Free - Michael/Sara (1/1)
Title: Free (1/1)
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters:Michael, Sara
Genre: Het, non-epilogue-compliant, smut, extremely mild bondage
Pairing:Michael/Sara
Rating:NC-17
Length:1,238 words
Summary:He's a man who believes in equal opportunity, and this occasion is no exception.
Author's Note:For eight8toes and a few other people who put their hands up for a sequel to Practicing Restraint. And I may have chosen this particular title in order to thumb my virtual nose at TPTB. All feedback, good or otherwise, is very welcome.
~*~
Freedom, he decides fuzzily, is a very good word. He has decided this because he is lying on a comfortable bed with soft sheets, every cell in his body replete with a spent pleasure that makes him feel as though he’s half-melted into the mattress beneath him. The word sounds like what it is, he thinks, the feel of it rolling on his mental tongue almost as rich and round as the feel of Sara’s naked flesh beneath the stroke of his hand.
In his other hand, he’s still cradling a pair of handcuffs, the metal circles faintly warm from their contact with his wrists, the hinge flexing idly beneath the brush of his thumb. He stares at them, and for once feels nothing but relief. He will never have to wear them again. Unless he wants to wear them, of course, he amends with a private smirk. Almost as though she hears his thought, Sara stretches languidly in his embrace, her fingers spread wide as she moves her arms, her wrists delicate and pale, hiding the pulse he knows is fluttering in the aftermath of a climax that left her gripping his shoulders so tightly he can still feel the imprint of her fingertips.
He studies the slender wrist closest to his line of sight, mapping the faint blue line of her veins beneath creamy skin, and a mental picture flashes into his head. It’s an image so erotic that his hands are already moving of their own accord, a decision his sated body seems to second with quiet enthusiasm. When the metal of the handcuff clicks shut around her left wrist, she looks at him with wide eyes, a sharp breath rising in her chest, pushing the flushed weight of her breasts against his chest. “Uh, Michael?”
He smiles, one fingertip tracing the skin that’s now underneath the metal bracelet. “Your turn.”
Her lips part, white teeth catching the tip of her tongue, her eyes dark with both amusement and arousal, a deadly combination that has been slaying him effortlessly on a daily basis from the moment they'd first met. “Are you saying I might benefit from a little therapeutic acting out as well?”
“Maybe.” He reaches for her other wrist, bending his head to kiss the damp curve of her shoulder as he pulls her hands together above her head, threading the cuffs through the metal bedhead, just as she had done earlier. He nips at her skin, soothing the bite with his tongue, drinking in the taste of clean sweat and faded perfume and possibility, and despite an extremely pleasant feeling of post-coital sluggishness, he wants to devour her whole. “Then again, maybe I just want to see how long you can stand it.”
She twists beneath him as the click of the handcuffs echoes through their quiet bedroom, the position of her arms stretched above her head doing several fascinating things to the arch of her body and the thrust of her breasts. Her voice is thready, breathless, thin with earthy anticipation, and he feels the familiar stirrings of a desire that never fails to take him by surprise. “Stand what, exactly?”
“You’ll see,” he tells her, his hands settling on her hips as he bends his head to her breast, the sudden hardness of her nipple smooth against his tongue. He feels the ripple of sensation that shivers through her, hears the quiet moan that quivers in her throat, and his lips curve in a smile against her skin. When he indulges in a gentle bite or three, metal scrapes against metal as she shifts restlessly beneath him, lifting her hips in silent supplication. It’s an appeal he intends to ignore for as long as humanly possible.
“Michael-”
“Don’t tell me you’re calling uncle already, Doctor Tancredi,” he remarks in his best casual voice - he’s impressed, because right now all he wants to do is bury his face in her heated flesh and bring her to the brink of pleasurable madness - as he skims one hand down her stomach, feeling the quivering muscles beneath his hand. “Because I’ve only just started.”
“Bastard,” she says mildly under her breath, a breathy chuckle threaded through the curse word, her eyes closing as he runs his fingertips along the smoothness of her inner thigh. His body seems to have forgotten that his energy levels were knocked flat only a few minutes earlier; when he brushes his knuckles lightly against the damp curls between her thighs, she isn’t the only one who bites back a groan.
She says his name again, a choked plea, and he slides down her body to where they both want him to be, his hands firm on her thighs, the scent and taste of sex and salt and Sara filling his senses as he presses his mouth against the hot, slick flesh between her legs. She jerks beneath him at the first touch of his mouth, tensing as he traces the shape of her with his tongue, finding and teasing the dark, sweet place that has her tossing her head against the pillow - he hears the rustle of her hair against the cotton - and her thigh muscles clenching beneath his splayed hands. When he draws the tight, hot bead of nerve-endings into his mouth and sucks gently, she makes a guttural sound of anguished delight that goes straight to his groin, her hips lifting as she pushes against his mouth, the first ripples of her release beginning to shimmer through her thighs and belly.
“Fuck, Michael-” she says, and that’s as far as she gets before she’s shuddering beneath him, the slick heat of her flooding his tongue, the rush of her blood calling to his own. He presses kiss after kiss to the soft skin of her thighs, then her belly, working his way up the familiar curves and dips of a body he knows as well as his own, his cock now heavy and aching against his thigh. “I love you,” she tells him unsteadily, curling her legs around his hips, urging him closer in an invitation he has no chance of refusing. “So much.”
He tells her he loves her too as he slides into her, his hands on her breasts, his heart already hammering against his ribs. She’s hot and tight and slippery around him, and it’s fast, even for them (with all their impatience and their need, every single time), because she’s stretched out beneath him like a sensual banquet at which he will never, ever go hungry. It only takes a moment of mindless, immeasurable bliss before he is grinding out her name through gritted teeth, his hips jerking helplessly, his breath burning in his lungs.
It takes him a while to locate the handcuff keys, struggling to find the energy to lift his head from the softness of her breast. After he finally discovers the tiny key in the tangled bedclothes, he kisses her mouth, then lifts each wrist to his lips in turn. He can taste the faintest trace of metal on her skin, or perhaps it’s just his imagination. She watches him from beneath half-lidded eyes, a soft smile curving her mouth, her newly-freed hands ghosting down his damp back. “Did I pass your endurance test?”
Grinning, he drops the handcuffs onto the floor, where they meet the wooden boards with a sharp clank, his hands suddenly feeling weightless. Free, he thinks. “With flying colours.”
~*~
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters:Michael, Sara
Genre: Het, non-epilogue-compliant, smut, extremely mild bondage
Pairing:Michael/Sara
Rating:NC-17
Length:1,238 words
Summary:He's a man who believes in equal opportunity, and this occasion is no exception.
Author's Note:For eight8toes and a few other people who put their hands up for a sequel to Practicing Restraint. And I may have chosen this particular title in order to thumb my virtual nose at TPTB. All feedback, good or otherwise, is very welcome.
~*~
Freedom, he decides fuzzily, is a very good word. He has decided this because he is lying on a comfortable bed with soft sheets, every cell in his body replete with a spent pleasure that makes him feel as though he’s half-melted into the mattress beneath him. The word sounds like what it is, he thinks, the feel of it rolling on his mental tongue almost as rich and round as the feel of Sara’s naked flesh beneath the stroke of his hand.
In his other hand, he’s still cradling a pair of handcuffs, the metal circles faintly warm from their contact with his wrists, the hinge flexing idly beneath the brush of his thumb. He stares at them, and for once feels nothing but relief. He will never have to wear them again. Unless he wants to wear them, of course, he amends with a private smirk. Almost as though she hears his thought, Sara stretches languidly in his embrace, her fingers spread wide as she moves her arms, her wrists delicate and pale, hiding the pulse he knows is fluttering in the aftermath of a climax that left her gripping his shoulders so tightly he can still feel the imprint of her fingertips.
He studies the slender wrist closest to his line of sight, mapping the faint blue line of her veins beneath creamy skin, and a mental picture flashes into his head. It’s an image so erotic that his hands are already moving of their own accord, a decision his sated body seems to second with quiet enthusiasm. When the metal of the handcuff clicks shut around her left wrist, she looks at him with wide eyes, a sharp breath rising in her chest, pushing the flushed weight of her breasts against his chest. “Uh, Michael?”
He smiles, one fingertip tracing the skin that’s now underneath the metal bracelet. “Your turn.”
Her lips part, white teeth catching the tip of her tongue, her eyes dark with both amusement and arousal, a deadly combination that has been slaying him effortlessly on a daily basis from the moment they'd first met. “Are you saying I might benefit from a little therapeutic acting out as well?”
“Maybe.” He reaches for her other wrist, bending his head to kiss the damp curve of her shoulder as he pulls her hands together above her head, threading the cuffs through the metal bedhead, just as she had done earlier. He nips at her skin, soothing the bite with his tongue, drinking in the taste of clean sweat and faded perfume and possibility, and despite an extremely pleasant feeling of post-coital sluggishness, he wants to devour her whole. “Then again, maybe I just want to see how long you can stand it.”
She twists beneath him as the click of the handcuffs echoes through their quiet bedroom, the position of her arms stretched above her head doing several fascinating things to the arch of her body and the thrust of her breasts. Her voice is thready, breathless, thin with earthy anticipation, and he feels the familiar stirrings of a desire that never fails to take him by surprise. “Stand what, exactly?”
“You’ll see,” he tells her, his hands settling on her hips as he bends his head to her breast, the sudden hardness of her nipple smooth against his tongue. He feels the ripple of sensation that shivers through her, hears the quiet moan that quivers in her throat, and his lips curve in a smile against her skin. When he indulges in a gentle bite or three, metal scrapes against metal as she shifts restlessly beneath him, lifting her hips in silent supplication. It’s an appeal he intends to ignore for as long as humanly possible.
“Michael-”
“Don’t tell me you’re calling uncle already, Doctor Tancredi,” he remarks in his best casual voice - he’s impressed, because right now all he wants to do is bury his face in her heated flesh and bring her to the brink of pleasurable madness - as he skims one hand down her stomach, feeling the quivering muscles beneath his hand. “Because I’ve only just started.”
“Bastard,” she says mildly under her breath, a breathy chuckle threaded through the curse word, her eyes closing as he runs his fingertips along the smoothness of her inner thigh. His body seems to have forgotten that his energy levels were knocked flat only a few minutes earlier; when he brushes his knuckles lightly against the damp curls between her thighs, she isn’t the only one who bites back a groan.
She says his name again, a choked plea, and he slides down her body to where they both want him to be, his hands firm on her thighs, the scent and taste of sex and salt and Sara filling his senses as he presses his mouth against the hot, slick flesh between her legs. She jerks beneath him at the first touch of his mouth, tensing as he traces the shape of her with his tongue, finding and teasing the dark, sweet place that has her tossing her head against the pillow - he hears the rustle of her hair against the cotton - and her thigh muscles clenching beneath his splayed hands. When he draws the tight, hot bead of nerve-endings into his mouth and sucks gently, she makes a guttural sound of anguished delight that goes straight to his groin, her hips lifting as she pushes against his mouth, the first ripples of her release beginning to shimmer through her thighs and belly.
“Fuck, Michael-” she says, and that’s as far as she gets before she’s shuddering beneath him, the slick heat of her flooding his tongue, the rush of her blood calling to his own. He presses kiss after kiss to the soft skin of her thighs, then her belly, working his way up the familiar curves and dips of a body he knows as well as his own, his cock now heavy and aching against his thigh. “I love you,” she tells him unsteadily, curling her legs around his hips, urging him closer in an invitation he has no chance of refusing. “So much.”
He tells her he loves her too as he slides into her, his hands on her breasts, his heart already hammering against his ribs. She’s hot and tight and slippery around him, and it’s fast, even for them (with all their impatience and their need, every single time), because she’s stretched out beneath him like a sensual banquet at which he will never, ever go hungry. It only takes a moment of mindless, immeasurable bliss before he is grinding out her name through gritted teeth, his hips jerking helplessly, his breath burning in his lungs.
It takes him a while to locate the handcuff keys, struggling to find the energy to lift his head from the softness of her breast. After he finally discovers the tiny key in the tangled bedclothes, he kisses her mouth, then lifts each wrist to his lips in turn. He can taste the faintest trace of metal on her skin, or perhaps it’s just his imagination. She watches him from beneath half-lidded eyes, a soft smile curving her mouth, her newly-freed hands ghosting down his damp back. “Did I pass your endurance test?”
Grinning, he drops the handcuffs onto the floor, where they meet the wooden boards with a sharp clank, his hands suddenly feeling weightless. Free, he thinks. “With flying colours.”
~*~