Prison Break - Kaleidoscope (9/9)
Title: Kaleidoscope (9/9)
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Michael/Lincoln
Genre: Slash
Rating: R
Word Count: ~ 1060
Warnings: Slash, incest
Summary: He misses Lincoln. He can see him each and every week, but he misses him.
Previous part
Michael
“I’m the one who was supposed to disappear and never come back, right?”
Michael startles when he hears the few words Lincoln just spoke softly. As much as because they usually don’t talk - and certainly not about that - than because the question sends him back to something that was happening in another life. Since Sona, there have been a few fervent embraces, things did get a bit out of hand once or twice and they stole a couple of kisses, but for the most part, it’s something that happened in another life.
“I never left,” he answers. Lincoln rolls his eyes, and Michael can’t blame him for that. He knows very well what his brother means.
He misses Lincoln. He can see him each and every week, but he misses him. For a long time, he thought that the secrets, the broken taboos, the indecency of what they were doing were hard to bear. And it was hard to bear, of course, but recently, he’s started to muse that it was less hard than having lost the weird intimacy they once shared.
“LJ and Sofia are gone."
Lincoln looks at him without understanding. He knows that Sofia and LJ are gone. He was right here when his son - who’s going to hear about that - started the car and made the engine roar awfully. “What?”
“Come on,” Michael says, stretching out his hand. “Please.”
Lincoln stares at the proffered hand, and... “Oh...”
The chairs legs squeal on the floor of the veranda when Lincoln hurriedly gets on his feet and grabs Michael’s wrist to pull him up and against him. Eager kisses, awkward in their haste. A bang in the hallway when Michael pushes Lincoln into the wall and falls to his knees in front of him. A growl, “Not like this, Michael,” when he opens Linc’s pants just enough to take him in his mouth, the growl morphing into a protest because Michael tenaciously holds on to his hips.
“Not like this, for God’s sake!”
Like this or otherwise, it doesn’t matter. He misses Lincoln. He needs to taste, hear, smell, touch and see. Not necessarily in this order. But Linc doesn’t want it like this, so he doesn’t protest when he’s forcefully dragged up and shoved towards the bedroom. His heart pounding in his chest, he watches Lincoln lock the door and close the curtains in a hurry. He could almost smile. He does smile, when after he’s discarded his shirt, he unbuckles his belt and pensively pats the palm of his hand with it, the leather hot and soft on his skin. He meets Lincoln’s eyes; with a complicit grin, his brother holds out his wrists.
He shakes his head. This isn’t what he has in mind, this isn’t what he needs, this isn’t what Lincoln needs. Without a word, he hands him the belt and lies on the bed, on his stomach, his arms stretched out above his head. He merely allows himself a glance above his shoulder to make sure that Lincoln will follow, will play along. Staring at him, scrutinizing him, Lincoln gets rid off his clothes, tossing to the floor shoes, t-shirt, jeans and underwear in a messy pile; he only keeps in his hands their belts, Michael’s and his.
He snakes one the belts around Michael’s wrists, secures it, and uses the other to tie the first one to the head board. Michael’s wrists are bound just a bit higher than the line of his shoulders, and he’s trapped for good. He tries to shift, to part his hands, but Lincoln tied them tight and he really can’t move. He buries his face between his arms and waits. Cooperative, he rises up his hips to help Lincoln pulling on his pants’ legs, rolls his shoulder and arches his back under Linc’ kisses; he sighs when his brother’s hands and mouth slide down, gliding on his skin. Linc has rough hands, always had, and in a successful attempt to increase this sensation, he gnaws and rolls the flesh between his teeth. Michael jumps and tries to get away and closer at the same time, closer and always closer.
“I’ve missed you.”
Lincoln chuckles at that. He bites without holding off in the muscle of Michael’s thigh, hard enough to mark him, then he pulls away and forces up him to his knees. His torso lying on the bed, his head hanging between his arms, it’s not a comfortable position, but he assumes that he owes it to Lincoln, for the many times he tied him up, handcuffed him, restrained him one way or another. And it’s not like it’s unpleasant. It is pleasant. More than that, actually. The sensations of course, but even more the fact that Lincoln knows him by heart, inside and out, and has forgotten nothing about what he enjoys. He strokes and kisses until Michael arches under him, deliberately provocative and begging, ultimately breathing out a plaintive, unfair Please.
“You’ve not missed me, Mike, I’ve been right here the whole time,” he points out while kneeling between his spread legs. Michael shivers when he feels him, grits his teeth and clenches his fingers on the belt. Lincoln’s hands slide up his spine to his shoulders, palpating and massaging the taut muscles more than actually caressing them. Michael hears the smile in his voice when he murmurs into his ear, “This is what you’ve missed, baby bro,” and juts his hips forwards.
His knees betray him and give under Lincoln’s harsh thrust. Holding his breath, he collapses on his stomach and Lincoln lies flush on him, covering him, urgent and possessive.
Reflection
There’s a mirror on the wall right in front of the bed; Lincoln pretends he didn’t hang it here purposefully but Michael doesn’t believe him. The mirror reflects a flat, smooth, bi-dimensional image of them: he lying on his back in the middle of the mattress, Lincoln perpendicularly stretched out, his head resting on Michael’s stomach, his fingers tracing lines on Michael’s belly, lazy and selfless.
The image is perfectly composed. Each element counts, matters and comes into play, but everything is actually summarized to a double fact: he loves Lincoln, and Lincoln loves him. He can perceive in the almost static reflection each facet and nuance, each ray of light and dark area, each joy and vicissitude, past and yet to come.
-End-
Comments are always welcome.
Previous part
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Michael/Lincoln
Genre: Slash
Rating: R
Word Count: ~ 1060
Warnings: Slash, incest
Summary: He misses Lincoln. He can see him each and every week, but he misses him.
Previous part
Michael
“I’m the one who was supposed to disappear and never come back, right?”
Michael startles when he hears the few words Lincoln just spoke softly. As much as because they usually don’t talk - and certainly not about that - than because the question sends him back to something that was happening in another life. Since Sona, there have been a few fervent embraces, things did get a bit out of hand once or twice and they stole a couple of kisses, but for the most part, it’s something that happened in another life.
“I never left,” he answers. Lincoln rolls his eyes, and Michael can’t blame him for that. He knows very well what his brother means.
He misses Lincoln. He can see him each and every week, but he misses him. For a long time, he thought that the secrets, the broken taboos, the indecency of what they were doing were hard to bear. And it was hard to bear, of course, but recently, he’s started to muse that it was less hard than having lost the weird intimacy they once shared.
“LJ and Sofia are gone."
Lincoln looks at him without understanding. He knows that Sofia and LJ are gone. He was right here when his son - who’s going to hear about that - started the car and made the engine roar awfully. “What?”
“Come on,” Michael says, stretching out his hand. “Please.”
Lincoln stares at the proffered hand, and... “Oh...”
The chairs legs squeal on the floor of the veranda when Lincoln hurriedly gets on his feet and grabs Michael’s wrist to pull him up and against him. Eager kisses, awkward in their haste. A bang in the hallway when Michael pushes Lincoln into the wall and falls to his knees in front of him. A growl, “Not like this, Michael,” when he opens Linc’s pants just enough to take him in his mouth, the growl morphing into a protest because Michael tenaciously holds on to his hips.
“Not like this, for God’s sake!”
Like this or otherwise, it doesn’t matter. He misses Lincoln. He needs to taste, hear, smell, touch and see. Not necessarily in this order. But Linc doesn’t want it like this, so he doesn’t protest when he’s forcefully dragged up and shoved towards the bedroom. His heart pounding in his chest, he watches Lincoln lock the door and close the curtains in a hurry. He could almost smile. He does smile, when after he’s discarded his shirt, he unbuckles his belt and pensively pats the palm of his hand with it, the leather hot and soft on his skin. He meets Lincoln’s eyes; with a complicit grin, his brother holds out his wrists.
He shakes his head. This isn’t what he has in mind, this isn’t what he needs, this isn’t what Lincoln needs. Without a word, he hands him the belt and lies on the bed, on his stomach, his arms stretched out above his head. He merely allows himself a glance above his shoulder to make sure that Lincoln will follow, will play along. Staring at him, scrutinizing him, Lincoln gets rid off his clothes, tossing to the floor shoes, t-shirt, jeans and underwear in a messy pile; he only keeps in his hands their belts, Michael’s and his.
He snakes one the belts around Michael’s wrists, secures it, and uses the other to tie the first one to the head board. Michael’s wrists are bound just a bit higher than the line of his shoulders, and he’s trapped for good. He tries to shift, to part his hands, but Lincoln tied them tight and he really can’t move. He buries his face between his arms and waits. Cooperative, he rises up his hips to help Lincoln pulling on his pants’ legs, rolls his shoulder and arches his back under Linc’ kisses; he sighs when his brother’s hands and mouth slide down, gliding on his skin. Linc has rough hands, always had, and in a successful attempt to increase this sensation, he gnaws and rolls the flesh between his teeth. Michael jumps and tries to get away and closer at the same time, closer and always closer.
“I’ve missed you.”
Lincoln chuckles at that. He bites without holding off in the muscle of Michael’s thigh, hard enough to mark him, then he pulls away and forces up him to his knees. His torso lying on the bed, his head hanging between his arms, it’s not a comfortable position, but he assumes that he owes it to Lincoln, for the many times he tied him up, handcuffed him, restrained him one way or another. And it’s not like it’s unpleasant. It is pleasant. More than that, actually. The sensations of course, but even more the fact that Lincoln knows him by heart, inside and out, and has forgotten nothing about what he enjoys. He strokes and kisses until Michael arches under him, deliberately provocative and begging, ultimately breathing out a plaintive, unfair Please.
“You’ve not missed me, Mike, I’ve been right here the whole time,” he points out while kneeling between his spread legs. Michael shivers when he feels him, grits his teeth and clenches his fingers on the belt. Lincoln’s hands slide up his spine to his shoulders, palpating and massaging the taut muscles more than actually caressing them. Michael hears the smile in his voice when he murmurs into his ear, “This is what you’ve missed, baby bro,” and juts his hips forwards.
His knees betray him and give under Lincoln’s harsh thrust. Holding his breath, he collapses on his stomach and Lincoln lies flush on him, covering him, urgent and possessive.
Reflection
There’s a mirror on the wall right in front of the bed; Lincoln pretends he didn’t hang it here purposefully but Michael doesn’t believe him. The mirror reflects a flat, smooth, bi-dimensional image of them: he lying on his back in the middle of the mattress, Lincoln perpendicularly stretched out, his head resting on Michael’s stomach, his fingers tracing lines on Michael’s belly, lazy and selfless.
The image is perfectly composed. Each element counts, matters and comes into play, but everything is actually summarized to a double fact: he loves Lincoln, and Lincoln loves him. He can perceive in the almost static reflection each facet and nuance, each ray of light and dark area, each joy and vicissitude, past and yet to come.
-End-
Comments are always welcome.
Previous part