Prison Break - Letting Go
Title: Letting Go
Author: clair-de-lune
Genre: Slash
Rating: R
Warning: Incest
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Word count: ~ 2980
Prompt by chanchito-z: Michael and Lincoln share a blanket for warmth, but Michael’s proximity to Lincoln awakens his repressed desire, and Lincoln gratifies his brother over his clothing and under the blanket. First-time, fondling, clothed sex.
Summary: He usually manages to keep it under control. A control so tight that, most of the time, he barely realizes that it’s been here in the first place. It’s controlled and channeled into an exasperated tainted love, mastered and conveyed into a snarky brotherly affection.
Notes: Many thanks to recycledfaery for the beta. All remaining mistakes are mine.
Read entry in light format
He usually manages to keep it under control. A control so tight that, most of the time, he barely realizes that it’s been here in the first place. It’s controlled and channeled into an exasperated tainted love, mastered and conveyed into a snarky brotherly affection, ultimately sublimated and demonstrated in an inescapable devotion. Perfectly acceptable, nobody can criticize that. Perfectly safe, no reason for Lincoln to freak out or throw a fit.
Of course, the thing with control, self-mastery and sublimation is that sometimes, they just aren’t enough anymore. They give under stress, relief or exhaustion. They yield because of a mere second of distraction. The most elaborated defenses are stripped down and rendered useless by trust and closeness
* * *
He drifted off curled up on his side, lying between two thin blankets, one spread out on the hard and dry ground, another one tucked under his shoulder, covering Lincoln and him. He’s fallen asleep at a relatively fair distance from Linc, slightly shivering from the cold, exhaustion and maybe a bit of excitement because they’ve made it. They’re nowhere near Panama and safety, but they’re out and Lincoln is alive. So far, they have made it.
When he opens his eyes, he’s lying on his other side, plastered to Lincoln’s flank, his nose buried in Lincoln’s shirt - rubbing on his skin, so to say, given the shirt’s unbuttoned state. He wakes up into his brother’s comforting warmth and loose but thoughtful hug. Outside of the blankets, outside of Linc’s hold, it’s cold and dark, but here, now, he can feel the heat radiating from Lincoln and seeping into his body. He basks in it. He’s terribly aware of each sharp line and hard muscle pressed against him, of Lincoln’s hand casually resting on his back. The sensation makes him tingle and quiver, makes him long for something he’d rather not name. There’s no way of fooling himself into believing this is just snarky affection or pure devotion, though, and he lets out a groan. To hell with control, self-mastery and sublimation. It’s back, and it’s not just a tingling and quivering in all the wrong places: he’s fucking hard and abruptly reminded of a reality he’s been trying to ignore for years.
He doesn’t dare move. Firstly because it would wake up Lincoln, and waking up Lincoln is really the last thing he wants right now. Secondly moving would cause some rubbing, which would trigger more tingling and quivering. Not to mention more hardening, and, in the end, frustration and embarrassment. So he just stays put for a while, enjoying the closeness and dreading the moment Lincoln will wake up and say it’s time to go.
Lincoln shifts and rolls on his side. He’s clingy, which reminds Michael of the reason why they stopped sharing a bed long ago: he didn’t like being mistaken for a pillow or a comforter. Or maybe he liked it too much. Feeling a pair of eyes trained on his face, he looks up to Lincoln’s smirk. Well. So much for not waking him up. A thigh is pushed against his crotch, the pressure just hinted as Lincoln’s smirk blossoms into a grin.
“Sorry,” Michael mumbles uncomfortably.
“Nice dream?”
His voice is so awfully close and rough, his breath sweeping over Michael’s face, his tone gently teasing. Michael gives up. Maybe it’s the fact they made it by the skin of their teeth and the idea that they may be not so lucky in the future. Maybe it’s because he feels safe and intoxicated at the same time. Maybe it’s just because he’s tired of pretending to himself as well as to Linc. It doesn’t matter, he’s too drained and he feels too good to even care. When his brother rocks gently, mischievously against him, instead of grumbling Get lost and pulling away, Michael leans into him. He breathes in, gathers the nerve to answer, “Nice reality actually,” and waits for the full meaning of the confession to sink in.
He thought there would be scolding and recoiling, maybe a heartfelt lecture, but Lincoln’s features soften. His grin definitely fades away but is replaced with a small comprehensive, knowing smile. He brushes his lips across Michael’s chin, lets his hand roam and go a bit south. It rests on the small of his back for a couple of seconds, then slips down and squeezes lightly. Michael feels his face flush when the fingers grip his buttock and start kneading.
“You want me to keep going on?” The question is barely more than a whisper, so quiet that he reads the words on Lincoln’s lips more than he actually hears them.
“I thought we couldn’t do that,” he says softly.
Something happened - almost happened once, when he was sixteen and had had a few beers for his birthday. He was just tipsy enough to drop the pretense and do what he really wanted to do. So when Lincoln walked him to his room to tuck him in, he let himself fall backwards, brought Linc down with him and before his brother could even protest, he kissed him on the mouth. Lips closed but hot, wet and pressing with insistence until Lincoln kissed back.
It lasted for a few seconds before Michael released him. Lincoln shook his head and said sympathetically, “We can’t do that.” There was nothing but sadness and affection in his voice, on his face, no regret or longing, no disgust or rejection, and Michael thought that he would never know for sure what Lincoln actually meant, whether they couldn’t decently do ‘that’ or he wouldn’t, no matter what. “You know we can’t do that.”
* * *
Lincoln fidgets with his hip for a few seconds - it’s blatant provocation, not hesitation - and when he finally stop fidgeting, he sneaks a hand into Michael’s pocket to press, through the thin fabric, his fingers in his thigh. Michael squirms a bit. He really can’t take this kind of thing right now. He needs Lincoln to either totally stop and let him go or to keep touching him, really touch him; he won’t take anything in-between, he can’t bear to hang here and be teased and taunted.
“I thought we couldn’t do that,” he repeats.
Lincoln has lifted up the blanket to inquisitively peek under it, but the fact that he can’t see a thing combined with Michael’s remark has him looking up. With a shrug, he lets it fall back on them, covering them up to their chests.
“Who cares?” he rasps before pushing his fingers deeper in the pocket. As they wriggle, delve and scout, Michael watches Lincoln’s arm move, pressed against his chest, and he holds his breath because there is no possible doubt about what the fingers under there are looking for. Doesn’t take a genius to figure it out, even though he’ll admit his mind is a bit clouded right now. Well, not so much as clouded as being a tad overwhelmed and having trouble coping with the whole thing.
“You don’t have anything nasty in there, do you?” Lincoln asks. “You always had nasty stuff in your pockets when you were a kid.”
The damn fingers move lazily along his inner thigh, right there where his crotch and leg join, playing with the hem of his boxers and trying to move it out of the way. A twist of his wrist, a flip of his hand and the knuckles are skimming against his dick, less of an actual touch than a sensation of warmth on his already heated flesh. He has to grit his teeth not to whimper.
“I think you’re confusing,” he replies, his voice an octave too low. “You were the one with the nasty stuff in his pockets.”
“You sure?” and when Michael merely gives him a pointed look, “Yeah, figures, huh?” With a smile, he nuzzles his chin, nudges him, and Michael obligingly tips his head back to offer his throat. Leaning over him, bending down, Lincoln licks a patch of bare skin just above the still buttoned collar of his shirt. He writhers impatiently under the caresses, wishing he can actually move and open the frigging collar. But his hands are stuck by his sides, pinned either by the blanket caught under his elbow or by Lincoln, who seems to be perfectly happy with the situation. He’ll admit that he kind of enjoys it too, even his relative helplessness. It reminds him of a time when he was still occasionally sleeping with Linc - secured against his brother’s back, Linc’s side of the bed a total mess, the sheets and covers on his own side perfectly neat and tucked in.
“You want that?”
Breath raging and brain buzzing, he barely registers the question and murmurs hazily, “Mm?” as Lincoln’s mouth slides down and kisses him through his clothes. Michael thinks that he’s wandering, following an erratic path, but he targets a nipple and settles here. Softly bites it, worries it between his teeth and tongue, and all Michael can do is humming approvingly. The ministrations leave a damp spot on the cotton, the sensation deliciously prickling his skin.
“Do you want that?” Lincoln repeats patiently.
Another kiss on his chest, another squeeze on his thigh, and now the question does make its way to his brain. He lowers his eyes and searches for his brother’s face in the moon light. What he wants... what he craves for is Lincoln rolling on his back and letting him grind down; or even better, for Lincoln rolling him on his back, pushing him down and pressing their chests-stomachs-hips-thighs together. Anything that will have Lincoln holding and touching and kissing him. He simply blinks his agreement, balling the blanket in his fists. With a nod, Lincoln whispers, “Gonna make you shoot in your pants,” which sounds a lot more like a promise carrying a weird tenderness than the harsh, coarse mockery that it should be. Well, if this is Lincoln’s way to say You’re a total nut job, but I love you (and he thinks it is, because Linc has always been better with acts than with notions and ideas), who is he to pass judgment on his methods to express it?
The hand is suddenly out of his pocket and between his legs, cupping him not too gently, not too roughly, just a perfect combination of both, thumb massaging, fingers alternatively curling, drumming and stroking. When he starts to pant and buck, Lincoln halts his movements, lightens his touch, and asks impishly, “You like that?” Which is unabashed provocation, since Michael is hard and throbbing, literally and figuratively laying in the palm of his hand. He doesn’t bother answering. In frenzy, he frees one of his arms from the constraint of the blanket and clutches Lincoln’s wrist to try and push his fingers back. He’s swatted away. Pinning him down, Lincoln props himself on his elbow and looms above him. He doesn’t say a word, he just stares at him, and the caresses start again, down there on his belly, between his thighs, but also on his chest and arms and neck, each and every spot that Lincoln can reach in his current position.
There are small noises around them - the rustle of the bugs, the hum of the wind and the rustling of the trees swaying under it, even a few cars passing by on the road a few yards away. Yet, all Michael can hear is the sound of Lincoln’s breath, the affectionate, indecent non-senses poured into his ear, and the faint ruffling of clothes as Lincoln’s hands roam, pat and fondle. He focuses on the odor and heat of Lincoln’s body, familiar, soothing and arousing altogether, on the salted tang of his skin when he manages to nibble and lick his ear, jaw or neck. He arches under the touch, cants his hips up and parts his thighs wider and wider, shamelessly and silently begging for more.
The darkness, the fact that Lincoln’s gestures are partially concealed by the blanket adds another level to the experience, makes each touch, each squash of fingers, each twist of hand more acute. He can’t see what’s going on, he can’t anticipate his brother’s next move. All he can distinguish is Lincoln’s upper arm shifting and flexing unevenly as Linc leisurely pleasures him. For a while, he stares at the muscles rolling under the rumpled fabric of the shirt, biting his lips, transfixed by the sight and by the intensity of the tension building up in his lap. He has no leverage whatsoever, no power or words to say. He can do nothing but allow himself to bask in the sensation. And he does bask in the sensation, the tingling feeling increasing by second.
He won’t deny that skin to skin contact, or mouth to skin contact for that matter, would be nice. The mental image of Lincoln’s hands sliding down his stomach and closing around his shaft makes him bend and swerve with a strangled sound - he won’t even try to imagine how his mouth would feel like. But, resurgent and untimely desire set aside, there’s a strangely erotic flavor in being aroused, stroked and satisfied that way. If he can’t quite put his finger on it, and now is really not the moment to try to get it, he indistinctly realizes that it has something to do with the restraint, the carefully dosed frustration, the tenderness, the forbidding of the whole thing. It’s allowing Lincoln to see him at his most vulnerable, undone, and accepting the idea that it will be one-sided.
“Linc, please...,” he whispers, pushing desperately against his brother’s hand.
There’s a rumble in Lincoln’s throat, followed with words huskily spilled out. “Fuck, you have no idea...”
Before he can realize what’s going on, he’s swiftly rolled onto his side and Linc pulls him in, adjusting their positions until his ass is nestled against Linc’s lower stomach. The movement shoves the blanket down to their waists, but it’s fine, it’s not like they still need it to keep them warm. A hand claps back on his crotch, scorching even through the layers of clothes, another one grips his chin and forces him to twist his neck. Lincoln’s tongue digs into his ear, licks the delicate shell and trails a wet path along his jaw and chin; by the time it reaches his mouth, Michael’s lips are already parted. It’s the first time they kiss like that, teeth and tongues, licking and nibbling, messy and urgent. He would almost, almost, not notice that lower, he’s trapped between Linc’s hand and thighs. There’s no way he forgets it, though, because Lincoln starts thrusting against his butt and resumes fondling his cock, alternating firm squeezes, long pulls and careful strokes. Michael can’t make up his mind between arching backwards and jutting forwards, moving in one direction only to be pushed back in the other one - heavenly version of Charybdus and Scylla, so to say. Head tilted back, eyes screwed shut, lips slacked, he writhes in Lincoln’s embrace, lets him invade his mouth and forgets to kiss back, overwhelmed by the tightness of the embrace he’s engulfed into. He babbles incoherently, panting and delivering small puffs of breath that condense above him in the chill air and graze Lincoln’s face.
“Come on, Michael, quit holding off,” Lincoln chastises.
He does hold off, even though he hadn’t realized it. He doesn’t want it to stop, but Lincoln delivers a particularly sly series of strokes, smiling against his lips when he gasps and swears in response. The kisses sloppily landing on his mouth and in his neck, his skin rubbing on the slightly wet fabric of his boxers, Lincoln’s hand pressing, twisting and tugging to try and get a good grip on his cock... The combination is just too much, and the tension accumulated in his groin finally gushes and sparkles through his whole body, the release having him arch and shake with bliss.
Slowly, the red veil in front of his eyes disappears, the pressure in his temples and the buzz in his ears decrease, and he can see and hear again - not talk yet, tough. Limp and unable to move, he lets Lincoln kiss him and tug the blanket around him in a protective gesture. He can’t help smiling when his brother’s fingers come back between his thighs and scrape at the wet spot on his fly.
“Told you so,” Linc praises himself.
His heart still racing, his eyes half-closed, he shifts and turns around in Lincoln’s arms to face him. His hand creeps down, languidly sneaks between their chests and bellies, until Lincoln catches it on his belt and holds it here.
“What are you doing?”
He twists his wrist, manages to escape Lincoln’s grip, “I just want to...” and rests at that, his hand splayed out. He sniffles then smiles. There’s a deflating bulge under his palm and a lightly damp, sticky sensation beneath his fingers. He arches an eyebrow; Lincoln defiantly holds his gaze.
“Lincoln?”
“Michael?”
“I’m not the only one who came in his pants, am I?”
He thumbs the remaining lump without mercy, making his brother jerk under the touch.
“You’re an ungrateful little shit,” Lincoln tells him formally.
“But I am grateful. I was hoping I’d show you just how grateful I am. Too bad it’s too late for that.”
“A guy has his limits.”
“And you reached yours a short while ago.”
“Yeah! When you snuggled into me and begged.” He smirks. “You beg so prettily, Mike. I know I taught you not to, but hey, as you can see, it was a real pleasure to hear.”
He casts a look at Lincoln, who is quite rightfully smiling in a smug way, sighs and surrenders graciously. He knows when he’s been beaten at his own game.
Not that it’s necessarily a bad defeat.
-End-
Comments are always welcome.
April, 21st- May, 4th 2008
End notes: Since Prison Break timeline is a bit confusing (heat wave and snow a couple of weeks later...), please humor me, apply temporary suspension of disbelief if necessary and consider that nights are indeed a bit cold ;-)
Author: clair-de-lune
Genre: Slash
Rating: R
Warning: Incest
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Word count: ~ 2980
Prompt by chanchito-z: Michael and Lincoln share a blanket for warmth, but Michael’s proximity to Lincoln awakens his repressed desire, and Lincoln gratifies his brother over his clothing and under the blanket. First-time, fondling, clothed sex.
Summary: He usually manages to keep it under control. A control so tight that, most of the time, he barely realizes that it’s been here in the first place. It’s controlled and channeled into an exasperated tainted love, mastered and conveyed into a snarky brotherly affection.
Notes: Many thanks to recycledfaery for the beta. All remaining mistakes are mine.
Read entry in light format
He usually manages to keep it under control. A control so tight that, most of the time, he barely realizes that it’s been here in the first place. It’s controlled and channeled into an exasperated tainted love, mastered and conveyed into a snarky brotherly affection, ultimately sublimated and demonstrated in an inescapable devotion. Perfectly acceptable, nobody can criticize that. Perfectly safe, no reason for Lincoln to freak out or throw a fit.
Of course, the thing with control, self-mastery and sublimation is that sometimes, they just aren’t enough anymore. They give under stress, relief or exhaustion. They yield because of a mere second of distraction. The most elaborated defenses are stripped down and rendered useless by trust and closeness
* * *
He drifted off curled up on his side, lying between two thin blankets, one spread out on the hard and dry ground, another one tucked under his shoulder, covering Lincoln and him. He’s fallen asleep at a relatively fair distance from Linc, slightly shivering from the cold, exhaustion and maybe a bit of excitement because they’ve made it. They’re nowhere near Panama and safety, but they’re out and Lincoln is alive. So far, they have made it.
When he opens his eyes, he’s lying on his other side, plastered to Lincoln’s flank, his nose buried in Lincoln’s shirt - rubbing on his skin, so to say, given the shirt’s unbuttoned state. He wakes up into his brother’s comforting warmth and loose but thoughtful hug. Outside of the blankets, outside of Linc’s hold, it’s cold and dark, but here, now, he can feel the heat radiating from Lincoln and seeping into his body. He basks in it. He’s terribly aware of each sharp line and hard muscle pressed against him, of Lincoln’s hand casually resting on his back. The sensation makes him tingle and quiver, makes him long for something he’d rather not name. There’s no way of fooling himself into believing this is just snarky affection or pure devotion, though, and he lets out a groan. To hell with control, self-mastery and sublimation. It’s back, and it’s not just a tingling and quivering in all the wrong places: he’s fucking hard and abruptly reminded of a reality he’s been trying to ignore for years.
He doesn’t dare move. Firstly because it would wake up Lincoln, and waking up Lincoln is really the last thing he wants right now. Secondly moving would cause some rubbing, which would trigger more tingling and quivering. Not to mention more hardening, and, in the end, frustration and embarrassment. So he just stays put for a while, enjoying the closeness and dreading the moment Lincoln will wake up and say it’s time to go.
Lincoln shifts and rolls on his side. He’s clingy, which reminds Michael of the reason why they stopped sharing a bed long ago: he didn’t like being mistaken for a pillow or a comforter. Or maybe he liked it too much. Feeling a pair of eyes trained on his face, he looks up to Lincoln’s smirk. Well. So much for not waking him up. A thigh is pushed against his crotch, the pressure just hinted as Lincoln’s smirk blossoms into a grin.
“Sorry,” Michael mumbles uncomfortably.
“Nice dream?”
His voice is so awfully close and rough, his breath sweeping over Michael’s face, his tone gently teasing. Michael gives up. Maybe it’s the fact they made it by the skin of their teeth and the idea that they may be not so lucky in the future. Maybe it’s because he feels safe and intoxicated at the same time. Maybe it’s just because he’s tired of pretending to himself as well as to Linc. It doesn’t matter, he’s too drained and he feels too good to even care. When his brother rocks gently, mischievously against him, instead of grumbling Get lost and pulling away, Michael leans into him. He breathes in, gathers the nerve to answer, “Nice reality actually,” and waits for the full meaning of the confession to sink in.
He thought there would be scolding and recoiling, maybe a heartfelt lecture, but Lincoln’s features soften. His grin definitely fades away but is replaced with a small comprehensive, knowing smile. He brushes his lips across Michael’s chin, lets his hand roam and go a bit south. It rests on the small of his back for a couple of seconds, then slips down and squeezes lightly. Michael feels his face flush when the fingers grip his buttock and start kneading.
“You want me to keep going on?” The question is barely more than a whisper, so quiet that he reads the words on Lincoln’s lips more than he actually hears them.
“I thought we couldn’t do that,” he says softly.
Something happened - almost happened once, when he was sixteen and had had a few beers for his birthday. He was just tipsy enough to drop the pretense and do what he really wanted to do. So when Lincoln walked him to his room to tuck him in, he let himself fall backwards, brought Linc down with him and before his brother could even protest, he kissed him on the mouth. Lips closed but hot, wet and pressing with insistence until Lincoln kissed back.
It lasted for a few seconds before Michael released him. Lincoln shook his head and said sympathetically, “We can’t do that.” There was nothing but sadness and affection in his voice, on his face, no regret or longing, no disgust or rejection, and Michael thought that he would never know for sure what Lincoln actually meant, whether they couldn’t decently do ‘that’ or he wouldn’t, no matter what. “You know we can’t do that.”
* * *
Lincoln fidgets with his hip for a few seconds - it’s blatant provocation, not hesitation - and when he finally stop fidgeting, he sneaks a hand into Michael’s pocket to press, through the thin fabric, his fingers in his thigh. Michael squirms a bit. He really can’t take this kind of thing right now. He needs Lincoln to either totally stop and let him go or to keep touching him, really touch him; he won’t take anything in-between, he can’t bear to hang here and be teased and taunted.
“I thought we couldn’t do that,” he repeats.
Lincoln has lifted up the blanket to inquisitively peek under it, but the fact that he can’t see a thing combined with Michael’s remark has him looking up. With a shrug, he lets it fall back on them, covering them up to their chests.
“Who cares?” he rasps before pushing his fingers deeper in the pocket. As they wriggle, delve and scout, Michael watches Lincoln’s arm move, pressed against his chest, and he holds his breath because there is no possible doubt about what the fingers under there are looking for. Doesn’t take a genius to figure it out, even though he’ll admit his mind is a bit clouded right now. Well, not so much as clouded as being a tad overwhelmed and having trouble coping with the whole thing.
“You don’t have anything nasty in there, do you?” Lincoln asks. “You always had nasty stuff in your pockets when you were a kid.”
The damn fingers move lazily along his inner thigh, right there where his crotch and leg join, playing with the hem of his boxers and trying to move it out of the way. A twist of his wrist, a flip of his hand and the knuckles are skimming against his dick, less of an actual touch than a sensation of warmth on his already heated flesh. He has to grit his teeth not to whimper.
“I think you’re confusing,” he replies, his voice an octave too low. “You were the one with the nasty stuff in his pockets.”
“You sure?” and when Michael merely gives him a pointed look, “Yeah, figures, huh?” With a smile, he nuzzles his chin, nudges him, and Michael obligingly tips his head back to offer his throat. Leaning over him, bending down, Lincoln licks a patch of bare skin just above the still buttoned collar of his shirt. He writhers impatiently under the caresses, wishing he can actually move and open the frigging collar. But his hands are stuck by his sides, pinned either by the blanket caught under his elbow or by Lincoln, who seems to be perfectly happy with the situation. He’ll admit that he kind of enjoys it too, even his relative helplessness. It reminds him of a time when he was still occasionally sleeping with Linc - secured against his brother’s back, Linc’s side of the bed a total mess, the sheets and covers on his own side perfectly neat and tucked in.
“You want that?”
Breath raging and brain buzzing, he barely registers the question and murmurs hazily, “Mm?” as Lincoln’s mouth slides down and kisses him through his clothes. Michael thinks that he’s wandering, following an erratic path, but he targets a nipple and settles here. Softly bites it, worries it between his teeth and tongue, and all Michael can do is humming approvingly. The ministrations leave a damp spot on the cotton, the sensation deliciously prickling his skin.
“Do you want that?” Lincoln repeats patiently.
Another kiss on his chest, another squeeze on his thigh, and now the question does make its way to his brain. He lowers his eyes and searches for his brother’s face in the moon light. What he wants... what he craves for is Lincoln rolling on his back and letting him grind down; or even better, for Lincoln rolling him on his back, pushing him down and pressing their chests-stomachs-hips-thighs together. Anything that will have Lincoln holding and touching and kissing him. He simply blinks his agreement, balling the blanket in his fists. With a nod, Lincoln whispers, “Gonna make you shoot in your pants,” which sounds a lot more like a promise carrying a weird tenderness than the harsh, coarse mockery that it should be. Well, if this is Lincoln’s way to say You’re a total nut job, but I love you (and he thinks it is, because Linc has always been better with acts than with notions and ideas), who is he to pass judgment on his methods to express it?
The hand is suddenly out of his pocket and between his legs, cupping him not too gently, not too roughly, just a perfect combination of both, thumb massaging, fingers alternatively curling, drumming and stroking. When he starts to pant and buck, Lincoln halts his movements, lightens his touch, and asks impishly, “You like that?” Which is unabashed provocation, since Michael is hard and throbbing, literally and figuratively laying in the palm of his hand. He doesn’t bother answering. In frenzy, he frees one of his arms from the constraint of the blanket and clutches Lincoln’s wrist to try and push his fingers back. He’s swatted away. Pinning him down, Lincoln props himself on his elbow and looms above him. He doesn’t say a word, he just stares at him, and the caresses start again, down there on his belly, between his thighs, but also on his chest and arms and neck, each and every spot that Lincoln can reach in his current position.
There are small noises around them - the rustle of the bugs, the hum of the wind and the rustling of the trees swaying under it, even a few cars passing by on the road a few yards away. Yet, all Michael can hear is the sound of Lincoln’s breath, the affectionate, indecent non-senses poured into his ear, and the faint ruffling of clothes as Lincoln’s hands roam, pat and fondle. He focuses on the odor and heat of Lincoln’s body, familiar, soothing and arousing altogether, on the salted tang of his skin when he manages to nibble and lick his ear, jaw or neck. He arches under the touch, cants his hips up and parts his thighs wider and wider, shamelessly and silently begging for more.
The darkness, the fact that Lincoln’s gestures are partially concealed by the blanket adds another level to the experience, makes each touch, each squash of fingers, each twist of hand more acute. He can’t see what’s going on, he can’t anticipate his brother’s next move. All he can distinguish is Lincoln’s upper arm shifting and flexing unevenly as Linc leisurely pleasures him. For a while, he stares at the muscles rolling under the rumpled fabric of the shirt, biting his lips, transfixed by the sight and by the intensity of the tension building up in his lap. He has no leverage whatsoever, no power or words to say. He can do nothing but allow himself to bask in the sensation. And he does bask in the sensation, the tingling feeling increasing by second.
He won’t deny that skin to skin contact, or mouth to skin contact for that matter, would be nice. The mental image of Lincoln’s hands sliding down his stomach and closing around his shaft makes him bend and swerve with a strangled sound - he won’t even try to imagine how his mouth would feel like. But, resurgent and untimely desire set aside, there’s a strangely erotic flavor in being aroused, stroked and satisfied that way. If he can’t quite put his finger on it, and now is really not the moment to try to get it, he indistinctly realizes that it has something to do with the restraint, the carefully dosed frustration, the tenderness, the forbidding of the whole thing. It’s allowing Lincoln to see him at his most vulnerable, undone, and accepting the idea that it will be one-sided.
“Linc, please...,” he whispers, pushing desperately against his brother’s hand.
There’s a rumble in Lincoln’s throat, followed with words huskily spilled out. “Fuck, you have no idea...”
Before he can realize what’s going on, he’s swiftly rolled onto his side and Linc pulls him in, adjusting their positions until his ass is nestled against Linc’s lower stomach. The movement shoves the blanket down to their waists, but it’s fine, it’s not like they still need it to keep them warm. A hand claps back on his crotch, scorching even through the layers of clothes, another one grips his chin and forces him to twist his neck. Lincoln’s tongue digs into his ear, licks the delicate shell and trails a wet path along his jaw and chin; by the time it reaches his mouth, Michael’s lips are already parted. It’s the first time they kiss like that, teeth and tongues, licking and nibbling, messy and urgent. He would almost, almost, not notice that lower, he’s trapped between Linc’s hand and thighs. There’s no way he forgets it, though, because Lincoln starts thrusting against his butt and resumes fondling his cock, alternating firm squeezes, long pulls and careful strokes. Michael can’t make up his mind between arching backwards and jutting forwards, moving in one direction only to be pushed back in the other one - heavenly version of Charybdus and Scylla, so to say. Head tilted back, eyes screwed shut, lips slacked, he writhes in Lincoln’s embrace, lets him invade his mouth and forgets to kiss back, overwhelmed by the tightness of the embrace he’s engulfed into. He babbles incoherently, panting and delivering small puffs of breath that condense above him in the chill air and graze Lincoln’s face.
“Come on, Michael, quit holding off,” Lincoln chastises.
He does hold off, even though he hadn’t realized it. He doesn’t want it to stop, but Lincoln delivers a particularly sly series of strokes, smiling against his lips when he gasps and swears in response. The kisses sloppily landing on his mouth and in his neck, his skin rubbing on the slightly wet fabric of his boxers, Lincoln’s hand pressing, twisting and tugging to try and get a good grip on his cock... The combination is just too much, and the tension accumulated in his groin finally gushes and sparkles through his whole body, the release having him arch and shake with bliss.
Slowly, the red veil in front of his eyes disappears, the pressure in his temples and the buzz in his ears decrease, and he can see and hear again - not talk yet, tough. Limp and unable to move, he lets Lincoln kiss him and tug the blanket around him in a protective gesture. He can’t help smiling when his brother’s fingers come back between his thighs and scrape at the wet spot on his fly.
“Told you so,” Linc praises himself.
His heart still racing, his eyes half-closed, he shifts and turns around in Lincoln’s arms to face him. His hand creeps down, languidly sneaks between their chests and bellies, until Lincoln catches it on his belt and holds it here.
“What are you doing?”
He twists his wrist, manages to escape Lincoln’s grip, “I just want to...” and rests at that, his hand splayed out. He sniffles then smiles. There’s a deflating bulge under his palm and a lightly damp, sticky sensation beneath his fingers. He arches an eyebrow; Lincoln defiantly holds his gaze.
“Lincoln?”
“Michael?”
“I’m not the only one who came in his pants, am I?”
He thumbs the remaining lump without mercy, making his brother jerk under the touch.
“You’re an ungrateful little shit,” Lincoln tells him formally.
“But I am grateful. I was hoping I’d show you just how grateful I am. Too bad it’s too late for that.”
“A guy has his limits.”
“And you reached yours a short while ago.”
“Yeah! When you snuggled into me and begged.” He smirks. “You beg so prettily, Mike. I know I taught you not to, but hey, as you can see, it was a real pleasure to hear.”
He casts a look at Lincoln, who is quite rightfully smiling in a smug way, sighs and surrenders graciously. He knows when he’s been beaten at his own game.
Not that it’s necessarily a bad defeat.
-End-
Comments are always welcome.
April, 21st- May, 4th 2008
End notes: Since Prison Break timeline is a bit confusing (heat wave and snow a couple of weeks later...), please humor me, apply temporary suspension of disbelief if necessary and consider that nights are indeed a bit cold ;-)