, at least for the moment, because he smiles back. Sucre even considers reaching over to put a hand on his knee but figures that might make things worse.
“This is my place,” Michael announces as they step across the threshold. He doesn’t flick on the light since it would ruin the view. He’s been in this place a couple of years now and he still doesn’t tire of it. There’s something about watching the city at night from this high up when it’s all lit up and his apartment is dark. It’s even better in the summertime when he leaves the doors open to feel the breeze off the river. He probably hasn’t tired of it yet because he doesn’t get to enjoy it much.
When Linc first saw it, he said it’s a chick magnet. It works on guys, too. Well, the two guys that he’s ever had over. There’s something about the idea of being fucked or fucking someone against cold glass when no one can see you. Everyone wants to do it.
So he’s not surprised when the second he reaches Sucre, it’s the same second the cold of the glass starts to seep through the silk of his shirt into his skin from the back as Sucre’s heat seeps in through the front.
Sucre tastes like beer and peppers, their heat now mellowed by time and alcohol. Their tongues slip and slide against each other as Sucre grinds his hips into Michael’s. Michael pushes Sucre’s jacket off his shoulders and down his arms. It makes a soft thud against the hardwood floor. He trails his fingers back up Sucre’s arms feeling the mix of surprisingly soft skin and hard muscle that twitches under his touch.
“Suave,” he hears Sucre murmur against his lips. Michael remembers that means soft in Spanish. He can’t say the same about Sucre’s hands as they make their way under his shirt. Not that he’s complaining. His calloused hands running up his torso feels goods, makes the goosebumps that were already there stand out some more. Sucre’s hands scrape over Michael’s nipples, which causes Michael to suck in a breath.
“Te gusta?” Sucre asks as he leans in to kiss the skin of Michael’s throat because he’s just exposed it to such attention. Which just causes Sucre to grind his hips some more. Male or female, there’s something about whoever he’s with doing that.
He can’t quite put his finger on what Michael smells like. It’s probably some expensive as cologne he can’t afford. And he tastes like? He doesn’t know that either. It doesn’t really matter. All Sucre knows is Michael’s taste and his smell flood his body with desire.
“Sí,” Michael breathes out, glad that he took Spanish. Linc said take French. “The language of love. You know girls like that shit and you need all the help you can get.”
Pretty soon both of their shirts have joined Sucre’s jacket on the floor. Sucre works his way down Michael’s chest and stomach alternately kissing and licking. Michael shivers as the air hits his wet skin. He breathes deeply as he waits for Sucre to touch him there. He’s hard, been hard since before they stepped inside. He closes his eyes in anticipation and to say a little prayer that he won’t come too soon. It’s been that long since he’s been with anyone, even himself, so it’s entirely possible.
Then Sucre’s hot mouth is on him and it’s all he can do not to slide down the glass. He seems to have broken out into a sweat as Sucre’s lips begin work their way up and down his shaft.
He continues with the deep breaths as Sucre increases the friction steadily. This guy definitely knows what he’s doing with his mouth and then his hands, one gently gripping Michael’s hip to keep him in place and the fingers of the other every so often brushing against his anus. He can’t help but thrust forward when that happens, and that of course does nothing to keep him from wanting to come now.
“Sucre,” he whispers.
“Oh, Papi, I like it when you say my name like that.” He’s whispering, too as he stands to kiss Michael hard on the mouth. Michael smiles as he tastes himself on Sucre’s lips. Not that he has long to dwell on that as his dick is trapped between their bodies demanding Sucre’s attention once again.
It’s painful, the rough fabric of Sucre’s jeans rubbing against the delicate skin of his erection. Yet, it feels good. It feels so good that Michael’s sure it won’t be long before he coming. “Sucre,” he manages to get out but Sucre pays him no mind. He just swallows Michael’s moans as he comes hard.
“Sorry,” Michael says in between gasps for air, his hands lightly gripping Sucre’s shoulders. Michael can tell that Sucre could care less about his pants as he stares into his eyes. Michael’s satisfied as he relaxes his grip and the rest of his body. He’s totally spent, but he can feel and see that Sucre isn’t, that he’s still fired up and ready to go. His eyes are still dark with desire.
“S’kay,” he says, running his thumb along Michael’s jaw. “Turn around,” he gently commands.
Michael turns but not before totally removing the rest of his clothing and his shoes. He plants his feet wide and braces himself as best he can considering his hands are slick with sweat.
The clank of Sucre’s belt buckle hitting the floor is loud in the still quiet, except for their breathing, of the room. Then he hears the tearing of foil and he’s suddenly grateful one of them remembered.
“Relax,” Sucre tells him, his voice low as one hand rests on Michael’s shoulder and the other is placed at Michael’s entrance. “Listo?” Michael only nods as Sucre kisses the back of his neck before he’s sliding a finger inside.
Obviously relaxing is easier said than done as Michael tightens around his finger. Sucre coaxes him to let go with more kisses and whispered words. “Feels good, Papi?” Sucre asks. Before Michael can even respond - verbal or otherwise - Sucre’s already asking him if he’s ready for the real thing. Sucre’s ready, so very ready.
Sucre’s vaguely aware Michael isn’t prepped enough but he’s not going to last much longer. Michael doesn’t seem to mind though because he’s saying yes, desperation lacing each word as his forehead rests against the glass. It takes three thrusts before Michael’s ass is pressed firmly against his groin. They both stop once Sucre’s buried inside, savoring the moment. Then Michael is moving and Sucre holds his breath.
“Don’t do that Papi,” he hisses. “Por favor.”
“Por favor, Fernando,” Michael practically purrs. Sucre can see Michael’s smirk reflected in the glass.
Michael can feel Sucre’s nails make half moons in the skin of his hips as Sucre grips him hard. His thrusts are rougher now, which makes Michael feel like he’s being split in two. He revels in the steady push pull of Sucre’s cock as his world seems to narrow to the heat in his midsection. Sucre’s words - not quite English, not quite Spanish - mingle with the low moans he manages to coach from Michael.
It’s not long before he feels Sucre stop cold. Then he leans into him, his forehead resting against Michael’s neck. He’s breathing hard, still has his hands on Michael’s hips. It takes some time before they both catch their breaths.
“The bathroom is down the hall on the right.”
Once Sucre is no longer inside of him, Michael feels weightless, feels like there’s no glass under his hands or floor under his feet as he makes his way to his bedroom. He doesn’t slide under the covers, just falls into bed. He’s on the precipice of sleep when he can feel he’s not alone. He opens his eyes, barely making out the shape of Sucre standing in the doorway. He thinks he must be smiling because Sucre walks towards the bed and then lies down next to him.
***
His bedroom is awash in bright light as the sun streams in through the floor to ceiling windows. He blinks, trying to adjust to the unforgiving light as he props himself up on his elbows. He feels sticky. His legs hurts. His ass stings. And the spot next to him looks like someone slept there. He doesn’t have to be a genius to figure out he didn’t come home alone last night. He hopes like hell he didn’t bring home just anyone.
He’s in the bathroom brushing his teeth when he hears a string of curses in Spanish. Grabbing his robe, he makes his way into kitchen. “Morning,” he says tentatively to the man standing at his stove. Michael observes he may have brought home just anybody but at least this anybody has a nice ass. He can tell because the man is completely naked.
“Buenos días,” Sucre says as he turns. Looking at Michael, he can read relief in his eyes. He would be offended except he’s been there.
Then Michael’s eyes have left his face. If he wasn’t already naked, he’d feel stripped bare under Michael’s stare as he seems to take in every inch of his body.
“It’s all your fault,” Sucre tells him, mock serious.
“What is?” Michael asks as he pulls his eyes back up to meet Sucre’s.
“Me in your kitchen naked. My clothes are in the washing machine. Hope you don’t mind because you can’t expect me to leave here with jizz on my pants.”
“You could have gotten my robe.”
“I didn’t want to get too comfortable,” Sucre tells him going back to his work.
Michael laughs. “Yeah, we wouldn’t want that.” He makes his way back to his bedroom. When he comes back to the kitchen, he’s in sweats and has his robe in his hand. “Here,” he says to Sucre.
“Gracias, Papi.”
Sucre is slipping into the robe when there is a knock at the door. Startled, Michael goes to answer it. Looking through the peephole, he can see Linc shifting nervously in the hallway. He lets out an annoyed huff before opening the door but only enough so he can slip through it.
“What I’m not welcome now?” Linc asks angrily, all nervousness gone.
Michael pays no attention to Linc’s attitude. “I got company,” Michael tells him. He doesn’t know why he’s speaking so low.
A slow, proud smile spreads across Linc’s face. “My boy.” Michael just rolls his eyes. “Did she like the view?”
“Worked like a charm.”
“I told you. Anyway, don’t let me interrupt. I’ll come back later. I’ll call first.” He gives Michael’s shoulder a squeeze before moving down the hall. He’s almost to the elevator, Michael still outside his door, when he turns to ask, “You met this girl last night?”
“Yeah,” Michael asks, unsure as to where this is going.
“And you didn’t want to meet me. See what happened? You finally got laid.”