Prison Break - An Ajar Door
Title: An Ajar Door
Author: clair-de-lune
Pairings: Michael/Lincoln, Michael/Sara
Categories: Slash, implied het
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~ 3050
Warning: Incest
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: A door must either be shut or open. Except that Michael is the king of ajar-ness. (Post-series, non-epilogue-compliant.)
Author’s Note: Prompt by foophile. Many thanks to mystressxoxo for the beta - any remaining mistakes are mine.
Prompt: Michael/Lincoln, Michael/Sara. Michael and Sara are having sex in the next room and Lincoln can hear every moan. Brownie points if you use “Scylla” (Season 4, episode 1). Voyeurism with a side of exhibitionism.
Long, long ago, I started to write this fic based on a prompt offered by foophile at rounds-of-kink. Since it was going nowhere fast, I put it aside, wrote and posted Wrong Picture instead. Obviously, any resemblances between both stories are anything but accidental.
A door must either be shut or open.
Except that Michael is the king of ajar-ness.
* * *
It’s a house by the beach. Idyllic scenery, idyllic place despite the fact that it’s crumbling apart. Maybe it is the crumbling apart that makes the place idyllic. Some sort of rebuild the house, rebuild themselves theme is going on that even Lincoln, who’s not big on symbolism, grasps. Building and rebuilding has always been Michael’s thing; his brother is in his own element here.
That being said, the house has paper-thin walls that are not so idyllic: they let pretty much any noises filter through and make intimacy wishful thinking. Now, Lincoln is used to the lack of intimacy and all sorts of noises, pleasant and, more often, unpleasant. He can live with that even though he’d rather avoid it; he did live with that for three years back at Fox River, after all. Pleasant and unpleasant noises aren’t really an issue, but unsettling sounds are, and the ones elicited by his brother and Sara having sex on a regular basis - a very regular, very repeated basis - definitely pertain to the unsettling category.
Whispers and giggles, moans and groans, mattress spring squeaks and bedpost knocks against the goddamned wall. He can hear everything - too many things, anyway, and his mind just makes up the rest. Some nights, and some days too, Lincoln can perceive the sound of their hands gliding on the wall, their nails scrapping the paint; they desperately seek for purchase they won’t find. When he pricks up his ears, he swears he can make out the rustling of the sheets, the silky and moist swish of skin sliding on skin, the slapping of their hips and stomachs against each other. He can fucking hear everything. It’s right on the other side of the wall, right behind him, a few inches away. A thin separation of plaster and barred headboards.
He could do something about it, obviously. He could turn on the radio or the TV, put on headphones, or go to sleep in the bedroom at the other end of the house - the one awaiting LJ. He could even just move his bed so that the headboard wasn’t leaning against the party wall anymore.
He doesn’t do a thing to escape it, escape them. He lies still on his back in the middle of the bed, listens and lets it get to him. Sometimes, he’s just too pissed off to do anything about it, and he grits his teeth through the whole goddamn session. Most of the time, though, it arouses him, makes him flustered and hard to the point where his hand slides down his stomach without his own volition and fists his dick, stroking it to whatever rhythm they’ve decided to lay upon him. He comes silently when Sara climaxes with a sharp cry, followed by Michael with a muffled groan. He’s good at keeping quiet; he practiced for three years, after all.
He probably should feel lecherous. He doesn’t, though, because he’s pretty sure they’re aware of what they’re doing, and somehow that makes it, if not okay, at least excusable. They have to be aware of it. Michael has to be aware of it. His brother likes it when his lovers beg, Lincoln ought to know. It’s not a power issue thing - it mostly isn’t - it’s just that it makes him feel like he’s pushed them as far as possible in order to fulfill their needs and expectations. And God knows that Sara plays along so well. Her sighs, her throaty requests for more, or right here or harder-faster-more-please twist Lincoln’s stomach and grip his guts. Imagining the effects they’re likely to have on Michael twists his stomach and grips his guts even more forcefully.
Every now and then, she reverses the situation and takes the upper hand. Lincoln can hear that too. There are subtle differences in her voice, as her light laugh, soft moans and satisfied whimpers are gradually covered by grunts, raw groans and short expletives. Michael, who isn’t above begging, has a foul mouth when he’s about to come; this is something else Lincoln ought to know.
He’s caught glimpses of the two of them together. As though sounds weren’t enough already. It has happened a few times when they were in too much of a hurry or just too reckless to make sure their bedroom door was properly closed. He wouldn’t call those ‘accidents’, neither on his part nor on theirs. Michael doesn’t do things accidentally, and you just don’t peek in your brother’s bedroom fortuitously when you suspect he’s getting laid. A few glances thrown through an ajar door revealed expanses of skin, entwined limbs, passionate thrusts of hips and, on one occasion, Sara’s mouth fastened around Michael’s shaft. She was looking up as he tilted his head back in ecstasy, his mouth slightly open. Linc stood there longer than he should have that day, his brain processing the idea that he’s been there, done that himself, in a position similar to Sara’s. It’s been a long time since they ended what they once had, but he still remembers the warm weight of Michael in his mouth, the salty taste, the low growl when he comes, and fuck, even after everything, even after all those years, he still longs for the times Michael returned the favor.
* * *
“Sara wouldn’t mind you watching, you know.”
He startles at the remark whispered in a velvety tone. He had dragged himself from his bedroom to the kitchen, looking for a big glass of anything cool to drink, and he didn’t notice Michael entering the room after him. He stills in mid-motion and can’t help thinking sarcastically that if he didn’t hear anything, it’s due to the fact that his ears were ringing because of a different kind of noise. With a dismissive shrug, he empties his glass of water in a few gulps, fills it again and hands it to Michael who takes it with a smirk. The kitchen is dark, marginally lit up by the moonlight, but there is no way Lincoln doesn’t notice how flushed, sweaty and slightly out of breath Michael is right now. It makes Lincoln feel like hitting him for showing off.
“I mean,” Michael adds with his eyes pointedly trained on Lincoln’s groin, “for real. Not just hovering in the shadows from the doorway or listening from the other side of the wall.”
Yeah, right. First, Lincoln won’t rule out the possibility that Sara’s actually offered it to Michael. You never know what one would do by love, or when high on lust, or merely out of fantasies. He won’t rule out the possibility that Michael is just testing boundaries either - his, Linc’s, Sara’s. His brother’s voice has that innocent yet flirty quality that makes his intentions unreadable, even to Lincoln.
And second... “It’s not watching that I want, just like it’s not being watched that you want, Michael,” he replies calmly.
He stares as Michael drinks the fresh water. A few droplets cling to his upper lip when he’s done, and Lincoln wants to lick them off his skin. He would bet his head that Michael is perfectly aware of that.
“Now, I’m pretty sure she would mind watching me fuck her husband up the ass or suck his dick. Or both.” Michael’s smirk falters at the crude words. It’s still there, twisting the corner of his mouth, but it’s plastered to his face now, devoid of any hint of sarcasm or irony. “Especially considering that her husband is my brother, don’t you think?”
The smirk collapses totally and is replaced with a quick tremble of lips. Lincoln sighs, unable to say whether this is real or manipulation or anything in between.
“I love you both.” Michael steps closer, close enough for Lincoln to feel the heat radiating from his body, to smell him. There is sweat on his skin, his and Sara’s mingled, and musk and something else, unique, that makes Lincoln want to lean in and breathe deeply. In an uncharacteristically wise reaction, he backs off, once, twice as Michael keeps on moving towards him, until he finds himself trapped with his back to the wall. Story of his life.
“You can’t have everything. Not that kind of thing.”
He’s steady and reasonable, a perfect incarnation of good sense. Michael mumbles that he knows Lincoln’s right, but even as he nods approvingly, he doesn’t believe what he says. This time, Lincoln reads it on his face: Michael’s gazing at him as if he didn’t see him, lost in his thoughts, in his own mind. Lincoln can almost picture the cogwheels of his brain moving frantically as he tries to come up with a workable solution, an arrangement that would make it possible.
“Stop doing that fucking Mr. Spock computing thing,” he orders. “You can’t have everything.”
“Please.” The word falls from his lips the same way, Lincoln imagines, it fell earlier when he was with Sara. It’s sultry, needy and taunting all at once. Not for the first time, Lincoln wonders whether he should be jealous of Sara, sorry for her or just feel some weird complicity with her. “Linc, just let me...”
Michael looks up at him, all pleading eyes and raging breath, standing so close to him, almost but not quite touching him. He’s waiting for permission and tempting him at the same time. Lincoln caves in. He’s never been good at resisting temptation and it’s not like he has the willpower to push him away, so he caves in to what Michael wants. Just his once, just tonight, just a few touches. It won’t hurt anyone. Sara won’t know, and it won’t make them crazier or more messed up than they are already. He’s aware he’s rationalizing something that can’t and shouldn’t be rationalized, but Michael’s mouth is a hair’s breadth away from his; he just doesn’t have the strength or desire to refuse him.
He nods his agreement and keeps his eyes trained on Michael as his brother’s hands skim over his shoulders and torso. It’s been so long - Lincoln doesn’t dare think it’s been too long - and Michael touches him with a mixture of greediness and absurd reverence, like he can never have his fill of him. His fingers slide and knead; they burn Lincoln and make the heavy atmosphere of the night downright unbearable; they grab and shove him around. For a few seconds, he thinks that Michael is fool enough to try and haul him to Linc’s bedroom. But he just wants to push him against the door, blocking the passage, and Lincoln shivers at the thinking behind the act. Plotting so often darkens Michael’s innocence. Or maybe it’s the other way around; maybe innocence lets some light into his plotting. Lincoln is not sure it matters at all. All that matters right now is the fact that he’s going to let Michael do... whatever he wants with him, while Sara is sleeping - or not - a few feet away.
He can smell her on Michael when their mouths brush against one another’s. He kisses him harsh and deep, trying to chase her essence away. His determination to eradicate any aftertaste the young woman might have left arouses and sickens him at the same time.
Michael is all over him, tongue in his mouth, hands gliding on him, hips grinding against his. He’s hot and hard and slightly moist, even through the thin fabric of his boxer shorts. Lincoln closes his eyes, captures Michael’s wrist and guides his brother’s fingers to his crotch. Fuck Sara, fuck his own guilt, fuck Michael -this can only end up one way right now...
“Make me come.”
... and while he’s at it, fuck demands that sound like surrenders.
Michael doesn’t smile; he doesn’t say anything, but the triumph is so obvious on his face, Lincoln could slap him. Michael massages him gently a couple of times before taking a step back and dropping to his knees. He looks him straight in the eyes while he frees Linc’s erection - just enough to take him into his mouth - and captures Linc’s hands to place them on each side of his head.
Lincoln blinks, and he blinks again when the fingers entangled with his own encourage him to grip tighter, pull closer.
OK, then. If this is the way he wants it...
Lincoln cups his jaw and thrusts hard between his lips. The shocked expression on Michael’s face as he gets more than he’s bargained for is irresistible. So is the perfect heat, perfect softness, perfect suction that Michael provides. Perfect fake submission, too. Michael is good at this, always has been and never forgot this devious talent to make his big brother lose his mind as well as his composure in a blink of an eye. Freed by Michael’s eager willingness, Lincoln lays a hand on the back of his skull and forces him to take in just a bit more than he can comfortably handle. Now, watching Michael’s lips stretched and sealed around him, hearing him pant and groan, he really has no control anymore over his moves. His hips sway once without his will, and Michael absorbs the wild roll, stroking the back of his thighs with a mixture of tenderness and provocation.
Too much. For a man who’s been taunted and played with for weeks, it’s pretty remarkable that he hasn’t snapped yet. It’s a matter of seconds, that being said. He locks eyes with Michael and deliberately hits the back of his throat a couple of times.
His whole body writhes in an impossible way when he comes, Michael’s lips-tongue-throat working him in frenzy. He bites back a loud grunt. He wishes Sara could hear him and, at the same, hopes she will never ever learn about what they just did. Michael is choking and gasping around him, almost suffocating, to the point where tears start to run freely down his cheeks. Not sure whether it’s meant as a punishment or a reward, Lincoln shoves in one last time, forcing Michael to swallow.
He leans against the door, thankful to have something to support him. His limbs feel like they weigh a thousand pounds, and his heart is beating too fast in his chest. He can feel Michael getting up and pressing against him. He’s sweaty and scorching hot, almost having Lincoln worry that he’s running a fever. Running a fever would probably be preferable, actually. Michael kisses him - Linc tastes himself on his tongue - and humps his hip; the gesture is so needy that Lincoln hesitates between helping him, wishing he was in shape to bend him over the table and fuck him, or laughing at him.
Somewhere in the old house, a scattering sound resonates, probably Sara accidentally kicking something in the bathroom. The noise is enough to snap him out of his fog. Sara. Sara is up. Sara might look for them, come in, find them, find out... Sara doesn’t deserve this. None of them deserve the mess the situation is going to turn into if the two of them keep this shit up.
The last of his lust-filled haze dissipates, and he looks down at his abdomen, at his softening penis, with dread. Totally oblivious, Michael is rubbing his erection on him, leaving sticky traces of pre-come on his skin. His face is still flushed from Lincoln ruthlessly using his mouth, his lips swollen, his breathing short and difficult. Lincoln’s stomach heaves in repulse and late remorse. Damn hypocritical of him, given he’s just blown his load in his brother’s mouth, and yet repulsion and remorse is the right reaction. He grips Michael’s waist and stills him.
“Stop. Michael, please... stop.”
Michael looks up, eyes wide of surprise. Lincoln can see desire and disbelief in them; hurt and anger, too. He pulls Michael’s boxers up for him and swiftly slips away, making it clear that Michael is not going to get what he was hoping for.
“I did it for you,” Michael points out.
“I shouldn’t have let you.”
“Lincoln...”
“It was good; you felt so good. I couldn’t help it. I still shouldn’t have let you.” He kisses him on the lips - fast and sneaky, just one last taste - not lingering long enough to let him kiss back. “Go back to her.”
Michael catches his hand and, just the way Lincoln did it a few minutes ago, pushes it between his legs. Lincoln blinks at the weight and warmth; he can feel Michael throbbing in his palm, can hear him plead, “Touch me. I need you.” For a split second, he thinks he’s going to yield - what difference would it make if they finished what they’d started, anyway?
Except it would make a hell of a difference, of course. Except he can spot a light imprint of teeth on Michael’s neck, and he knows he’s not the one who left it. He’s not the one who should ever leave it either.
“Michael.” He’s using the big brother’s voice that has always caught Michael’s attention; he can only hope it’s still working. “You love her. Don’t screw this up. If she finds out, you will lose her. If you lose her, I’ll lose you.”
As simple as that. Selfish, sure, but so simple and true. Best reason not to fuck up like he’s so often fucked up in his life. He does, and everybody loses everything.
“I would never...” Michael protests.
“If you lose her, I will lose you.” He rubs the small round marks his fingers have left on Michael’s jaw and winces, wondering how his brother is going to explain this to Sara. Then he cups him through his boxers, squeezes just a bit too hard and grins when Michael gasps. “Clean up, brush your teeth and go back to her.”
* * *
Regularly, Lincoln can hear and see them. They kiss and make out - sometimes have sex with more or less discretion - in pretty much every room of the house the three of them are rebuilding. He wouldn’t exclude that they did it in his own bed while he was shopping for groceries or lazing in the sun outside.
Never in his life has Michael learned how to let things go.
When Lincoln passes their room in the hallway, the door is always ajar.
-End-
--Comments are always appreciated :)
Author: clair-de-lune
Pairings: Michael/Lincoln, Michael/Sara
Categories: Slash, implied het
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~ 3050
Warning: Incest
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: A door must either be shut or open. Except that Michael is the king of ajar-ness. (Post-series, non-epilogue-compliant.)
Author’s Note: Prompt by foophile. Many thanks to mystressxoxo for the beta - any remaining mistakes are mine.
Prompt: Michael/Lincoln, Michael/Sara. Michael and Sara are having sex in the next room and Lincoln can hear every moan. Brownie points if you use “Scylla” (Season 4, episode 1). Voyeurism with a side of exhibitionism.
Long, long ago, I started to write this fic based on a prompt offered by foophile at rounds-of-kink. Since it was going nowhere fast, I put it aside, wrote and posted Wrong Picture instead. Obviously, any resemblances between both stories are anything but accidental.
A door must either be shut or open.
Except that Michael is the king of ajar-ness.
* * *
It’s a house by the beach. Idyllic scenery, idyllic place despite the fact that it’s crumbling apart. Maybe it is the crumbling apart that makes the place idyllic. Some sort of rebuild the house, rebuild themselves theme is going on that even Lincoln, who’s not big on symbolism, grasps. Building and rebuilding has always been Michael’s thing; his brother is in his own element here.
That being said, the house has paper-thin walls that are not so idyllic: they let pretty much any noises filter through and make intimacy wishful thinking. Now, Lincoln is used to the lack of intimacy and all sorts of noises, pleasant and, more often, unpleasant. He can live with that even though he’d rather avoid it; he did live with that for three years back at Fox River, after all. Pleasant and unpleasant noises aren’t really an issue, but unsettling sounds are, and the ones elicited by his brother and Sara having sex on a regular basis - a very regular, very repeated basis - definitely pertain to the unsettling category.
Whispers and giggles, moans and groans, mattress spring squeaks and bedpost knocks against the goddamned wall. He can hear everything - too many things, anyway, and his mind just makes up the rest. Some nights, and some days too, Lincoln can perceive the sound of their hands gliding on the wall, their nails scrapping the paint; they desperately seek for purchase they won’t find. When he pricks up his ears, he swears he can make out the rustling of the sheets, the silky and moist swish of skin sliding on skin, the slapping of their hips and stomachs against each other. He can fucking hear everything. It’s right on the other side of the wall, right behind him, a few inches away. A thin separation of plaster and barred headboards.
He could do something about it, obviously. He could turn on the radio or the TV, put on headphones, or go to sleep in the bedroom at the other end of the house - the one awaiting LJ. He could even just move his bed so that the headboard wasn’t leaning against the party wall anymore.
He doesn’t do a thing to escape it, escape them. He lies still on his back in the middle of the bed, listens and lets it get to him. Sometimes, he’s just too pissed off to do anything about it, and he grits his teeth through the whole goddamn session. Most of the time, though, it arouses him, makes him flustered and hard to the point where his hand slides down his stomach without his own volition and fists his dick, stroking it to whatever rhythm they’ve decided to lay upon him. He comes silently when Sara climaxes with a sharp cry, followed by Michael with a muffled groan. He’s good at keeping quiet; he practiced for three years, after all.
He probably should feel lecherous. He doesn’t, though, because he’s pretty sure they’re aware of what they’re doing, and somehow that makes it, if not okay, at least excusable. They have to be aware of it. Michael has to be aware of it. His brother likes it when his lovers beg, Lincoln ought to know. It’s not a power issue thing - it mostly isn’t - it’s just that it makes him feel like he’s pushed them as far as possible in order to fulfill their needs and expectations. And God knows that Sara plays along so well. Her sighs, her throaty requests for more, or right here or harder-faster-more-please twist Lincoln’s stomach and grip his guts. Imagining the effects they’re likely to have on Michael twists his stomach and grips his guts even more forcefully.
Every now and then, she reverses the situation and takes the upper hand. Lincoln can hear that too. There are subtle differences in her voice, as her light laugh, soft moans and satisfied whimpers are gradually covered by grunts, raw groans and short expletives. Michael, who isn’t above begging, has a foul mouth when he’s about to come; this is something else Lincoln ought to know.
He’s caught glimpses of the two of them together. As though sounds weren’t enough already. It has happened a few times when they were in too much of a hurry or just too reckless to make sure their bedroom door was properly closed. He wouldn’t call those ‘accidents’, neither on his part nor on theirs. Michael doesn’t do things accidentally, and you just don’t peek in your brother’s bedroom fortuitously when you suspect he’s getting laid. A few glances thrown through an ajar door revealed expanses of skin, entwined limbs, passionate thrusts of hips and, on one occasion, Sara’s mouth fastened around Michael’s shaft. She was looking up as he tilted his head back in ecstasy, his mouth slightly open. Linc stood there longer than he should have that day, his brain processing the idea that he’s been there, done that himself, in a position similar to Sara’s. It’s been a long time since they ended what they once had, but he still remembers the warm weight of Michael in his mouth, the salty taste, the low growl when he comes, and fuck, even after everything, even after all those years, he still longs for the times Michael returned the favor.
* * *
“Sara wouldn’t mind you watching, you know.”
He startles at the remark whispered in a velvety tone. He had dragged himself from his bedroom to the kitchen, looking for a big glass of anything cool to drink, and he didn’t notice Michael entering the room after him. He stills in mid-motion and can’t help thinking sarcastically that if he didn’t hear anything, it’s due to the fact that his ears were ringing because of a different kind of noise. With a dismissive shrug, he empties his glass of water in a few gulps, fills it again and hands it to Michael who takes it with a smirk. The kitchen is dark, marginally lit up by the moonlight, but there is no way Lincoln doesn’t notice how flushed, sweaty and slightly out of breath Michael is right now. It makes Lincoln feel like hitting him for showing off.
“I mean,” Michael adds with his eyes pointedly trained on Lincoln’s groin, “for real. Not just hovering in the shadows from the doorway or listening from the other side of the wall.”
Yeah, right. First, Lincoln won’t rule out the possibility that Sara’s actually offered it to Michael. You never know what one would do by love, or when high on lust, or merely out of fantasies. He won’t rule out the possibility that Michael is just testing boundaries either - his, Linc’s, Sara’s. His brother’s voice has that innocent yet flirty quality that makes his intentions unreadable, even to Lincoln.
And second... “It’s not watching that I want, just like it’s not being watched that you want, Michael,” he replies calmly.
He stares as Michael drinks the fresh water. A few droplets cling to his upper lip when he’s done, and Lincoln wants to lick them off his skin. He would bet his head that Michael is perfectly aware of that.
“Now, I’m pretty sure she would mind watching me fuck her husband up the ass or suck his dick. Or both.” Michael’s smirk falters at the crude words. It’s still there, twisting the corner of his mouth, but it’s plastered to his face now, devoid of any hint of sarcasm or irony. “Especially considering that her husband is my brother, don’t you think?”
The smirk collapses totally and is replaced with a quick tremble of lips. Lincoln sighs, unable to say whether this is real or manipulation or anything in between.
“I love you both.” Michael steps closer, close enough for Lincoln to feel the heat radiating from his body, to smell him. There is sweat on his skin, his and Sara’s mingled, and musk and something else, unique, that makes Lincoln want to lean in and breathe deeply. In an uncharacteristically wise reaction, he backs off, once, twice as Michael keeps on moving towards him, until he finds himself trapped with his back to the wall. Story of his life.
“You can’t have everything. Not that kind of thing.”
He’s steady and reasonable, a perfect incarnation of good sense. Michael mumbles that he knows Lincoln’s right, but even as he nods approvingly, he doesn’t believe what he says. This time, Lincoln reads it on his face: Michael’s gazing at him as if he didn’t see him, lost in his thoughts, in his own mind. Lincoln can almost picture the cogwheels of his brain moving frantically as he tries to come up with a workable solution, an arrangement that would make it possible.
“Stop doing that fucking Mr. Spock computing thing,” he orders. “You can’t have everything.”
“Please.” The word falls from his lips the same way, Lincoln imagines, it fell earlier when he was with Sara. It’s sultry, needy and taunting all at once. Not for the first time, Lincoln wonders whether he should be jealous of Sara, sorry for her or just feel some weird complicity with her. “Linc, just let me...”
Michael looks up at him, all pleading eyes and raging breath, standing so close to him, almost but not quite touching him. He’s waiting for permission and tempting him at the same time. Lincoln caves in. He’s never been good at resisting temptation and it’s not like he has the willpower to push him away, so he caves in to what Michael wants. Just his once, just tonight, just a few touches. It won’t hurt anyone. Sara won’t know, and it won’t make them crazier or more messed up than they are already. He’s aware he’s rationalizing something that can’t and shouldn’t be rationalized, but Michael’s mouth is a hair’s breadth away from his; he just doesn’t have the strength or desire to refuse him.
He nods his agreement and keeps his eyes trained on Michael as his brother’s hands skim over his shoulders and torso. It’s been so long - Lincoln doesn’t dare think it’s been too long - and Michael touches him with a mixture of greediness and absurd reverence, like he can never have his fill of him. His fingers slide and knead; they burn Lincoln and make the heavy atmosphere of the night downright unbearable; they grab and shove him around. For a few seconds, he thinks that Michael is fool enough to try and haul him to Linc’s bedroom. But he just wants to push him against the door, blocking the passage, and Lincoln shivers at the thinking behind the act. Plotting so often darkens Michael’s innocence. Or maybe it’s the other way around; maybe innocence lets some light into his plotting. Lincoln is not sure it matters at all. All that matters right now is the fact that he’s going to let Michael do... whatever he wants with him, while Sara is sleeping - or not - a few feet away.
He can smell her on Michael when their mouths brush against one another’s. He kisses him harsh and deep, trying to chase her essence away. His determination to eradicate any aftertaste the young woman might have left arouses and sickens him at the same time.
Michael is all over him, tongue in his mouth, hands gliding on him, hips grinding against his. He’s hot and hard and slightly moist, even through the thin fabric of his boxer shorts. Lincoln closes his eyes, captures Michael’s wrist and guides his brother’s fingers to his crotch. Fuck Sara, fuck his own guilt, fuck Michael -this can only end up one way right now...
“Make me come.”
... and while he’s at it, fuck demands that sound like surrenders.
Michael doesn’t smile; he doesn’t say anything, but the triumph is so obvious on his face, Lincoln could slap him. Michael massages him gently a couple of times before taking a step back and dropping to his knees. He looks him straight in the eyes while he frees Linc’s erection - just enough to take him into his mouth - and captures Linc’s hands to place them on each side of his head.
Lincoln blinks, and he blinks again when the fingers entangled with his own encourage him to grip tighter, pull closer.
OK, then. If this is the way he wants it...
Lincoln cups his jaw and thrusts hard between his lips. The shocked expression on Michael’s face as he gets more than he’s bargained for is irresistible. So is the perfect heat, perfect softness, perfect suction that Michael provides. Perfect fake submission, too. Michael is good at this, always has been and never forgot this devious talent to make his big brother lose his mind as well as his composure in a blink of an eye. Freed by Michael’s eager willingness, Lincoln lays a hand on the back of his skull and forces him to take in just a bit more than he can comfortably handle. Now, watching Michael’s lips stretched and sealed around him, hearing him pant and groan, he really has no control anymore over his moves. His hips sway once without his will, and Michael absorbs the wild roll, stroking the back of his thighs with a mixture of tenderness and provocation.
Too much. For a man who’s been taunted and played with for weeks, it’s pretty remarkable that he hasn’t snapped yet. It’s a matter of seconds, that being said. He locks eyes with Michael and deliberately hits the back of his throat a couple of times.
His whole body writhes in an impossible way when he comes, Michael’s lips-tongue-throat working him in frenzy. He bites back a loud grunt. He wishes Sara could hear him and, at the same, hopes she will never ever learn about what they just did. Michael is choking and gasping around him, almost suffocating, to the point where tears start to run freely down his cheeks. Not sure whether it’s meant as a punishment or a reward, Lincoln shoves in one last time, forcing Michael to swallow.
He leans against the door, thankful to have something to support him. His limbs feel like they weigh a thousand pounds, and his heart is beating too fast in his chest. He can feel Michael getting up and pressing against him. He’s sweaty and scorching hot, almost having Lincoln worry that he’s running a fever. Running a fever would probably be preferable, actually. Michael kisses him - Linc tastes himself on his tongue - and humps his hip; the gesture is so needy that Lincoln hesitates between helping him, wishing he was in shape to bend him over the table and fuck him, or laughing at him.
Somewhere in the old house, a scattering sound resonates, probably Sara accidentally kicking something in the bathroom. The noise is enough to snap him out of his fog. Sara. Sara is up. Sara might look for them, come in, find them, find out... Sara doesn’t deserve this. None of them deserve the mess the situation is going to turn into if the two of them keep this shit up.
The last of his lust-filled haze dissipates, and he looks down at his abdomen, at his softening penis, with dread. Totally oblivious, Michael is rubbing his erection on him, leaving sticky traces of pre-come on his skin. His face is still flushed from Lincoln ruthlessly using his mouth, his lips swollen, his breathing short and difficult. Lincoln’s stomach heaves in repulse and late remorse. Damn hypocritical of him, given he’s just blown his load in his brother’s mouth, and yet repulsion and remorse is the right reaction. He grips Michael’s waist and stills him.
“Stop. Michael, please... stop.”
Michael looks up, eyes wide of surprise. Lincoln can see desire and disbelief in them; hurt and anger, too. He pulls Michael’s boxers up for him and swiftly slips away, making it clear that Michael is not going to get what he was hoping for.
“I did it for you,” Michael points out.
“I shouldn’t have let you.”
“Lincoln...”
“It was good; you felt so good. I couldn’t help it. I still shouldn’t have let you.” He kisses him on the lips - fast and sneaky, just one last taste - not lingering long enough to let him kiss back. “Go back to her.”
Michael catches his hand and, just the way Lincoln did it a few minutes ago, pushes it between his legs. Lincoln blinks at the weight and warmth; he can feel Michael throbbing in his palm, can hear him plead, “Touch me. I need you.” For a split second, he thinks he’s going to yield - what difference would it make if they finished what they’d started, anyway?
Except it would make a hell of a difference, of course. Except he can spot a light imprint of teeth on Michael’s neck, and he knows he’s not the one who left it. He’s not the one who should ever leave it either.
“Michael.” He’s using the big brother’s voice that has always caught Michael’s attention; he can only hope it’s still working. “You love her. Don’t screw this up. If she finds out, you will lose her. If you lose her, I’ll lose you.”
As simple as that. Selfish, sure, but so simple and true. Best reason not to fuck up like he’s so often fucked up in his life. He does, and everybody loses everything.
“I would never...” Michael protests.
“If you lose her, I will lose you.” He rubs the small round marks his fingers have left on Michael’s jaw and winces, wondering how his brother is going to explain this to Sara. Then he cups him through his boxers, squeezes just a bit too hard and grins when Michael gasps. “Clean up, brush your teeth and go back to her.”
* * *
Regularly, Lincoln can hear and see them. They kiss and make out - sometimes have sex with more or less discretion - in pretty much every room of the house the three of them are rebuilding. He wouldn’t exclude that they did it in his own bed while he was shopping for groceries or lazing in the sun outside.
Never in his life has Michael learned how to let things go.
When Lincoln passes their room in the hallway, the door is always ajar.
-End-
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