Prison Break - Between the Mirrors
Title: Between the Mirrors
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Michael/Lincoln
Genre: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~ 3495
Warnings: Slash, incest
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: There were two mirrors on the walls of Michael’s perfect bedroom, on each side of Michael’s perfect bed. Large, hanged mid-wall, slightly inclined forward, framed in spotless, smooth steel.
Prompt by foophile: “Just look.” Mirrors.
Notes: Many thanks to recycledfaery for the beta.
He was lying across Michael’s perfect bed, in Michael’s perfect bedroom. He was helpless and for once enjoying it while his brother moved on top of him, slowly rocking him into the mattress and delivering on the promise - or was it a threat - he’d made before.
* * *
Earlier in the day, they went shopping; he’d lured Michael into going with him. He’d given him some shitty lines about how he needed a suit for a job interview and had no fucking clue what to buy, because you know, it’s not like he wears damn suits every day. Michael heaved a sigh but yielded, just as he almost always did, and accepted to go with and advise him. All through the afternoon, he barely hid his exasperation at Lincoln being picky and choosy, or blatantly flirting with the saleswomen. Lincoln was pushing his buttons; Michael knew it, and Lincoln knew that Michael knew. Didn’t make it less successful since he knew exactly where and how hard to press.
The last store they entered was stylish and classy, the kind of place where Michael would buy his usual stuff, but certainly not Lincoln. Helpful and discreet shop assistants, soft lights, pleasant music and huge fitting rooms that closed with a door - no cheap curtains here. And Michael rejuvenated because he was totally in his element, with a small knowing smile and hushed voice, all the while talking, asking, and ignoring Lincoln. Even worse, making decisions on his behalf, picking and discarding suits and shirts, just as he’d been discarding Lincoln’s unwanted opinions for a while now.
No doubt it was his way to make Lincoln pay for the last couple of hours of provocation and taunting. It was a backlash on the pressing buttons thing and it was, Lincoln had to admit, pretty efficient. That smug, conceited version of his brother fueled his own exasperation and, ultimately, his need - need to trash the place, need to uncover the real Michael, the one only he knew. In the end, between trying on a blue suit and a gray one, he snatched his brother’s wrist and yanked him into the large stall. Any protests Michael might have were muffled by a harsh shove into the thin wall and an urgent, almost punitive kiss. Lincoln felt him move his lips, not kissing back but trying to speak; he ignored the attempt and delved into the warmth and silkiness of his mouth. Nothing his brother had to say interested him right now, he just wanted to...
He swirled him around to spoon him and crushed him against his chest. He held him, held him forcefully until Michael realized there was no way out, stopped struggling and accepted the embrace. Satisfied with his compliance, Lincoln licked his neck, the stubbled skin of his jaw, all the while sliding his hand down. He paused at Michael’s groin and brushed his knuckles against the smooth fabric, not too hard, not too light, just enough to tease him. Even through the pants, it felt hot and already hard against the palm of his hand, and he smiled victoriously.
“Enjoy being manhandled, Mikey?”
Michael grumbled something he didn’t bother trying to understand, then gasped when determined fingers cupped him, tugged on his belt and zipper, opening his fly. Twisting his neck to goggle at Lincoln, he whispered, “Stop it! Are you crazy!” He jolted, tried once again to break free. Lincoln grabbed his chin.
“Look! Just... look, Michael,” he ordered. He redirected his face so he looked up and straight ahead. He couldn’t help the smirk at the expression on Michael’s face, the gleam in his eyes when he took in the situation.
From top to bottom, three of the four walls were covered with mirrors; mirrors that reflected their embrace to the infinity, in multiple and weird views and angles. Lincoln caught his brother’s gaze and held it for a few seconds, challenging him to say no, push him away or merely avert his eyes. Tough chance. In a split second, he relaxed and leaned into Lincoln, hardly blinking, hardly breathing. Locking eyes with him, he slightly let his head roll back until the side of his face rested against Lincoln’s cheek, and he watched, enthralled. Watched Linc steal an arm about his hips to dig into his smart, crisp pants, fish for his semi erect shaft, and take it out. Lincoln appreciatively hefted it, eliciting a tiny moan; he stifled his own grunt against Michael’s temple. He liked that, seeing him helpless and undone, furious but unable to resist him, feeling the weight and warmth of his body, the way he alternated between fighting and giving in. The cock heavily resting in the palm of his hand while his fingers stroked it into full hardness, roughly skimming and brushing over the soft skin, wasn’t bad either. Nor the fact that he could watch it, watch him, jerk and twitch in minute detail. He liked that, and he temporarily brushed aside his own arousal - the urge to push Michael to his knees in front of him, or to just grip his hand, force it around him and thrust in it - in order to enjoy the power trip. Later. One way or another, he would have his release.
Obtaining Michael’s surrender was almost too easy. Lincoln knew him inside and out, knew how to bring him to and over the edge with a minimum of gestures and words when he wanted to. He also knew that Michel enjoyed all of this, even though he would never ever admit it - the risk, watching Lincoln watch him, the sheer craziness of what they were doing, how and where they were doing it. His eyes eagerly swept over the various mirrored angles of Lincoln holding him, fondling him. Breathing in rhythm with the up and down moves of Lincoln’s hand, he licked and bit his lips, tried to keep somewhat quiet and eventually failed. A few groans and pleas escaped him.
“Shh. You wouldn’t want all these people outside to hear you. Or would you?” Michael swallowed hard at that, and Lincoln insisted, teased him, whispering into his ear, “You’d like it if they did, huh?” Michael didn’t answer. He merely writhed to rub his butt against Lincoln’s crotch and bent an arm to grab his hip and hold onto it. It was a bit unfair, Lincoln pondered, not following the current, tacit rules that were established whereby Michael was only allowed to look, certainly not to act. But since he was, no matter what Michael might think, a nice guy, he helpfully pushed back and ground his own hard on into a shaped, firm buttock. “At this rate, I’ll have to buy the pants, you know...,” he confided in a low, dirty voice. It was only half of a joke, half of a tease. The situation was getting to him, a bit more with each passing second, and he tightened his embrace, needing to hold onto something too, onto someone.
Michael shamelessly hummed his appreciation at the innuendo and at the firm clasp. From then, it only took a few neatly aimed twists and flicks of wrist, a couple of searing kisses and well chosen words. He came hard over Lincoln’s fist, shuddering and panting and babbling. All Lincoln could make out from the litany of nonsense and gibberish was “Bastard!” - nothing new there, really - “You’re fucking insane,” and a whimpered “I’m so gonna fuck you...”
The last assumption made Lincoln grin widely, madly. He slipped his slick, sticky hand under Michael’s sweater to provocatively wipe it on the supple muscles of his stomach, and he replied, “Dream on, bro,” mocking and tantalizing.
As Michael slumped down against him, his breathing uneven and his eyes half closed, the power trip he’d felt slowly subsided. It left him with nothing but a painful erection and a queasy sensation, almost nausea. He licked his lips and tasted sweat, both his and Michael’s. The fitting room was overheated, smelling of musk and Michael and him mingled. He felt like he was walking under water now, moving in slow motion, and the mirrors seemed to be closing around him, imprisoning him. Suddenly, it wasn’t anymore about trashing the place and forcing his brother down from his high horse. All he wanted was to get the hell out of here; he gingerly stepped sideways, avoiding looking into the mirrors.
Still hazy with completion, Michael didn’t notice. With slightly shaking hands, he stuffed his softening penis back into his pants and turned on his heels to face Lincoln. He brushed their mouths together, unaware of Linc’s uneasiness.
“You’re an asshole but I love you.” Or did he actually say you’re an asshole but I love it? Lincoln didn’t have a chance to ask him, because he was already ordering in short, sharp sentences, “Change back. Take the suit. We’re going to my place.”
We’re not done - I’m not done with you, was actually what Lincoln got from the brisk instructions and damn if it didn’t make him incapable of protesting. He didn’t say a word either when Michael decided that the fucking suit was too expensive for Lincoln to purchase, didn’t retort that he was no fucking trophy wife when his brother added that he would pay for it.
The cashier gave him a polite and appreciative, albeit condescending, smile when she handed him the large, neat bag.
* * *
As soon as they’d passed the door of his loft, Michael snatched the bag of clothes from him, carelessly tossed it in a corner of the living room and gripped Lincoln’s head in his hands. When he kissed him, it was demanding and rough. He tongued and bit his way into his brother’s mouth and Lincoln, who still sported a rampant hard on, couldn’t gather his mind enough to ask him to slow down just a bit. He couldn’t pretend it was a surprise or he hadn’t seen it coming, since during all the ride back, Michael had been staring at him as if he was about to throw himself at him, all intent and indecent gazes, gloved fists clenched not to reach out and grab.
Chuckling a bit at his impatience, Lincoln let himself be kissed, walked back towards the bedroom and pushed across the bed. He let Michael’s hands take his clothes off in swift, rushed movements, and Michael’s lips trailed down, all the way from his mouth to his stomach, and then lower. He licked and sucked, tongued and nibbled. Lincoln grunted and, finally matching his brother’s haste, arched up, arched into the touch; Michael pushed him back against the bed.
“Wait,” he demanded, squeezing his hand around him. “Don’t come. Not yet.”
He looked down at him with narrow, exasperated eyes. No problem. Holding back was easy as pie when you’d been hoping for some release for over an hour and were given a thorough, eager blow-job... Lincoln felt like slapping him. Or maybe pumping and shooting right away in his mouth. He was still considering his options when he was rolled onto his stomach, and his legs were opened, spread wide. He was cajoled and stroked until he shifted recklessly. In a bright, red haze, his head spinning with pleasure and dizziness, he felt Michael slip cold, slick fingers into him. Suddenly although a bit late, he realized that when his brother had said he would fuck him, he actually meant it. Meant exactly that. And he would do it unless Lincoln made his disagreement perfectly clear.
He stilled under the touch, then bucked as Michael crooked his fingers. Sure, it had happened a few times, but it was not the way things usually were between them; he was not sure he wanted that right now. The thing was, Michael didn’t ask and took for granted that he was okay with it. Truth be told, it was hard not being okay, at least to some extent. There was the silky contact, almost a caress by itself, of the throw covering the bed, the wet kisses Michael showered all over him, his hands exposing him, sweeping over him, the searing weight of his body blanketing Lincoln’s... It was intoxicating; it was making him unable to think, ponder and decide. It was pretty fine, though. It wasn’t like he always thought before acting, right? He clenched his fists, fighting the urge to just rut against the soft, luscious bedspread. He needed something, he needed more than the taunting licks and caresses. So even though he was not sure he wanted that, he canted his hips, ground his ass into Michael, and groused, “What the fuck are you waiting for!”
He felt Michael’s smile against the nape of his neck, almost felt the glee seeping out of him. He couldn’t help wondering who was being an asshole now.
“Hold off just a bit longer,” Michael whispered, easing his way inside of him, slow and careful. Lincoln gasped and jerked at the unusual sensation, tried to accommodate to it. Then, when he’d made relatively sure he wasn’t about to totally lose it right away, he experimentally bent the small of his back. Michael pressed down gently, squishing him against the comforter. He was trapped between his brother and the bed, unable to move if Michael didn’t allow it; he felt kind of caught now. He breathed in to calm down.
There were two mirrors on the walls of Michael’s perfect bedroom, on each side of Michael’s perfect bed. Large, hanged mid-wall, slightly inclined forward, framed in spotless, smooth steel. Michael loved mirrors. Or maybe it had nothing to do with mirrors, and everything with watching, contemplating them while they screwed, had sex, made love - whatever rude or plain or sentimental vocabulary he wanted to use. Hence the way he’d frozen and let Lincoln have him earlier, in the stupid fitting room. Lincoln, on the other hand, wasn’t so big on mirrors. Probably the reason he snapped the way he did. He always felt trapped between them. They forced him to look and see, they wouldn’t let him escape the reality of what was happening, of who he was, and God knew Lincoln loved his escaping from reality. Yet, when his brother slid a hand under his throat and up to his chin to tilt his head up, he complied. When his brother leaned into him and rasped in his ear, “Open your eyes. It’s your turn to look,” he complied. He sometimes thought that he would do anything to give Michael what he deserved - including keeping secrets of dumb things he already did to achieve that purpose - even if it meant being screwed in so many ways, and having to watch it happen with his eyes wide open.
“Look,” Michael repeated, holding his jaw.
He did. Their faces were tense in a mixture of agony and pleasure in the mirror right in front of them, the muscles of their shoulders and upper backs rippling slightly under the sweaty skin as the two of them moved and shifted. And when he changed focus, he saw the reflection of the other mirror, the one hanging behind them, the one displaying Michael’s back and ass as he thrust excruciatingly slow. He saw the muscles tug and roll, clench and unclench rhythmically in his brother’s back and buttocks and thighs. He tried not to mull over the thought that he was trapped between the endless reflections of the mirrors, between the high, dark headboard and footboard of the bed, between the firm mattress and Michael’s body. He did all he could to concentrate on the so wrong and alluring view and to forget its meaning, to enjoy the current situation. Not that difficult to achieve anyway. Michael’s thrusts were unhurried and deliberate, which made them even more merciless, shifting to find the best angle, until Lincoln curled and writhed in the tight embrace. The pleasure running through his veins was intense enough to border pain, his whole body aching and longing, his skin damp with sweat. Feverish and impatient. Michael dipped his head, burrowed it in the crook of his neck and licked the salted droplets of perspiration, lightly sucking on the flesh. Shivers broke on Lincoln’s back and arms morphing into shudders when Michael’s slow in and out movements became rougher, wilder, a bit erratic. He let out a “Shit!” at the overwhelming pleasure, at the thought that it would soon be over - already and finally over. Obediently staring in the mirror, holding Michael’s gaze through the reflection, he barely had the time to grab his brother’s hand and shove it under him, between his thighs, force it to close around him, before he came, spilling in harsh spurts.
Michael panted behind him, a hot and moist breath on the side of his face. Gasping and wallowing in a pleasant haze, Lincoln couldn’t help a satisfied smile when he felt Michael holding onto his shoulder with one hand, around his cock with the other. The firm grip was painful in the aftermath of his own release, but totally worth it - just the look on his brother’s face, the huge, dark eyes and the short grunts of exertion... Totally worth it.
Michael needed a few minutes to recover, pull out and let him roll onto his back; he knelt between Linc’s splayed thighs, hovering over him. Lincoln affectionately slid a hand down his side to his ass and lightly squeezed a buttock. Caught his brother eying the whole process in one the mirrors and smirked.
“Sorry I creamed the fancy bedspread,” he said. The wet spot under his ass was sticky and itchy, a crude reminder of what just happened.
Michael flinched at his choice of words and frowned, then reached out for him, his fingertips drawing complicated patterns on the clammy skin of Lincoln’s stomach.
“I wanted to make it good...,” he murmured, his tone somewhat apologetic. He was flushed and out of breath, his skin glowing with a thin layer of sweat and his eyes almost closed in exhaustion. A shiver traveled down Lincoln’s spine; he suddenly didn’t know anymore whether he wanted to fuck him as soon as he was able to get it up again, or hug and comfort him. Then he remembered that most of the time, he could do both at the same time, which was quite unsettling. To say the least.
“I am good. It was good,” he assured him. He motioned him to lean forward and kissed him on the lips when he obeyed. “You were great. The bedspread agrees with me.”
Michael rolled his eyes, and then became serious all over again. “I forced myself on you.”
Yeah. Well.
“Don’t flatter yourself, man. You couldn’t force anything on me even if you tried. I can still beat the shit out if you if I feel like it.”
It wasn’t actually that simple and he wasn’t sure that Michael bought it, but his brother smiled at him nonetheless and nodded at the pillows piled up at the head of the bed.
“You’re sleeping here?”
He crossed his arms behind his head, his smirk turning into an impish sneer. “Sleep, huh?”
Michael just gave him a pointed look. “Please? You go to bed, I’ll grab us something to eat in the kitchen, OK?”
He stared at their reflections, the image of Michael’s perfect stance, and of his own prone, obscene posture - on display, bent knees, stained thighs and stomach, blossoming blemishes from Michael’s grip. It was all he could see, the rest of the vast, nice bedroom didn’t enter his field of vision. It reminded him about being trapped; he was caught in his own life, in the perception that he, Michael and others had of him. At times like this, he thought that the story had already been written. There was no way out for him.
Sleeping here was an attractive idea, though. A huge, comfy bed and quiet apartment, coffee and juice when he woke up in the morning, and Michael’s warmth, soft breathing and compelling touch. Michael was a frisky sleeper, at least as far as Lincoln was involved. He touched, grabbed and clutched, and had no problem with Lincoln touching, grabbing and clutching in return. He would happily lean into it. Which, by the way, left the opportunity to get even for the way Michael pummeled him - he was not of the sissy kind, but he would be surprised if he wasn’t sore tomorrow morning, his whole body aching because of accumulated tension, relentless assaults and rough, dazzling pleasure.
“Linc?”
He ignored the mirrors and the high, encaging headboard and footboard. He ignored the uneasiness because, as much as it was caused by Michael, it would also dissolve into Michael, thanks to Michael. For now anyway. Aware that there were times when he could actually escape and didn’t, he scoot to slip under the sheets and settled in the middle of the oversized pillows.
“Sure.”
-End-
Comments are always appreciated.
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Michael/Lincoln
Genre: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~ 3495
Warnings: Slash, incest
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: There were two mirrors on the walls of Michael’s perfect bedroom, on each side of Michael’s perfect bed. Large, hanged mid-wall, slightly inclined forward, framed in spotless, smooth steel.
Prompt by foophile: “Just look.” Mirrors.
Notes: Many thanks to recycledfaery for the beta.
He was lying across Michael’s perfect bed, in Michael’s perfect bedroom. He was helpless and for once enjoying it while his brother moved on top of him, slowly rocking him into the mattress and delivering on the promise - or was it a threat - he’d made before.
* * *
Earlier in the day, they went shopping; he’d lured Michael into going with him. He’d given him some shitty lines about how he needed a suit for a job interview and had no fucking clue what to buy, because you know, it’s not like he wears damn suits every day. Michael heaved a sigh but yielded, just as he almost always did, and accepted to go with and advise him. All through the afternoon, he barely hid his exasperation at Lincoln being picky and choosy, or blatantly flirting with the saleswomen. Lincoln was pushing his buttons; Michael knew it, and Lincoln knew that Michael knew. Didn’t make it less successful since he knew exactly where and how hard to press.
The last store they entered was stylish and classy, the kind of place where Michael would buy his usual stuff, but certainly not Lincoln. Helpful and discreet shop assistants, soft lights, pleasant music and huge fitting rooms that closed with a door - no cheap curtains here. And Michael rejuvenated because he was totally in his element, with a small knowing smile and hushed voice, all the while talking, asking, and ignoring Lincoln. Even worse, making decisions on his behalf, picking and discarding suits and shirts, just as he’d been discarding Lincoln’s unwanted opinions for a while now.
No doubt it was his way to make Lincoln pay for the last couple of hours of provocation and taunting. It was a backlash on the pressing buttons thing and it was, Lincoln had to admit, pretty efficient. That smug, conceited version of his brother fueled his own exasperation and, ultimately, his need - need to trash the place, need to uncover the real Michael, the one only he knew. In the end, between trying on a blue suit and a gray one, he snatched his brother’s wrist and yanked him into the large stall. Any protests Michael might have were muffled by a harsh shove into the thin wall and an urgent, almost punitive kiss. Lincoln felt him move his lips, not kissing back but trying to speak; he ignored the attempt and delved into the warmth and silkiness of his mouth. Nothing his brother had to say interested him right now, he just wanted to...
He swirled him around to spoon him and crushed him against his chest. He held him, held him forcefully until Michael realized there was no way out, stopped struggling and accepted the embrace. Satisfied with his compliance, Lincoln licked his neck, the stubbled skin of his jaw, all the while sliding his hand down. He paused at Michael’s groin and brushed his knuckles against the smooth fabric, not too hard, not too light, just enough to tease him. Even through the pants, it felt hot and already hard against the palm of his hand, and he smiled victoriously.
“Enjoy being manhandled, Mikey?”
Michael grumbled something he didn’t bother trying to understand, then gasped when determined fingers cupped him, tugged on his belt and zipper, opening his fly. Twisting his neck to goggle at Lincoln, he whispered, “Stop it! Are you crazy!” He jolted, tried once again to break free. Lincoln grabbed his chin.
“Look! Just... look, Michael,” he ordered. He redirected his face so he looked up and straight ahead. He couldn’t help the smirk at the expression on Michael’s face, the gleam in his eyes when he took in the situation.
From top to bottom, three of the four walls were covered with mirrors; mirrors that reflected their embrace to the infinity, in multiple and weird views and angles. Lincoln caught his brother’s gaze and held it for a few seconds, challenging him to say no, push him away or merely avert his eyes. Tough chance. In a split second, he relaxed and leaned into Lincoln, hardly blinking, hardly breathing. Locking eyes with him, he slightly let his head roll back until the side of his face rested against Lincoln’s cheek, and he watched, enthralled. Watched Linc steal an arm about his hips to dig into his smart, crisp pants, fish for his semi erect shaft, and take it out. Lincoln appreciatively hefted it, eliciting a tiny moan; he stifled his own grunt against Michael’s temple. He liked that, seeing him helpless and undone, furious but unable to resist him, feeling the weight and warmth of his body, the way he alternated between fighting and giving in. The cock heavily resting in the palm of his hand while his fingers stroked it into full hardness, roughly skimming and brushing over the soft skin, wasn’t bad either. Nor the fact that he could watch it, watch him, jerk and twitch in minute detail. He liked that, and he temporarily brushed aside his own arousal - the urge to push Michael to his knees in front of him, or to just grip his hand, force it around him and thrust in it - in order to enjoy the power trip. Later. One way or another, he would have his release.
Obtaining Michael’s surrender was almost too easy. Lincoln knew him inside and out, knew how to bring him to and over the edge with a minimum of gestures and words when he wanted to. He also knew that Michel enjoyed all of this, even though he would never ever admit it - the risk, watching Lincoln watch him, the sheer craziness of what they were doing, how and where they were doing it. His eyes eagerly swept over the various mirrored angles of Lincoln holding him, fondling him. Breathing in rhythm with the up and down moves of Lincoln’s hand, he licked and bit his lips, tried to keep somewhat quiet and eventually failed. A few groans and pleas escaped him.
“Shh. You wouldn’t want all these people outside to hear you. Or would you?” Michael swallowed hard at that, and Lincoln insisted, teased him, whispering into his ear, “You’d like it if they did, huh?” Michael didn’t answer. He merely writhed to rub his butt against Lincoln’s crotch and bent an arm to grab his hip and hold onto it. It was a bit unfair, Lincoln pondered, not following the current, tacit rules that were established whereby Michael was only allowed to look, certainly not to act. But since he was, no matter what Michael might think, a nice guy, he helpfully pushed back and ground his own hard on into a shaped, firm buttock. “At this rate, I’ll have to buy the pants, you know...,” he confided in a low, dirty voice. It was only half of a joke, half of a tease. The situation was getting to him, a bit more with each passing second, and he tightened his embrace, needing to hold onto something too, onto someone.
Michael shamelessly hummed his appreciation at the innuendo and at the firm clasp. From then, it only took a few neatly aimed twists and flicks of wrist, a couple of searing kisses and well chosen words. He came hard over Lincoln’s fist, shuddering and panting and babbling. All Lincoln could make out from the litany of nonsense and gibberish was “Bastard!” - nothing new there, really - “You’re fucking insane,” and a whimpered “I’m so gonna fuck you...”
The last assumption made Lincoln grin widely, madly. He slipped his slick, sticky hand under Michael’s sweater to provocatively wipe it on the supple muscles of his stomach, and he replied, “Dream on, bro,” mocking and tantalizing.
As Michael slumped down against him, his breathing uneven and his eyes half closed, the power trip he’d felt slowly subsided. It left him with nothing but a painful erection and a queasy sensation, almost nausea. He licked his lips and tasted sweat, both his and Michael’s. The fitting room was overheated, smelling of musk and Michael and him mingled. He felt like he was walking under water now, moving in slow motion, and the mirrors seemed to be closing around him, imprisoning him. Suddenly, it wasn’t anymore about trashing the place and forcing his brother down from his high horse. All he wanted was to get the hell out of here; he gingerly stepped sideways, avoiding looking into the mirrors.
Still hazy with completion, Michael didn’t notice. With slightly shaking hands, he stuffed his softening penis back into his pants and turned on his heels to face Lincoln. He brushed their mouths together, unaware of Linc’s uneasiness.
“You’re an asshole but I love you.” Or did he actually say you’re an asshole but I love it? Lincoln didn’t have a chance to ask him, because he was already ordering in short, sharp sentences, “Change back. Take the suit. We’re going to my place.”
We’re not done - I’m not done with you, was actually what Lincoln got from the brisk instructions and damn if it didn’t make him incapable of protesting. He didn’t say a word either when Michael decided that the fucking suit was too expensive for Lincoln to purchase, didn’t retort that he was no fucking trophy wife when his brother added that he would pay for it.
The cashier gave him a polite and appreciative, albeit condescending, smile when she handed him the large, neat bag.
* * *
As soon as they’d passed the door of his loft, Michael snatched the bag of clothes from him, carelessly tossed it in a corner of the living room and gripped Lincoln’s head in his hands. When he kissed him, it was demanding and rough. He tongued and bit his way into his brother’s mouth and Lincoln, who still sported a rampant hard on, couldn’t gather his mind enough to ask him to slow down just a bit. He couldn’t pretend it was a surprise or he hadn’t seen it coming, since during all the ride back, Michael had been staring at him as if he was about to throw himself at him, all intent and indecent gazes, gloved fists clenched not to reach out and grab.
Chuckling a bit at his impatience, Lincoln let himself be kissed, walked back towards the bedroom and pushed across the bed. He let Michael’s hands take his clothes off in swift, rushed movements, and Michael’s lips trailed down, all the way from his mouth to his stomach, and then lower. He licked and sucked, tongued and nibbled. Lincoln grunted and, finally matching his brother’s haste, arched up, arched into the touch; Michael pushed him back against the bed.
“Wait,” he demanded, squeezing his hand around him. “Don’t come. Not yet.”
He looked down at him with narrow, exasperated eyes. No problem. Holding back was easy as pie when you’d been hoping for some release for over an hour and were given a thorough, eager blow-job... Lincoln felt like slapping him. Or maybe pumping and shooting right away in his mouth. He was still considering his options when he was rolled onto his stomach, and his legs were opened, spread wide. He was cajoled and stroked until he shifted recklessly. In a bright, red haze, his head spinning with pleasure and dizziness, he felt Michael slip cold, slick fingers into him. Suddenly although a bit late, he realized that when his brother had said he would fuck him, he actually meant it. Meant exactly that. And he would do it unless Lincoln made his disagreement perfectly clear.
He stilled under the touch, then bucked as Michael crooked his fingers. Sure, it had happened a few times, but it was not the way things usually were between them; he was not sure he wanted that right now. The thing was, Michael didn’t ask and took for granted that he was okay with it. Truth be told, it was hard not being okay, at least to some extent. There was the silky contact, almost a caress by itself, of the throw covering the bed, the wet kisses Michael showered all over him, his hands exposing him, sweeping over him, the searing weight of his body blanketing Lincoln’s... It was intoxicating; it was making him unable to think, ponder and decide. It was pretty fine, though. It wasn’t like he always thought before acting, right? He clenched his fists, fighting the urge to just rut against the soft, luscious bedspread. He needed something, he needed more than the taunting licks and caresses. So even though he was not sure he wanted that, he canted his hips, ground his ass into Michael, and groused, “What the fuck are you waiting for!”
He felt Michael’s smile against the nape of his neck, almost felt the glee seeping out of him. He couldn’t help wondering who was being an asshole now.
“Hold off just a bit longer,” Michael whispered, easing his way inside of him, slow and careful. Lincoln gasped and jerked at the unusual sensation, tried to accommodate to it. Then, when he’d made relatively sure he wasn’t about to totally lose it right away, he experimentally bent the small of his back. Michael pressed down gently, squishing him against the comforter. He was trapped between his brother and the bed, unable to move if Michael didn’t allow it; he felt kind of caught now. He breathed in to calm down.
There were two mirrors on the walls of Michael’s perfect bedroom, on each side of Michael’s perfect bed. Large, hanged mid-wall, slightly inclined forward, framed in spotless, smooth steel. Michael loved mirrors. Or maybe it had nothing to do with mirrors, and everything with watching, contemplating them while they screwed, had sex, made love - whatever rude or plain or sentimental vocabulary he wanted to use. Hence the way he’d frozen and let Lincoln have him earlier, in the stupid fitting room. Lincoln, on the other hand, wasn’t so big on mirrors. Probably the reason he snapped the way he did. He always felt trapped between them. They forced him to look and see, they wouldn’t let him escape the reality of what was happening, of who he was, and God knew Lincoln loved his escaping from reality. Yet, when his brother slid a hand under his throat and up to his chin to tilt his head up, he complied. When his brother leaned into him and rasped in his ear, “Open your eyes. It’s your turn to look,” he complied. He sometimes thought that he would do anything to give Michael what he deserved - including keeping secrets of dumb things he already did to achieve that purpose - even if it meant being screwed in so many ways, and having to watch it happen with his eyes wide open.
“Look,” Michael repeated, holding his jaw.
He did. Their faces were tense in a mixture of agony and pleasure in the mirror right in front of them, the muscles of their shoulders and upper backs rippling slightly under the sweaty skin as the two of them moved and shifted. And when he changed focus, he saw the reflection of the other mirror, the one hanging behind them, the one displaying Michael’s back and ass as he thrust excruciatingly slow. He saw the muscles tug and roll, clench and unclench rhythmically in his brother’s back and buttocks and thighs. He tried not to mull over the thought that he was trapped between the endless reflections of the mirrors, between the high, dark headboard and footboard of the bed, between the firm mattress and Michael’s body. He did all he could to concentrate on the so wrong and alluring view and to forget its meaning, to enjoy the current situation. Not that difficult to achieve anyway. Michael’s thrusts were unhurried and deliberate, which made them even more merciless, shifting to find the best angle, until Lincoln curled and writhed in the tight embrace. The pleasure running through his veins was intense enough to border pain, his whole body aching and longing, his skin damp with sweat. Feverish and impatient. Michael dipped his head, burrowed it in the crook of his neck and licked the salted droplets of perspiration, lightly sucking on the flesh. Shivers broke on Lincoln’s back and arms morphing into shudders when Michael’s slow in and out movements became rougher, wilder, a bit erratic. He let out a “Shit!” at the overwhelming pleasure, at the thought that it would soon be over - already and finally over. Obediently staring in the mirror, holding Michael’s gaze through the reflection, he barely had the time to grab his brother’s hand and shove it under him, between his thighs, force it to close around him, before he came, spilling in harsh spurts.
Michael panted behind him, a hot and moist breath on the side of his face. Gasping and wallowing in a pleasant haze, Lincoln couldn’t help a satisfied smile when he felt Michael holding onto his shoulder with one hand, around his cock with the other. The firm grip was painful in the aftermath of his own release, but totally worth it - just the look on his brother’s face, the huge, dark eyes and the short grunts of exertion... Totally worth it.
Michael needed a few minutes to recover, pull out and let him roll onto his back; he knelt between Linc’s splayed thighs, hovering over him. Lincoln affectionately slid a hand down his side to his ass and lightly squeezed a buttock. Caught his brother eying the whole process in one the mirrors and smirked.
“Sorry I creamed the fancy bedspread,” he said. The wet spot under his ass was sticky and itchy, a crude reminder of what just happened.
Michael flinched at his choice of words and frowned, then reached out for him, his fingertips drawing complicated patterns on the clammy skin of Lincoln’s stomach.
“I wanted to make it good...,” he murmured, his tone somewhat apologetic. He was flushed and out of breath, his skin glowing with a thin layer of sweat and his eyes almost closed in exhaustion. A shiver traveled down Lincoln’s spine; he suddenly didn’t know anymore whether he wanted to fuck him as soon as he was able to get it up again, or hug and comfort him. Then he remembered that most of the time, he could do both at the same time, which was quite unsettling. To say the least.
“I am good. It was good,” he assured him. He motioned him to lean forward and kissed him on the lips when he obeyed. “You were great. The bedspread agrees with me.”
Michael rolled his eyes, and then became serious all over again. “I forced myself on you.”
Yeah. Well.
“Don’t flatter yourself, man. You couldn’t force anything on me even if you tried. I can still beat the shit out if you if I feel like it.”
It wasn’t actually that simple and he wasn’t sure that Michael bought it, but his brother smiled at him nonetheless and nodded at the pillows piled up at the head of the bed.
“You’re sleeping here?”
He crossed his arms behind his head, his smirk turning into an impish sneer. “Sleep, huh?”
Michael just gave him a pointed look. “Please? You go to bed, I’ll grab us something to eat in the kitchen, OK?”
He stared at their reflections, the image of Michael’s perfect stance, and of his own prone, obscene posture - on display, bent knees, stained thighs and stomach, blossoming blemishes from Michael’s grip. It was all he could see, the rest of the vast, nice bedroom didn’t enter his field of vision. It reminded him about being trapped; he was caught in his own life, in the perception that he, Michael and others had of him. At times like this, he thought that the story had already been written. There was no way out for him.
Sleeping here was an attractive idea, though. A huge, comfy bed and quiet apartment, coffee and juice when he woke up in the morning, and Michael’s warmth, soft breathing and compelling touch. Michael was a frisky sleeper, at least as far as Lincoln was involved. He touched, grabbed and clutched, and had no problem with Lincoln touching, grabbing and clutching in return. He would happily lean into it. Which, by the way, left the opportunity to get even for the way Michael pummeled him - he was not of the sissy kind, but he would be surprised if he wasn’t sore tomorrow morning, his whole body aching because of accumulated tension, relentless assaults and rough, dazzling pleasure.
“Linc?”
He ignored the mirrors and the high, encaging headboard and footboard. He ignored the uneasiness because, as much as it was caused by Michael, it would also dissolve into Michael, thanks to Michael. For now anyway. Aware that there were times when he could actually escape and didn’t, he scoot to slip under the sheets and settled in the middle of the oversized pillows.
“Sure.”
-End-
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