Prison Break - Bitter Raspberries
Title: Bitter Raspberries
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Michael/Sara/Lincoln
Category: Het
Rating: R
Warning: Except for the obvious? No slash/incest though.
Word Count: ~ 3560
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: Lying across the bed, her clothes and hair a mess, Sara sighs and reaches out for Michael’s hand. She clutches it. From the corner of his eye, Lincoln can see their fingers intertwining tightly.
Prompt: Initially written for bambie-mag who wanted Lincoln/Sara, Michael/Sara, Lincoln & Michael (no slash) or a mix of all of that. The other part of the prompt was a birthday, someone disliking raspberries and the sentence Tell me this isn’t what I think it is.
Author’s Note: Many thanks to domfangirl for the beta.
The situation gets out of hand - really out of hand, as in no way to go back - when Lincoln leans into Sara’s cleavage to retrieve a raspberry. The raspberry slides down the young woman’s chest and is squashed between her breasts. He licks. The sweet, red juice, the pale, delicate skin and, since he’s started, a nipple that hardens under the thin fabric of her bra. Lying across the bed, her clothes and hair a mess, Sara sighs and reaches out for Michael’s hand. She clutches it. From the corner of his eye, Lincoln can see their fingers intertwining tightly.
Let’s be clear, Lincoln doesn’t like raspberries. They’re pulpy and pleasant to the eye, look delicious and juicy, but they leave these damn little seeds between your teeth that are a pain in the ass to get rid of. It’s probably Sara who bought the birthday cake because Michael knows what he likes and would have chosen something else. However he has to admit that tonight, raspberries have quite an attractive taste and, in order to prove to Sara that he’s not mad at her, he licks again, a bit more insistently. Less juice and more skin this time around, the shivers a bit more intense under his tongue and Sara’s breathing a bit shallower. She arches faintly under the kiss. Michael, who’s watching with fascination, catches a few more raspberries on the cake, lightly sucks on them to remove the whipped cream and lays them on Sara’s stomach. It’s a free hand, a silent Keep going, and Lincoln chases the little red fruits down to her thighs. The simple, light pink cotton of her lingerie is sticky with raspberry juice and seems indecently innocent under the circumstances. Lincoln slides his hands inside of her underwear; he distinctly hears Michael swallowing when Sara moves her shoulders and then her hips to help him remove her bra and panties.
* *
That being said, it’s earlier in the evening that they began down the slippery slope. They have been stuffed into the anonymous bedroom of an anonymous, although quite pleasant, motel waiting for the course of events. Meaning, their testimonies and hopefully the end of the trouble for them.
If it got out of hand, it’s because of Michael who didn’t want to dance, and of Sara who did. Mumbling a bit, Lincoln got to his feet to make up for his baby brother, and Sara and he started to move with the music playing quietly in the hotel room. He wouldn’t call that ‘dancing’ - it’s not dancing when you just stand close to each other and shift a bit. It wasn’t a big deal, only a comforting embrace, maybe just a tad too intimate given the relationship they have. Are supposed to have.
Sara returned his embrace. Or actually she snuggled up to him in a way that should have driven Michael up the wall. Her arms around his neck, her belly pressed into his, her breath sweeping over his neck. It was the first time - all right, the first time since Fox River - that he truly remembered that she had hips and breasts and skin so soft that he had to get a grip on himself not to slip his hand under her shirt and touch her.
So, he didn't slip his hands under her shirt, but he rested them on her waist and let them slide down just a little bit until the tip of his fingers found the curve of her butt. Part reflex and part provocation because really, they were well past the point where Michael should have reacted, protested, said something, anything a few minutes ago. But Michael just flinched, captivated by the image his brother and Sara made, his face darkened with a mixture of jealousy and arousal. Lincoln met Sara’s eyes and, with a small amused smile, nodded towards Michael.
She threw him a glance over her shoulder, murmured something about giving him his money’s worth and planted a kiss on Lincoln’s neck. Lincoln assumes that it’s at this point that the situation went from slippery to out of control: the kiss, although rather chaste, was anything but innocent. A second one followed it, a lot more provocative. Lincoln held her tighter, pulling her into him, as Michael moved back and sat on the edge of the dresser a couple of feet away, all the while staring at them. His hands deep in his pockets, breathing hard with his eyes trained on them.
It raised the alarm, this reaction, this lack of reaction. Lincoln jerked when he realized what was going on. Been there, done that. It was, if not familiar, at least not unknown - he had already seen that expression, that look, that attitude on a few occasions and it had inevitably ended up the same. Sure Lincoln had never protested in the past, but actively participated. But there was a whole world between some chick and...
“Wow. No way, Michael.”
It’s Sara who answered him, the hushed words muffled into his neck. Despite himself, he shivered under the warm breath brushing his skin. “We’re alive,” she said softly as if it explained and justified everything.
“And it’s a damn miracle, I agree on that. If you want to celebrate, go dance naked outside in the moonlight. Or get laid. You don’t need me.”
He didn’t move away though, didn’t try to disengage from her embrace or even to loosen it and, in a totally unfair move, Sara leant into him. Through the fabric of their clothes, he could feel her breasts, soft and warm against his chest.
“It’s not about celebrating anything,” Michael said, his tone impatient and a bit arrogant.
“It’s about what we want and about sharing it. As long as it’s possible,” she added.
He searched for Michael’s eyes over the top of Sara’s head. He’d never been opposed to the idea of enjoying anything that was offered to him as long as it was offered. But in this case, the consequences seemed quite huge and close. Judging from Michael’s glance and the way Sara slid her hand up his back, her nails scratching his skin, this wasn’t an issue for them.
It was comforting to know how perfectly tuned to each other they were, even regarding their reasoning and their tempo to deliver it. Lincoln tried to resist nonetheless, just one last time, a bit for the sake of appearances, he has to admit. He can’t say no to Michael anyway... Okay, he can say no to Michael, but some propositions are not meant to be turned down.
“What makes you think that I want it?”
He got no direct answer. But Sara lifted her head and stared at him for a few seconds, a half-smile curling her lips.
Yeah. That’s the thing when you let your brother’s girlfriend snuggle up to you.
* *
Twenty minutes later, he’s had the time to learn that there isn’t a whole world between some chick and Sara; gestures and moves are pretty much the same, apparently anyway. But there is quite a gulf. Dynamics are radically different.
Before, it didn’t matter who, literally, got between the two of them as long as everybody was satisfied; he was the most important person to Michael, and Michael was the most important person to him. Tonight Michael cares about his brother’s and Sara’s reactions, and Lincoln catches himself doing just the same. He feels a weird twitch that obviously can’t be jealousy, so he catalogs it as nostalgia. The memory of another time that leaves a bittersweet taste in his mouth. To chase it and replace it, he runs his tongue high on the inside of Sara’s thigh. Her flesh is salted, soft and hot under his mouth and the rough skin of his chin. With bated breath, Sara arches under the kiss and with a light touch on his neck draws him closer. He complies, helpfully angling his head to push his tongue inside her and then gripping her hips when she writhes under him. He can hear, above him, from the pile of pillows, Michael murmuring his approval as Sara moans.
Before, Michael preferred that Lincoln watched. It was a game; it was the opportunity to prove to Lincoln that he was almost as good as him, able to do almost as well as his brother. Tonight Lincoln pretends that Michael isn’t facing his fear of being abandoned by watching the woman he loves fucking the only man he can trust. With his fingers splayed over her belly to hold her against the mattress, Michael tenderly strokes the smooth skin and gazes at what could be the ultimate treason. Lincoln pretends that Sara, under the comforting layer of unashamed lust, isn’t aware of that. It would go a bit too far.
Before, when they'd woken up, showered, and dressed, with the curtains open and the daylight streaming in, the night was a memory just like any other... almost like any other... a memory almost like any other that Lincoln liked to bring up in certain circumstances, but in the end, a memory of little consequence. Tonight he already worries about later, tomorrow, the repercussions, the temptation to do it all over again. It’s the kind of thing that leaves imperishable memories and indelible traces, stirs up inappropriate desires in the most inappropriate moments.
Before it was about Michael and him. Tonight it’s about the three of them; they form an inextricably bound trio.
Lincoln is tactile, Michael is visual - so Lincoln touches, caresses and kisses while Michael watches. His mouth and hands follow the soft curves of Sara’s body. He licks and nibbles and, when Sara gently shoves him on his back, he digs his fingers into her red brown hair to push it away from her face and moist nape so that Michael can see. Michael is grateful. Sitting in the bed next to the two of them, the sheets up his waist, his hand under the covers, it leaves nothing to imagination about what he’s doing. Sara appreciates Lincoln’s attention and ministrations; Lincoln appreciates that she lets it show; and Michael appreciates their displaying of the whole thing. Not the slightest doubt about it.
Straddling Lincoln’s hips, her knees pressed into his waist and her hands on his shoulders, Sara leans into him to kiss him with an almost unsettling tenderness. Tenderness she certainly shouldn’t lavish on him. With her gesture, her hair slides forwards and makes a curtain all around them, isolating them; neither Sara nor Lincoln push away the long strands of hair that hide them from Michael’s eyes. It’s a hide-and-seek game, a tiny provocation which is answered with a sharp intake of air, a shudder, a jolt of the mattress. Michael can’t see what they’re doing - how they’re doing it - but Michael, who is able to mentally dissect any object in a single glance, can imagine. And imagination has always been his strong and weak point at the same time. Nothing worse than to imagine, to picture, to contemplate and get no confirmation or invalidation. Behind the shelter of Sara’s hair, Lincoln can’t help smirking and shoots, “We’re not your private little peep show, Michael. Move your ass.”
Michael barely shows a hint of reticence before pushing back the sheets he has over him as Lincoln rolls onto his side. Dislodged from her straddling position, bluntly but not without affection, Sara slips into the middle of the bed, right between them, in a cocoon of warmth and skin. She blinks when they simultaneously close in on her; Michael and Lincoln briefly pause when their hands brush against each other’s on her chest. His face buried in Sara’s neck, Michael promises the three of them, “One word and we stop everything,” and Lincoln really hopes no one is going to chicken out and speak that damn word now.
For a few moments, it’s a blur of caresses and kisses, a profusion of sighs and provocative murmurs. Her eyes half-closed, Sara shifts when Michael impishly rubs himself against her hip and thigh, arches when Lincoln slides his hand down her stomach, parts her legs and gently pushes two fingers inside of her. It’s not a contest. Honestly Lincoln can’t imagine that this is a contest, but Sara whimpers, “Please...” and he can’t help throwing a satisfied glance at Michael. Michael ignores him, makes a point of ignoring him, and wantonly kisses Sara, his mouth skimming down her neck, between her breasts and to her belly. The sighs and pants, the noises of wet kisses and Sara wriggling - Lincoln has to focus hard to remember that it’s not supposed to be like this, that it can’t be like before anymore. When Sara whispers to him, “Not like that,” he obediently withdraws his fingers from her and lays them on Michael’s shoulder; he softly shakes him to make him stop.
Shivering at the touch, Michael mouths a last kiss, greedy and languid - Lincoln can see the muscles of Sara’s stomach twitching under the assault - before he lifts his head. He fingers a lock of hair stuck to Sara’s cheek and murmurs, “Sara?”
“You first,” she says, turning her head towards Lincoln. Not a iota of hesitation in her voice, in the way she decides and rolls onto her side. Lincoln has to approve, her frank determination as well as the small mischievous smile that grazes her lips when she answers. Since Michael likes so much to watch, let him watch ‘til the end.
Lincoln snakes an arm about her waist and she cuddles up to him, her shoulders to his torso, the small of her back to his lower belly. She’s incredibly supple in his hands, pliable. She allows him to lift her thigh, helpfully bends her knee, and he sinks into her scent and heat. He almost forgets Michael altogether, who’s lying right next to them, staring and breathing hard. She lets him tip her hips back and crawls up on the rumpled sheets so he can drive a bit deeper into her. A whimper falls from her lips and is muffled against Michael’s throat. His eyes hooded, his face into the crook of Sara’s neck, Lincoln senses his brother resting a hand on his, gripping it; it prevents Sara from moving, it forbids him any action. For a couple of seconds, he thinks that Michael is going to call off everything. A couple of seconds during which the jealousy that shone earlier in his eyes is stronger than his arousal and his trust. Then Sara reaches out for him and kisses him, curls her leg around his and draws him closer to her. She whispers something into his ear that makes him nod faintly and unclench his grip. His fingers circle Lincoln’s wrist in a light hold, a barely there touch to egg him into moving again.
Lincoln complies because this is what Michael wants as well as because Sara is clenching around him, her inner muscles tightening and making his enforced stillness almost unbearable. He doesn’t try to make it last, he’s quite sure none of them wants that. He can’t take anymore the fondling and touching, the mind and willpower games; Michael is now waiting for only one thing, for Lincoln to get it over with it and give Sara back to him; and Sara clutches at them, at their joined hands on her hip, trying to delay while she still can the ineluctable outcome. It’s really not appropriate anymore to try to make it last.
Over Sara’s shoulder, he meets Michael’s look. A glance challenges him to go a bit further, to push Sara a bit harder. It’s tempting. The idea of bringing her with him when he comes is attractive; the idea to let Michael see what he actually risks with this kind of game is even more attractive.
He denies it though, shaking his head and half-smiling. It’s not for him, it doesn’t belong to him. He knows his decision can put his brother at rest and makes him freak out at the same time - nothing nor no one will be taken from him tonight, but nothing assures him it won’t happen some day soon - and it’s only fair. The next thrust Lincoln gives, a bit harsher, a bit deeper, is the last before he collapses with a groan against Sara, spent and exhausted with pleasure.
* *
The first thing he’s aware of when he falls back in the middle of the pillows, his chest and stomach damp with sweat - his and Sara's - is the faint frustrated whimper coming from the young woman. She wriggles against him to kiss him on the mouth. He kisses her back and can feel the desire that still possesses her. Affectionate, almost soothing, he runs his hand down her thigh. He can’t do anything else now, it’s up to Michael.
The second thing he’s aware of, a few seconds later, is the strangled sound that escapes from Michael; it’s almost a sigh of relief. Sara flinches and then is pushed and pressed into Lincoln, slowly and smoothly, the rubbing of her ass almost painful on his heated flesh. With a mixture of resignation and benevolence, he settles against the pillows, closes his arms around Sara and absorbs the best he can every jerk and twitch. A hand seizes his, forces his fingers onto a soft, swollen breast. He fondles it, his fingers worrying the nipple; a sigh answers the caress, and a low growl echoes the sigh. The combined moans seem to vibrate and resonate into Lincoln’s chest until Sara pleads, “Harder.” The request is repeated a few times because Michael ignores it again and again, focused and methodical, and Sara’s whimpers become hoarse and desperate. Exasperated, affected, aroused, Lincoln lets his hand slide from Sara’s breast to Michael’s torso and cruelly pinches the muscle between his thumb and forefinger.
“You heard what she told you?”
Michael loves with a dash of obsession, a hint of excess. Even though the means to prove it to him were quite different, Lincoln fucking knows about this. It’s exactly what his brother’s face shows while he shifts between Sara’s legs to push her thighs higher around his waist and thrust deeper into her. There is no slowness or smoothness anymore, just that excess and obsession to give her what she asked.
Lincoln thinks that, for lack of anything better, he should close his eyes. Not see them like this. Instead, he traces his tongue up Sara’s neck, tasting their mixed sweats and a flavor of raspberry. He whispers into her ear, just loud enough for Michael to hear, “Make him beg for it,” and he can feel his heart pounding a bit too hard in his chest when she carries out his demand.
* *
He feels rather stupid, lying like this on his back, on the edge of the mattress, his hands folded on his stomach and the sheets properly tucked under his arms because Sara sighs a protest each time Michael or he tug them down and bares her chest. As if he hadn't already had the chance to stare profusely at her breasts, and other parts of her anatomy, during the last couple of hours. As if Michael didn’t do it on purpose because he enjoys seeing, maybe even more than the luscious flesh itself, the sheets slowly slipping down and exposing her - not that Lincoln doesn’t approve of the view.
“It was...,” Sara starts, her voice a bit rough.
“... twisted and totally inappropriate?” Lincoln suggests.
“... not as weird as it should have been.”
Mmm. Well, that too.
Without uttering a word, Michael gets a lonely raspberry from the plate on the night table and delicately pushes it into Sara's mouth with the tip of his fingers. Lincoln watches the small red fruit, followed with his brother’s fingers, being sucked in by Sara’s kiss-swollen lips. Clearing his throat, he averts his eyes towards the ceiling. Not even a fucking single crack to look at, up there.
He noticed a few things. Michael isn’t the only one able to notice things.
Michael’s other hand, the one Sara’s not sucking on the fingers in a totally pornographic manner, is under the sheets. Between her thighs. Lincoln feels like asking them Don’t you ever stop? And Tell me this isn’t what I think it is! He shuts up because of course this is exactly what he thinks it is and, after months of fear and running, he can’t blame them.
Lincoln won’t ever be able to look at a raspberry cake again without experiencing the need to adjust his pants. Actually, Lincoln can smell the scent of the raspberries near him and adjusts the sheets on his stomach. He doesn’t have to try hard to imagine Michael’s small smirk.
For better or worse, one way or another, this is and will remain one of his most memorable birthdays.
None of them has yet uttered the little sentence that common sense and decency would command them to utter - it won’t happen again - and Lincoln feels an uncomfortable mixture of hope and dread.
The jealousy-nostalgia he just drowned with the taste and scent of his brother’s girlfriend still grates his tongue; the salty tang of Sara and the sweet flavor of the raspberries now can hardly conceal its bitterness.
-Fin-
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Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Michael/Sara/Lincoln
Category: Het
Rating: R
Warning: Except for the obvious? No slash/incest though.
Word Count: ~ 3560
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: Lying across the bed, her clothes and hair a mess, Sara sighs and reaches out for Michael’s hand. She clutches it. From the corner of his eye, Lincoln can see their fingers intertwining tightly.
Prompt: Initially written for bambie-mag who wanted Lincoln/Sara, Michael/Sara, Lincoln & Michael (no slash) or a mix of all of that. The other part of the prompt was a birthday, someone disliking raspberries and the sentence Tell me this isn’t what I think it is.
Author’s Note: Many thanks to domfangirl for the beta.
The situation gets out of hand - really out of hand, as in no way to go back - when Lincoln leans into Sara’s cleavage to retrieve a raspberry. The raspberry slides down the young woman’s chest and is squashed between her breasts. He licks. The sweet, red juice, the pale, delicate skin and, since he’s started, a nipple that hardens under the thin fabric of her bra. Lying across the bed, her clothes and hair a mess, Sara sighs and reaches out for Michael’s hand. She clutches it. From the corner of his eye, Lincoln can see their fingers intertwining tightly.
Let’s be clear, Lincoln doesn’t like raspberries. They’re pulpy and pleasant to the eye, look delicious and juicy, but they leave these damn little seeds between your teeth that are a pain in the ass to get rid of. It’s probably Sara who bought the birthday cake because Michael knows what he likes and would have chosen something else. However he has to admit that tonight, raspberries have quite an attractive taste and, in order to prove to Sara that he’s not mad at her, he licks again, a bit more insistently. Less juice and more skin this time around, the shivers a bit more intense under his tongue and Sara’s breathing a bit shallower. She arches faintly under the kiss. Michael, who’s watching with fascination, catches a few more raspberries on the cake, lightly sucks on them to remove the whipped cream and lays them on Sara’s stomach. It’s a free hand, a silent Keep going, and Lincoln chases the little red fruits down to her thighs. The simple, light pink cotton of her lingerie is sticky with raspberry juice and seems indecently innocent under the circumstances. Lincoln slides his hands inside of her underwear; he distinctly hears Michael swallowing when Sara moves her shoulders and then her hips to help him remove her bra and panties.
* *
That being said, it’s earlier in the evening that they began down the slippery slope. They have been stuffed into the anonymous bedroom of an anonymous, although quite pleasant, motel waiting for the course of events. Meaning, their testimonies and hopefully the end of the trouble for them.
If it got out of hand, it’s because of Michael who didn’t want to dance, and of Sara who did. Mumbling a bit, Lincoln got to his feet to make up for his baby brother, and Sara and he started to move with the music playing quietly in the hotel room. He wouldn’t call that ‘dancing’ - it’s not dancing when you just stand close to each other and shift a bit. It wasn’t a big deal, only a comforting embrace, maybe just a tad too intimate given the relationship they have. Are supposed to have.
Sara returned his embrace. Or actually she snuggled up to him in a way that should have driven Michael up the wall. Her arms around his neck, her belly pressed into his, her breath sweeping over his neck. It was the first time - all right, the first time since Fox River - that he truly remembered that she had hips and breasts and skin so soft that he had to get a grip on himself not to slip his hand under her shirt and touch her.
So, he didn't slip his hands under her shirt, but he rested them on her waist and let them slide down just a little bit until the tip of his fingers found the curve of her butt. Part reflex and part provocation because really, they were well past the point where Michael should have reacted, protested, said something, anything a few minutes ago. But Michael just flinched, captivated by the image his brother and Sara made, his face darkened with a mixture of jealousy and arousal. Lincoln met Sara’s eyes and, with a small amused smile, nodded towards Michael.
She threw him a glance over her shoulder, murmured something about giving him his money’s worth and planted a kiss on Lincoln’s neck. Lincoln assumes that it’s at this point that the situation went from slippery to out of control: the kiss, although rather chaste, was anything but innocent. A second one followed it, a lot more provocative. Lincoln held her tighter, pulling her into him, as Michael moved back and sat on the edge of the dresser a couple of feet away, all the while staring at them. His hands deep in his pockets, breathing hard with his eyes trained on them.
It raised the alarm, this reaction, this lack of reaction. Lincoln jerked when he realized what was going on. Been there, done that. It was, if not familiar, at least not unknown - he had already seen that expression, that look, that attitude on a few occasions and it had inevitably ended up the same. Sure Lincoln had never protested in the past, but actively participated. But there was a whole world between some chick and...
“Wow. No way, Michael.”
It’s Sara who answered him, the hushed words muffled into his neck. Despite himself, he shivered under the warm breath brushing his skin. “We’re alive,” she said softly as if it explained and justified everything.
“And it’s a damn miracle, I agree on that. If you want to celebrate, go dance naked outside in the moonlight. Or get laid. You don’t need me.”
He didn’t move away though, didn’t try to disengage from her embrace or even to loosen it and, in a totally unfair move, Sara leant into him. Through the fabric of their clothes, he could feel her breasts, soft and warm against his chest.
“It’s not about celebrating anything,” Michael said, his tone impatient and a bit arrogant.
“It’s about what we want and about sharing it. As long as it’s possible,” she added.
He searched for Michael’s eyes over the top of Sara’s head. He’d never been opposed to the idea of enjoying anything that was offered to him as long as it was offered. But in this case, the consequences seemed quite huge and close. Judging from Michael’s glance and the way Sara slid her hand up his back, her nails scratching his skin, this wasn’t an issue for them.
It was comforting to know how perfectly tuned to each other they were, even regarding their reasoning and their tempo to deliver it. Lincoln tried to resist nonetheless, just one last time, a bit for the sake of appearances, he has to admit. He can’t say no to Michael anyway... Okay, he can say no to Michael, but some propositions are not meant to be turned down.
“What makes you think that I want it?”
He got no direct answer. But Sara lifted her head and stared at him for a few seconds, a half-smile curling her lips.
Yeah. That’s the thing when you let your brother’s girlfriend snuggle up to you.
* *
Twenty minutes later, he’s had the time to learn that there isn’t a whole world between some chick and Sara; gestures and moves are pretty much the same, apparently anyway. But there is quite a gulf. Dynamics are radically different.
Before, it didn’t matter who, literally, got between the two of them as long as everybody was satisfied; he was the most important person to Michael, and Michael was the most important person to him. Tonight Michael cares about his brother’s and Sara’s reactions, and Lincoln catches himself doing just the same. He feels a weird twitch that obviously can’t be jealousy, so he catalogs it as nostalgia. The memory of another time that leaves a bittersweet taste in his mouth. To chase it and replace it, he runs his tongue high on the inside of Sara’s thigh. Her flesh is salted, soft and hot under his mouth and the rough skin of his chin. With bated breath, Sara arches under the kiss and with a light touch on his neck draws him closer. He complies, helpfully angling his head to push his tongue inside her and then gripping her hips when she writhes under him. He can hear, above him, from the pile of pillows, Michael murmuring his approval as Sara moans.
Before, Michael preferred that Lincoln watched. It was a game; it was the opportunity to prove to Lincoln that he was almost as good as him, able to do almost as well as his brother. Tonight Lincoln pretends that Michael isn’t facing his fear of being abandoned by watching the woman he loves fucking the only man he can trust. With his fingers splayed over her belly to hold her against the mattress, Michael tenderly strokes the smooth skin and gazes at what could be the ultimate treason. Lincoln pretends that Sara, under the comforting layer of unashamed lust, isn’t aware of that. It would go a bit too far.
Before, when they'd woken up, showered, and dressed, with the curtains open and the daylight streaming in, the night was a memory just like any other... almost like any other... a memory almost like any other that Lincoln liked to bring up in certain circumstances, but in the end, a memory of little consequence. Tonight he already worries about later, tomorrow, the repercussions, the temptation to do it all over again. It’s the kind of thing that leaves imperishable memories and indelible traces, stirs up inappropriate desires in the most inappropriate moments.
Before it was about Michael and him. Tonight it’s about the three of them; they form an inextricably bound trio.
Lincoln is tactile, Michael is visual - so Lincoln touches, caresses and kisses while Michael watches. His mouth and hands follow the soft curves of Sara’s body. He licks and nibbles and, when Sara gently shoves him on his back, he digs his fingers into her red brown hair to push it away from her face and moist nape so that Michael can see. Michael is grateful. Sitting in the bed next to the two of them, the sheets up his waist, his hand under the covers, it leaves nothing to imagination about what he’s doing. Sara appreciates Lincoln’s attention and ministrations; Lincoln appreciates that she lets it show; and Michael appreciates their displaying of the whole thing. Not the slightest doubt about it.
Straddling Lincoln’s hips, her knees pressed into his waist and her hands on his shoulders, Sara leans into him to kiss him with an almost unsettling tenderness. Tenderness she certainly shouldn’t lavish on him. With her gesture, her hair slides forwards and makes a curtain all around them, isolating them; neither Sara nor Lincoln push away the long strands of hair that hide them from Michael’s eyes. It’s a hide-and-seek game, a tiny provocation which is answered with a sharp intake of air, a shudder, a jolt of the mattress. Michael can’t see what they’re doing - how they’re doing it - but Michael, who is able to mentally dissect any object in a single glance, can imagine. And imagination has always been his strong and weak point at the same time. Nothing worse than to imagine, to picture, to contemplate and get no confirmation or invalidation. Behind the shelter of Sara’s hair, Lincoln can’t help smirking and shoots, “We’re not your private little peep show, Michael. Move your ass.”
Michael barely shows a hint of reticence before pushing back the sheets he has over him as Lincoln rolls onto his side. Dislodged from her straddling position, bluntly but not without affection, Sara slips into the middle of the bed, right between them, in a cocoon of warmth and skin. She blinks when they simultaneously close in on her; Michael and Lincoln briefly pause when their hands brush against each other’s on her chest. His face buried in Sara’s neck, Michael promises the three of them, “One word and we stop everything,” and Lincoln really hopes no one is going to chicken out and speak that damn word now.
For a few moments, it’s a blur of caresses and kisses, a profusion of sighs and provocative murmurs. Her eyes half-closed, Sara shifts when Michael impishly rubs himself against her hip and thigh, arches when Lincoln slides his hand down her stomach, parts her legs and gently pushes two fingers inside of her. It’s not a contest. Honestly Lincoln can’t imagine that this is a contest, but Sara whimpers, “Please...” and he can’t help throwing a satisfied glance at Michael. Michael ignores him, makes a point of ignoring him, and wantonly kisses Sara, his mouth skimming down her neck, between her breasts and to her belly. The sighs and pants, the noises of wet kisses and Sara wriggling - Lincoln has to focus hard to remember that it’s not supposed to be like this, that it can’t be like before anymore. When Sara whispers to him, “Not like that,” he obediently withdraws his fingers from her and lays them on Michael’s shoulder; he softly shakes him to make him stop.
Shivering at the touch, Michael mouths a last kiss, greedy and languid - Lincoln can see the muscles of Sara’s stomach twitching under the assault - before he lifts his head. He fingers a lock of hair stuck to Sara’s cheek and murmurs, “Sara?”
“You first,” she says, turning her head towards Lincoln. Not a iota of hesitation in her voice, in the way she decides and rolls onto her side. Lincoln has to approve, her frank determination as well as the small mischievous smile that grazes her lips when she answers. Since Michael likes so much to watch, let him watch ‘til the end.
Lincoln snakes an arm about her waist and she cuddles up to him, her shoulders to his torso, the small of her back to his lower belly. She’s incredibly supple in his hands, pliable. She allows him to lift her thigh, helpfully bends her knee, and he sinks into her scent and heat. He almost forgets Michael altogether, who’s lying right next to them, staring and breathing hard. She lets him tip her hips back and crawls up on the rumpled sheets so he can drive a bit deeper into her. A whimper falls from her lips and is muffled against Michael’s throat. His eyes hooded, his face into the crook of Sara’s neck, Lincoln senses his brother resting a hand on his, gripping it; it prevents Sara from moving, it forbids him any action. For a couple of seconds, he thinks that Michael is going to call off everything. A couple of seconds during which the jealousy that shone earlier in his eyes is stronger than his arousal and his trust. Then Sara reaches out for him and kisses him, curls her leg around his and draws him closer to her. She whispers something into his ear that makes him nod faintly and unclench his grip. His fingers circle Lincoln’s wrist in a light hold, a barely there touch to egg him into moving again.
Lincoln complies because this is what Michael wants as well as because Sara is clenching around him, her inner muscles tightening and making his enforced stillness almost unbearable. He doesn’t try to make it last, he’s quite sure none of them wants that. He can’t take anymore the fondling and touching, the mind and willpower games; Michael is now waiting for only one thing, for Lincoln to get it over with it and give Sara back to him; and Sara clutches at them, at their joined hands on her hip, trying to delay while she still can the ineluctable outcome. It’s really not appropriate anymore to try to make it last.
Over Sara’s shoulder, he meets Michael’s look. A glance challenges him to go a bit further, to push Sara a bit harder. It’s tempting. The idea of bringing her with him when he comes is attractive; the idea to let Michael see what he actually risks with this kind of game is even more attractive.
He denies it though, shaking his head and half-smiling. It’s not for him, it doesn’t belong to him. He knows his decision can put his brother at rest and makes him freak out at the same time - nothing nor no one will be taken from him tonight, but nothing assures him it won’t happen some day soon - and it’s only fair. The next thrust Lincoln gives, a bit harsher, a bit deeper, is the last before he collapses with a groan against Sara, spent and exhausted with pleasure.
* *
The first thing he’s aware of when he falls back in the middle of the pillows, his chest and stomach damp with sweat - his and Sara's - is the faint frustrated whimper coming from the young woman. She wriggles against him to kiss him on the mouth. He kisses her back and can feel the desire that still possesses her. Affectionate, almost soothing, he runs his hand down her thigh. He can’t do anything else now, it’s up to Michael.
The second thing he’s aware of, a few seconds later, is the strangled sound that escapes from Michael; it’s almost a sigh of relief. Sara flinches and then is pushed and pressed into Lincoln, slowly and smoothly, the rubbing of her ass almost painful on his heated flesh. With a mixture of resignation and benevolence, he settles against the pillows, closes his arms around Sara and absorbs the best he can every jerk and twitch. A hand seizes his, forces his fingers onto a soft, swollen breast. He fondles it, his fingers worrying the nipple; a sigh answers the caress, and a low growl echoes the sigh. The combined moans seem to vibrate and resonate into Lincoln’s chest until Sara pleads, “Harder.” The request is repeated a few times because Michael ignores it again and again, focused and methodical, and Sara’s whimpers become hoarse and desperate. Exasperated, affected, aroused, Lincoln lets his hand slide from Sara’s breast to Michael’s torso and cruelly pinches the muscle between his thumb and forefinger.
“You heard what she told you?”
Michael loves with a dash of obsession, a hint of excess. Even though the means to prove it to him were quite different, Lincoln fucking knows about this. It’s exactly what his brother’s face shows while he shifts between Sara’s legs to push her thighs higher around his waist and thrust deeper into her. There is no slowness or smoothness anymore, just that excess and obsession to give her what she asked.
Lincoln thinks that, for lack of anything better, he should close his eyes. Not see them like this. Instead, he traces his tongue up Sara’s neck, tasting their mixed sweats and a flavor of raspberry. He whispers into her ear, just loud enough for Michael to hear, “Make him beg for it,” and he can feel his heart pounding a bit too hard in his chest when she carries out his demand.
* *
He feels rather stupid, lying like this on his back, on the edge of the mattress, his hands folded on his stomach and the sheets properly tucked under his arms because Sara sighs a protest each time Michael or he tug them down and bares her chest. As if he hadn't already had the chance to stare profusely at her breasts, and other parts of her anatomy, during the last couple of hours. As if Michael didn’t do it on purpose because he enjoys seeing, maybe even more than the luscious flesh itself, the sheets slowly slipping down and exposing her - not that Lincoln doesn’t approve of the view.
“It was...,” Sara starts, her voice a bit rough.
“... twisted and totally inappropriate?” Lincoln suggests.
“... not as weird as it should have been.”
Mmm. Well, that too.
Without uttering a word, Michael gets a lonely raspberry from the plate on the night table and delicately pushes it into Sara's mouth with the tip of his fingers. Lincoln watches the small red fruit, followed with his brother’s fingers, being sucked in by Sara’s kiss-swollen lips. Clearing his throat, he averts his eyes towards the ceiling. Not even a fucking single crack to look at, up there.
He noticed a few things. Michael isn’t the only one able to notice things.
Michael’s other hand, the one Sara’s not sucking on the fingers in a totally pornographic manner, is under the sheets. Between her thighs. Lincoln feels like asking them Don’t you ever stop? And Tell me this isn’t what I think it is! He shuts up because of course this is exactly what he thinks it is and, after months of fear and running, he can’t blame them.
Lincoln won’t ever be able to look at a raspberry cake again without experiencing the need to adjust his pants. Actually, Lincoln can smell the scent of the raspberries near him and adjusts the sheets on his stomach. He doesn’t have to try hard to imagine Michael’s small smirk.
For better or worse, one way or another, this is and will remain one of his most memorable birthdays.
None of them has yet uttered the little sentence that common sense and decency would command them to utter - it won’t happen again - and Lincoln feels an uncomfortable mixture of hope and dread.
The jealousy-nostalgia he just drowned with the taste and scent of his brother’s girlfriend still grates his tongue; the salty tang of Sara and the sweet flavor of the raspberries now can hardly conceal its bitterness.
-Fin-
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