Prison Break - No Man’s Land
Title: No Man’s Land
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Michael/Lincoln
Genre: Slash
Rating: R
Warning: Incest
Word count: ~ 1085
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: There’s a no man’s land, a cautiously delimited zone that neither Lincoln nor Michael is supposed to enter.
Notes: Thanks to happywriter06 for the beta.
Read entry in light format
There’s a no man’s land, a cautiously delimited zone that neither Lincoln nor Michael is supposed to enter. The tacit deal is that if one of them derogates, the other one has the right to commit a proportional infringement in retaliation. In other words, it’s an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.
Lincoln has a very small number of precepts and he tries to religiously stick to them. It’s one of the few things he can be unfailingly inflexible about. What’s authorized, or rather what’s not, is clearly identified and there’s no risk that Michael doesn’t know what those principles are.
No sleepovers. They can fuck each other, but they can’t actually sleep together. This precept is because Lincoln finds the idea of waking up near someone way more intimate than actually screwing her. Or him for that matter. He can’t explain why. Well, he could, but he won’t - let’s just say that sleeping together acknowledges the screwing part, and he’s not really keen to go there. He won’t admit, not even to himself, that when he’s in this intermediary state between sleep and consciousness, he rolls over to the other side of the bed and grinds his stomach into the rumpled sheets, reveling in Michael’s remaining scent. He sometimes does get off on that but he’s, you know, a morning guy so it’s not really relevant.
Hips as an impassable frontier line for mouths. Namely Michael’s mouth. Sure, every now and then... okay, quite often, Lincoln allows himself a foray below the aforementioned frontier, but Michael isn’t permitted to do so. He’s persona non grata in those territories. This precept was established after he and his mouth did down there something that shocked Lincoln to the core. Made him come on spot, left him breathless for a few minutes, heart pounding and sight darkened, and shocked him to the core. He’s not an easy guy to shock but damn, there still are a couple of things he can’t quite cope with. That being said, fingers are perfectly fine as long as they had not been dipped into some sticky-sugary substance, and various accessories might be acceptable depending on the mood of the moment (although ice cubes should be used scarcely). Just... no mouth.
No sweet talking. ‘You’re beautiful’, ‘What do you want to blah blah blah next week?’ or even ‘I love you’ are the kind of the bullshit he uses to get into a woman’s panties. To be honest, more often than not, he’s believed said bullshit when he used it, but there’s no point in sweet talking Michael. Or to be sweet talked by Michael. He definitely doesn’t have to talk Michael into letting him get into his boxers - or vice-versa - and it’s not like they actually need endearments or reassurances of eternal love. They know what they mean to each other and there’s no way words can express it. On the other hand, panting, moaning, groaning, occasionally cursing and threatening is allowed; dirty talking is encouraged okay.
As far as Lincoln is concerned, that’s pretty much it.
* *
Michael has a bunch of demands and pet peeves. They’re complicated, weird, and quite frankly, in Lincoln’s opinion, forever changing. He gave up on trying to list and remember them all; most of the time, he just goes along with Michael’s reactions and hopes that he’s not breaking some twisted rule. Consequentially, he can never be sure that he hasn’t a foot inside of the no man’s land.
For a while, he thought that, perhaps, Michael’s behavior was deliberate and meant to try him, make him stumble and even fall. He systematically pushed away those ideas, discarded them, because they absolutely didn’t match reality. Michael loved rules and order; his life was governed by rules and order, and fancying that he could think them up just to have the satisfaction of breaking them and having Lincoln break them was absurd, plain and simple.
At least Lincoln thought so until he realized that with his complicity, Michael had broken the golden rule, the one that nobody would ever think to articulate because of its obviousness: one does not look at, touch or even think of his brother that way.
To be fair, Lincoln has to concede that all Michael’s requirements, deliberately confusing or not, aren’t that murky. Michael’s one exigency - recurrent and crystal clear, the one he will never, ever free Lincoln from and has no qualms about enforcing upon him - is that Lincoln has to look him in the eyes when he comes. Well... when it’s actually possible. No closing his eyes, no turning his head, no eluding. Michael wants this moment.
Lincoln sort of likes that. It makes up for the shitty and ridiculous other demands.
* *
When he wakes up, the sun is pouring inside the room and warming the skin of his chest and belly. He’s splayed out in the middle of the bed, the sheets and blankets totally messed up and the pillows scattered all around him. His head and limbs are deliciously heavy suggesting that he’s thoroughly worn out from last night. His arms are stretched out by his sides and his legs are spread wide open, bent at the knees.
When he wakes up, Michael’s face is nestled between his thighs, and there’s fondling, probing, fingering, kissing, licking and - fuck - sucking and tonguing down there. All lazy and deliberate and intense, with Michael’s eyes, almost transparent in the bright sun light, trained on his face, watching, waiting for his reaction. He bucks, tries to remember that he should lower his legs and ends up bending his knees a bit more. Michael smiles and dips his head. And then dips it again, nose nudging Lincoln and tongue extending.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” Lincoln tells him with a husky voice.
“Sure I am.”
His lips, moist, silk-like and swollen, purposefully brush across Lincoln’s overly sensitive flesh when he speaks. Lincoln gently cups his cheek, his fingers curling on the nape of his neck. He hesitates between tilting his head up and pushing it down, lower; he just cradles it, stroking the skin under the ear.
“Sometimes I think you make up rules just so I break them,” he admits.
“Now, why would I do such a thing?” He sneaks his hands under Lincoln’s thighs and slightly lifts them up. “Look at me. Don’t close your eyes.”
Well. At least these are expected and blunt directives, not sweet talking.
Lincoln swallows hard and complies.
-End-
Comments are always welcome.
End notes: The first two paragraphs have been sitting on my computer for *coughs* a while. Just thought it was about time to actually write the ficlet...
Unused snippets
25 August 2007-10 May 2008
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Michael/Lincoln
Genre: Slash
Rating: R
Warning: Incest
Word count: ~ 1085
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: There’s a no man’s land, a cautiously delimited zone that neither Lincoln nor Michael is supposed to enter.
Notes: Thanks to happywriter06 for the beta.
Read entry in light format
There’s a no man’s land, a cautiously delimited zone that neither Lincoln nor Michael is supposed to enter. The tacit deal is that if one of them derogates, the other one has the right to commit a proportional infringement in retaliation. In other words, it’s an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.
Lincoln has a very small number of precepts and he tries to religiously stick to them. It’s one of the few things he can be unfailingly inflexible about. What’s authorized, or rather what’s not, is clearly identified and there’s no risk that Michael doesn’t know what those principles are.
No sleepovers. They can fuck each other, but they can’t actually sleep together. This precept is because Lincoln finds the idea of waking up near someone way more intimate than actually screwing her. Or him for that matter. He can’t explain why. Well, he could, but he won’t - let’s just say that sleeping together acknowledges the screwing part, and he’s not really keen to go there. He won’t admit, not even to himself, that when he’s in this intermediary state between sleep and consciousness, he rolls over to the other side of the bed and grinds his stomach into the rumpled sheets, reveling in Michael’s remaining scent. He sometimes does get off on that but he’s, you know, a morning guy so it’s not really relevant.
Hips as an impassable frontier line for mouths. Namely Michael’s mouth. Sure, every now and then... okay, quite often, Lincoln allows himself a foray below the aforementioned frontier, but Michael isn’t permitted to do so. He’s persona non grata in those territories. This precept was established after he and his mouth did down there something that shocked Lincoln to the core. Made him come on spot, left him breathless for a few minutes, heart pounding and sight darkened, and shocked him to the core. He’s not an easy guy to shock but damn, there still are a couple of things he can’t quite cope with. That being said, fingers are perfectly fine as long as they had not been dipped into some sticky-sugary substance, and various accessories might be acceptable depending on the mood of the moment (although ice cubes should be used scarcely). Just... no mouth.
No sweet talking. ‘You’re beautiful’, ‘What do you want to blah blah blah next week?’ or even ‘I love you’ are the kind of the bullshit he uses to get into a woman’s panties. To be honest, more often than not, he’s believed said bullshit when he used it, but there’s no point in sweet talking Michael. Or to be sweet talked by Michael. He definitely doesn’t have to talk Michael into letting him get into his boxers - or vice-versa - and it’s not like they actually need endearments or reassurances of eternal love. They know what they mean to each other and there’s no way words can express it. On the other hand, panting, moaning, groaning, occasionally cursing and threatening is allowed; dirty talking is encouraged okay.
As far as Lincoln is concerned, that’s pretty much it.
* *
Michael has a bunch of demands and pet peeves. They’re complicated, weird, and quite frankly, in Lincoln’s opinion, forever changing. He gave up on trying to list and remember them all; most of the time, he just goes along with Michael’s reactions and hopes that he’s not breaking some twisted rule. Consequentially, he can never be sure that he hasn’t a foot inside of the no man’s land.
For a while, he thought that, perhaps, Michael’s behavior was deliberate and meant to try him, make him stumble and even fall. He systematically pushed away those ideas, discarded them, because they absolutely didn’t match reality. Michael loved rules and order; his life was governed by rules and order, and fancying that he could think them up just to have the satisfaction of breaking them and having Lincoln break them was absurd, plain and simple.
At least Lincoln thought so until he realized that with his complicity, Michael had broken the golden rule, the one that nobody would ever think to articulate because of its obviousness: one does not look at, touch or even think of his brother that way.
To be fair, Lincoln has to concede that all Michael’s requirements, deliberately confusing or not, aren’t that murky. Michael’s one exigency - recurrent and crystal clear, the one he will never, ever free Lincoln from and has no qualms about enforcing upon him - is that Lincoln has to look him in the eyes when he comes. Well... when it’s actually possible. No closing his eyes, no turning his head, no eluding. Michael wants this moment.
Lincoln sort of likes that. It makes up for the shitty and ridiculous other demands.
* *
When he wakes up, the sun is pouring inside the room and warming the skin of his chest and belly. He’s splayed out in the middle of the bed, the sheets and blankets totally messed up and the pillows scattered all around him. His head and limbs are deliciously heavy suggesting that he’s thoroughly worn out from last night. His arms are stretched out by his sides and his legs are spread wide open, bent at the knees.
When he wakes up, Michael’s face is nestled between his thighs, and there’s fondling, probing, fingering, kissing, licking and - fuck - sucking and tonguing down there. All lazy and deliberate and intense, with Michael’s eyes, almost transparent in the bright sun light, trained on his face, watching, waiting for his reaction. He bucks, tries to remember that he should lower his legs and ends up bending his knees a bit more. Michael smiles and dips his head. And then dips it again, nose nudging Lincoln and tongue extending.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” Lincoln tells him with a husky voice.
“Sure I am.”
His lips, moist, silk-like and swollen, purposefully brush across Lincoln’s overly sensitive flesh when he speaks. Lincoln gently cups his cheek, his fingers curling on the nape of his neck. He hesitates between tilting his head up and pushing it down, lower; he just cradles it, stroking the skin under the ear.
“Sometimes I think you make up rules just so I break them,” he admits.
“Now, why would I do such a thing?” He sneaks his hands under Lincoln’s thighs and slightly lifts them up. “Look at me. Don’t close your eyes.”
Well. At least these are expected and blunt directives, not sweet talking.
Lincoln swallows hard and complies.
-End-
Comments are always welcome.
End notes: The first two paragraphs have been sitting on my computer for *coughs* a while. Just thought it was about time to actually write the ficlet...
Unused snippets
25 August 2007-10 May 2008