Prison Break - Under Construction
Title: Under Construction
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Michael/Sara
Genres: Het, PWP, fluff
Rating: R
Word count: ~ 1635
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: They weren’t looking for a house. They weren’t avoiding looking for a house either. Truth be told, the issue hadn’t arisen yet, even though both of them thought that it was only a matter of time.
Notes: Original version written for luna38 who wanted happily ever after Michael/Sara. Thanks to recycledfaery for the beta. This story can be considered as a prequel to Between the Lines.
“There’s a house on the beach. For sale. Maybe we could go and have a look.”
Sara spoke the words softy, without hesitation, her tone way too casual for the suggestion to actually be trivial. They weren’t looking for a house. They weren’t avoiding looking for a house either. Truth be told, the issue hadn’t arisen yet, even though both of them thought that it was only a matter of time. She drove for a full hour before they reached their destination. He usually prefers to hold the wheel, he usually prefers to control everything he can, but he just enjoyed the ride and Sara’s soothing presence by his side.
* *
He stands on the side of the dirt road for a while, one hand on the car door, the other shading his eyes. The garden - what probably used to be a garden behind the rusted gate - is full of wild grass. The windows are all but broken. The walls look like they’ve not been repainted since the house was built. There is a three feet wide hole in the veranda floor: he would bet a family of... something... moved in here, and hopes that it’s cats rather than rats.
Sara opens the front door and he cautiously follows her, trying very hard not to protectively hold onto her in case the floor caves in under her feet. The inside of the house is in no better state than the outside and he doesn’t wonder anymore why the real estate agent didn’t feel it necessary to give them a ride: it’s not like he actually thinks that he can sell the place.
“Come on,” Sara says, holding out her hand. “There’s something I want to show you.”
He grabs her outstretched hand, now even more relieved that he’s able to hold her when she starts climbing up the unsteady stairs to the second floor. She walks down a dusty hallway and pushes a door.
The room is spacious and warm, basking in a golden light, with large windows. The ocean behind them is only a few yards away. He blinks. The smell of dust mingles here with the sea air scent, and the only noise breaking the silence is the backwash of the waves. There’s a soothing atmosphere, a serenity to the place. God knows that serenity is an appealing notion. It’s just that he’d rather find it anywhere else than in an old house that could very well collapse around them any minute.
When he turns around, he discovers Sara leaning against the wall in the center of a patch of sunlight. She looks at him and says with a steady voice, “Here.” Slowly, her eyes trained on him, she raises her hands and starts opening her shirt, the small buttons unfastened one after another under her fingers. She wears nothing under the shirt and he swallows hard when, between the two panels of white linen, he has a glimpse of the swell of her breasts, the flat stomach, the soft curve of her belly. One time, ten times or twenty times: he wonders whether it will stop someday but for now, his reaction is always the same.
“Here?” he asks.
“The windows open to the east and the west,” she explains calmly, nodding her head towards the gaping windows on her left and on her right. “If we put the bed against this wall...” She undoes her shorts’ belt and lets the garment slide down her legs. His eyes automatically follow it, and then very quickly go back to Sara’s barely tanned thighs, up to her belly and, okay, nothing under the shorts either. He thinks that it’s suspiciously starting to look like a trap. Not that he doesn’t feel like falling into it with enthusiasm. “... we’ll be able to see the sunrise and the sunset.”
“Really?”
“I’m just trying to help you visualize the situation.”
“It’s working,” he assures her with a smile.
Her glance towards his crotch is deliberate and lingering. “I can see that.”
He doesn’t know how, but he’s suddenly kneeling in front of her, his face pressed against her, his t-shirt forgotten in a corner of the room. He does know that he kisses and strokes, mouth and fingers delicately sliding on her - just a short moment before she murmurs with eagerness, “Not now...” and he gets up. Okay. There are times where it’s slow, with looks, caresses and kisses lasting forever; and there are times where he can barely register what’s going on - in those cases, she throws him a “Get on board, Scofield!” with a smirk reminding him that she definitely can be a not so nice girl. Obviously, this is one of the times where he’s supposed to get on board. No problem.
Sara’s hands glide down from his shoulders to his torso and stomach. They work together, getting in the way of each other, to open his pants and shove down his boxers just a little bit. She snakes her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist, and arches her back when he slides into her, rolls her hips, oblivious to the squeaking floorboards as well as the creaking wall that has to support their combined weight. It worries him for a split second, and then she’s kissing him, slipping her tongue between his teeth, and he thinks, to hell with the floor and the wall, they’ll be fine for a few more minutes.
“What do you think?” she breathes.
He looks at her without understanding and... all right, it’s not quite true. He doesn’t look at her, he looks at her breasts pressed against his chest, and he feels his fingers tingle at the thought of touching them, stroking them. But he has his hands under Sara’s thighs, holding her, bearing her, and he won’t risk letting her fall or breaking their embrace. He moves his thumbs just a little bit, enjoying the smooth skin under his own.
“The house,” she insists. “What do you think?”
She gives him a smile so bright he hesitates to tell her what he actually thinks. He clears his throat and settles for a diplomatic answer. “It has potential.”
The bright smile becomes a burst of laughter that provokes very interesting sensations down there. He grits his teeth, digs his fingers into Sara’s thighs, and can’t withhold a harsh thrust that shoves her into the wall. She lets out a weird, strangled sound.
“It’s a wreck, Michael!”
He sighs, his relief mixing with pleasure. “Everything has to be done up,” he approves.
“I know. I thought we could repair it. Together,” she clarifies unnecessarily. “You’re an engineer. You’re used to this kind of thing. I’m a doctor.”
He isn’t thinking straight, he’ll admit it. It has something to do with the way Sara caresses everything and anything she can reach for, the way she’s pressing herself against him, not to mention how she keeps on showing off her breasts - which he still can’t touch, by the way. So he isn’t thinking straight, but he really doesn’t get what being a doctor has to do with this. “You want... what? Stitch it up?”
“I mean I can use my hands.”
Oh. That. Without a shadow of a doubt. Total agreement on his part. She clenches around him, lightly slaps his butt and he realizes that he probably said that out loud. Well, he won’t apologize since it’s the truth.
“If the groundwork and the framework are...,” he starts. But clearly, she has decided that the conversation regarding the house is over because she tilts her head so he can bury his face in the crook of her neck. She pulls on her shirt to bare her shoulder a bit more and - it’s not her breasts, but it’s appealing too - he kisses and nibbles at the soft skin.
“We can have guest rooms for Lincoln and LJ,” she pants right into his ear. “Even one for Fernando.”
“Where?”
She waves at a point somewhere behind her. “At the other end of the house.”
Then she doesn’t talk anymore. Not at all. She tightens her grasp around his hips and hugs him more firmly, as if she was trying to bring him even closer to her. It can’t physically be possible but in no way would he dissuade her from trying. An arm wrapped around her waist, a hand on the small of her back, he moves slowly, his back-and-forth movements strong and deep, following the rolling of her hips. He watches her tip her head back, closes her eyes and opens her mouth on a sigh.
There’s no exploding pleasure or never ending shaking when she tenderly kisses his throat and murmurs his name. Just a shudder and a sensation of tranquility, of completeness, a void finally filled. He can feel her smile in his neck, hear her whisper that she loves this house. Slowly her legs let him go and he helps her to get back on her feet.
“The walls are more stable than they look,” he points out with a smirk.
“Snooty.” The word is barely more than a hum against his shoulder, and it ends up in a kiss that contradicts the statement.
The sun entering the room through the glassless windows warms his back and brightens up Sara’s tousled hair. He embraces her and mumbles with satisfaction when she lifts her head to kiss him. He needs - they need - a while before they can move again.
* *
“Repairing the house together,” he says while she starts the engine and drives to the small dirt road. “The metaphor is...”
She doesn’t look at him when she smiles, focused on the bumpy road.
“... not very subtle?”
“... interesting.”
He makes good use of the trip going back to consider the work to come.
-END-
Comments are always appreciated ;)
9-10 June 2008
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Michael/Sara
Genres: Het, PWP, fluff
Rating: R
Word count: ~ 1635
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: They weren’t looking for a house. They weren’t avoiding looking for a house either. Truth be told, the issue hadn’t arisen yet, even though both of them thought that it was only a matter of time.
Notes: Original version written for luna38 who wanted happily ever after Michael/Sara. Thanks to recycledfaery for the beta. This story can be considered as a prequel to Between the Lines.
“There’s a house on the beach. For sale. Maybe we could go and have a look.”
Sara spoke the words softy, without hesitation, her tone way too casual for the suggestion to actually be trivial. They weren’t looking for a house. They weren’t avoiding looking for a house either. Truth be told, the issue hadn’t arisen yet, even though both of them thought that it was only a matter of time. She drove for a full hour before they reached their destination. He usually prefers to hold the wheel, he usually prefers to control everything he can, but he just enjoyed the ride and Sara’s soothing presence by his side.
* *
He stands on the side of the dirt road for a while, one hand on the car door, the other shading his eyes. The garden - what probably used to be a garden behind the rusted gate - is full of wild grass. The windows are all but broken. The walls look like they’ve not been repainted since the house was built. There is a three feet wide hole in the veranda floor: he would bet a family of... something... moved in here, and hopes that it’s cats rather than rats.
Sara opens the front door and he cautiously follows her, trying very hard not to protectively hold onto her in case the floor caves in under her feet. The inside of the house is in no better state than the outside and he doesn’t wonder anymore why the real estate agent didn’t feel it necessary to give them a ride: it’s not like he actually thinks that he can sell the place.
“Come on,” Sara says, holding out her hand. “There’s something I want to show you.”
He grabs her outstretched hand, now even more relieved that he’s able to hold her when she starts climbing up the unsteady stairs to the second floor. She walks down a dusty hallway and pushes a door.
The room is spacious and warm, basking in a golden light, with large windows. The ocean behind them is only a few yards away. He blinks. The smell of dust mingles here with the sea air scent, and the only noise breaking the silence is the backwash of the waves. There’s a soothing atmosphere, a serenity to the place. God knows that serenity is an appealing notion. It’s just that he’d rather find it anywhere else than in an old house that could very well collapse around them any minute.
When he turns around, he discovers Sara leaning against the wall in the center of a patch of sunlight. She looks at him and says with a steady voice, “Here.” Slowly, her eyes trained on him, she raises her hands and starts opening her shirt, the small buttons unfastened one after another under her fingers. She wears nothing under the shirt and he swallows hard when, between the two panels of white linen, he has a glimpse of the swell of her breasts, the flat stomach, the soft curve of her belly. One time, ten times or twenty times: he wonders whether it will stop someday but for now, his reaction is always the same.
“Here?” he asks.
“The windows open to the east and the west,” she explains calmly, nodding her head towards the gaping windows on her left and on her right. “If we put the bed against this wall...” She undoes her shorts’ belt and lets the garment slide down her legs. His eyes automatically follow it, and then very quickly go back to Sara’s barely tanned thighs, up to her belly and, okay, nothing under the shorts either. He thinks that it’s suspiciously starting to look like a trap. Not that he doesn’t feel like falling into it with enthusiasm. “... we’ll be able to see the sunrise and the sunset.”
“Really?”
“I’m just trying to help you visualize the situation.”
“It’s working,” he assures her with a smile.
Her glance towards his crotch is deliberate and lingering. “I can see that.”
He doesn’t know how, but he’s suddenly kneeling in front of her, his face pressed against her, his t-shirt forgotten in a corner of the room. He does know that he kisses and strokes, mouth and fingers delicately sliding on her - just a short moment before she murmurs with eagerness, “Not now...” and he gets up. Okay. There are times where it’s slow, with looks, caresses and kisses lasting forever; and there are times where he can barely register what’s going on - in those cases, she throws him a “Get on board, Scofield!” with a smirk reminding him that she definitely can be a not so nice girl. Obviously, this is one of the times where he’s supposed to get on board. No problem.
Sara’s hands glide down from his shoulders to his torso and stomach. They work together, getting in the way of each other, to open his pants and shove down his boxers just a little bit. She snakes her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist, and arches her back when he slides into her, rolls her hips, oblivious to the squeaking floorboards as well as the creaking wall that has to support their combined weight. It worries him for a split second, and then she’s kissing him, slipping her tongue between his teeth, and he thinks, to hell with the floor and the wall, they’ll be fine for a few more minutes.
“What do you think?” she breathes.
He looks at her without understanding and... all right, it’s not quite true. He doesn’t look at her, he looks at her breasts pressed against his chest, and he feels his fingers tingle at the thought of touching them, stroking them. But he has his hands under Sara’s thighs, holding her, bearing her, and he won’t risk letting her fall or breaking their embrace. He moves his thumbs just a little bit, enjoying the smooth skin under his own.
“The house,” she insists. “What do you think?”
She gives him a smile so bright he hesitates to tell her what he actually thinks. He clears his throat and settles for a diplomatic answer. “It has potential.”
The bright smile becomes a burst of laughter that provokes very interesting sensations down there. He grits his teeth, digs his fingers into Sara’s thighs, and can’t withhold a harsh thrust that shoves her into the wall. She lets out a weird, strangled sound.
“It’s a wreck, Michael!”
He sighs, his relief mixing with pleasure. “Everything has to be done up,” he approves.
“I know. I thought we could repair it. Together,” she clarifies unnecessarily. “You’re an engineer. You’re used to this kind of thing. I’m a doctor.”
He isn’t thinking straight, he’ll admit it. It has something to do with the way Sara caresses everything and anything she can reach for, the way she’s pressing herself against him, not to mention how she keeps on showing off her breasts - which he still can’t touch, by the way. So he isn’t thinking straight, but he really doesn’t get what being a doctor has to do with this. “You want... what? Stitch it up?”
“I mean I can use my hands.”
Oh. That. Without a shadow of a doubt. Total agreement on his part. She clenches around him, lightly slaps his butt and he realizes that he probably said that out loud. Well, he won’t apologize since it’s the truth.
“If the groundwork and the framework are...,” he starts. But clearly, she has decided that the conversation regarding the house is over because she tilts her head so he can bury his face in the crook of her neck. She pulls on her shirt to bare her shoulder a bit more and - it’s not her breasts, but it’s appealing too - he kisses and nibbles at the soft skin.
“We can have guest rooms for Lincoln and LJ,” she pants right into his ear. “Even one for Fernando.”
“Where?”
She waves at a point somewhere behind her. “At the other end of the house.”
Then she doesn’t talk anymore. Not at all. She tightens her grasp around his hips and hugs him more firmly, as if she was trying to bring him even closer to her. It can’t physically be possible but in no way would he dissuade her from trying. An arm wrapped around her waist, a hand on the small of her back, he moves slowly, his back-and-forth movements strong and deep, following the rolling of her hips. He watches her tip her head back, closes her eyes and opens her mouth on a sigh.
There’s no exploding pleasure or never ending shaking when she tenderly kisses his throat and murmurs his name. Just a shudder and a sensation of tranquility, of completeness, a void finally filled. He can feel her smile in his neck, hear her whisper that she loves this house. Slowly her legs let him go and he helps her to get back on her feet.
“The walls are more stable than they look,” he points out with a smirk.
“Snooty.” The word is barely more than a hum against his shoulder, and it ends up in a kiss that contradicts the statement.
The sun entering the room through the glassless windows warms his back and brightens up Sara’s tousled hair. He embraces her and mumbles with satisfaction when she lifts her head to kiss him. He needs - they need - a while before they can move again.
* *
“Repairing the house together,” he says while she starts the engine and drives to the small dirt road. “The metaphor is...”
She doesn’t look at him when she smiles, focused on the bumpy road.
“... not very subtle?”
“... interesting.”
He makes good use of the trip going back to consider the work to come.
-END-
Comments are always appreciated ;)
9-10 June 2008