Prison Break - But Tonight
Title: But Tonight
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Michael/Sucre
Category: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~ 1820
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: No ‘except’ or ‘however’: Sucre doesn’t swing that way. Never.
Author’s Note: This is a birthday thingie for foxriverinmate. No handcuffs or AU, but see? Michael/Sucre ;) Happy birthday, Foxy *hugs*
Author’s Note 2: Many thanks to putu2sleep for the beta and for her unique input on some issues.
No ‘except’ or ‘however’: Sucre doesn’t swing that way. Never.
But...
But sometimes, when the Fish tells him to hang up the sheet and uses that soft and low voice of his, Sucre’s mind drifts to places he’d never considered before. Places he did his best to avoid up until now, and he’s been in prison for a while so it hasn’t been all that easy. It isn’t so much avoiding the thoughts themselves that’s been an issue - not swinging that way, remember? - rather, it is avoiding being caught in those places; in all modesty, he is kinda hot after all, and has been subject to his share of propositions.
Anyway. Sucre doesn’t know if it’s the voice itself that has this weird effect on him. Maybe it’s the small smirk tugging at the corner of Michael’s lips, as if his cellmate knew where Sucre’s self-betraying mind was wandering. Or it could be the amused gleam in his eyes... There is definitely something in the way the Fish watches him.
The good thing is that after the sheet is in place, Michael disappears into the air ducts or whatever conduits the hole in the wall grants him access to. It leaves Sucre one, sometimes two, hours to collect himself. A couple of hours that he spends pacing up and down their cell. He doesn’t lie down. He has his reasons for that.
First, his fucking cellmate has opened a fucking hole in the fucking wall of their fucking cell. Now, Sucre would apologize for all the bad language, but if the fucking guards notice the fucking hole, and the fact that Michael is not in the cell, Sucre is fucking fucked. It isn’t the kind of thing that encourages you to relax. In these circumstances, there is no way Sucre can remain calm and quietly lie on his bunk, waiting for the Fish to return.
Second... he won’t lie on his bunk anyway, not after the combination of troublesome voice, smirk and look he got from Michael before he disappeared. Sucre doesn’t trust himself with what his hands might do without his own complete volition. Self-betraying mind, self-betraying hands.
Usually, the unsettling thoughts vanish quickly when Michael wriggles his way out of the hole and into the cell. Relief of not getting caught by the badges washes over Sucre and erases everything else. But tonight, it’s different. Obviously, at some point, there has to be a ‘but’; even Sucre knows that when things go on for too long, eventually they just spin out of control. When Michael slips through the hole in the wall, Sucre is standing right in front of him, right above him, way, way too close for comfort. Michael looks up from his crouched position, his eyes linger on Sucre’s crotch, and the voice-smirk-look combination strikes again.
“Something wrong, Fernando?”
His first name rolls off Michael’s tongue with that stupid American accent. He had forgotten that - the every-now-and-then first name calling. Nobody uses his first name here, it sounds way too intimate. He flushes and stammers and, when Michael lifts a questioning eyebrow, stumbles back.
“I...” He is hesitant to keep talking, wondering if Michael is aware of what he’s doing, of how provocative he can be. He thinks the Fish has to know; no one is that naïve. “I’m not into this kind of shit,” he finally decides to spit out.
Sucre is waiting for him to reply with something like ‘me neither’, but instead, Michael just says “Okay,” gets on his feet and strips his tee-shirt off. Muscles ripple with the movement. Sucre blinks, partly at the blatant display, partly at the fact that he’s ignoring Sucre’s proclaimed non-interest.
“I told you...”
“And I heard you.”
He turns his back to Sucre and faces the mirror above the small table in the corner of the cell. Sucre takes a couple of sideways steps to follow him, his eyes trained on the revealed tattoo. It shines in the dim light under a thin layer of sweat. It occurs to Sucre that the sheet is still up. He doesn’t want to think about what that means. He just reaches for Michael’s hips and lets his hands wander. Somehow, his mouth ends up between Michael’s shoulder blades and tastes the warm skin. Somehow, one of his hands undoes the button and fly of the standard-issue prison pants and slips inside. Somehow, he enjoys the weight, the softness and the moistness of the flesh growing and straining under his fingers.
Michael tips his head back, long neck exposed and mouth slightly parted. Sucre can watch him in the tiny mirror in front of them; the Fish is calm, collected and wanton in a way that should embarrass Sucre. It doesn’t. Apparently, lust is stronger than shame.
“No kissing,” Sucre warns, his eyes fixed on the pink tip of Michael’s tongue as he briefly licks his lips.
“Okay,” Michael says before turning around in his embrace and kissing him on the mouth. At first, it’s just a brush of lips against lips. Probably because Sucre doesn’t kick him in the balls or even raise a protest, Michael grows bolder. There is sucking and nipping and then a tongue dipping into Sucre’s mouth. It’s a damn good kiss. Sucre, who’s had his fair share of hot kisses, knows what he’s talking about here. He closes his eyes. Maybe moans just a little bit and angles his head because, even if he’s not supposed to kiss, better to make the most of what’s happening. Michael’s stubble chafes against his own, and with a surge of arousal, Sucre grabs the other man’s ass in both hands to pull him closer. He can feel Michael smiling against his mouth. He sweeps the offensive smirk off with a wet lick of tongue, satisfied to get an enthusiastic groan in response.
They sway against one another; and then they sway across the cell and tumble onto Michael’s bunk. Sucre’s heart beats wildly in his chest. He can’t believe this is happening, nor that he’s going to roll with it despite the very relative intimacy of the set-up - the thought of hundreds of men on the other side of the thin piece of fabric is more thrilling than it should be, even if chances are it turns into mortification tomorrow. Not to mention the fact that the guard could tear down said sheet at any moment.
He barely registers what’s going on. In a blink of an eye, his tee-shirt is off and falling to the dirty floor, and Michael is latching on one of his nipples. Sucre wonders if the Fish thinks he’s some chick, but since the nibbling and swirls of tongue feel so nice, he decides against objecting for now.
“Blow me?”
Michael asks the question candidly; at the same time, his hands are opening Sucre’s pants with calculated eagerness. Sucre momentarily freezes and gasps at the touch of the long fingers as much as at the unusually coarse language. It has a dirty-hot quality that his hard-on is enjoying way too much.
Still...
“No way, Papi,” he refuses.
“Okay.”
Lying on his side, head-to-tail with him, Michael leans into Sucre. He doesn’t tease - which is an entirely new experience for Sucre, since Michael’s rather prone to flaunting and provoking and messing with your head. He goes straight for it and engulfs Sucre in his mouth, lips tight, cheeks hollowed, and tongue fluttering.
Sucre thrashes on the narrow bed. So good, it’s been too long since anyone has done something like this for him. Not the moment to bring up the fact that he’s lost his conjugals because of the antics of the man who’s currently going down on him. His whole body twists, his hips trying to pump, and instead being held back from doing so by an iron grip and an urgent growl. Apparently, in spite of all his eagerness and self-confidence, this is the point where Michael does choke on him. The stalling is followed with luscious, apologetic licks and sucks that have Sucre biting into Michael’s pillow - he’ll laugh at himself and curse Michael for this tomorrow.
Really, really, it’s just because once Michael has found a steady rhythm and bobs his head in a smooth motion, Sucre is left facing his cellmate’s engorged, begging-for-it shaft. Maybe it’s because it’s a way to muffle his own groans and pants, or maybe it’s because he feels guilty for not giving back a bit of the pleasure Michael is providing. Anyway, it’s absolutely not because his head starts spinning and his mouth starts watering at the mere thought of the hard and velvety, musky flesh filling his mouth, weighing on his tongue, pushing against his throat. He does it to reciprocate, not because it turns him on, just to be clear.
Michael pauses in his ministrations when Sucre takes him in. A hissing intake if air, a sloppy and thankful kiss on Sucre’s stomach and the heated assurance that “It’s so good. Please, don’t stop, Fernando. Please...” Sucre can’t help thinking that horny Michael is enticing; and damn hot too, when he shifts and rearranges them so that he’s lying on his back with Sucre on all fours above him. He goes back to his licking and sucking and kissing with renewed enthusiasm. His soft moans rile up Sucre even more, the light humming in his throat sending delicious prickles throughout Sucre’s body.
Sucre sighs, his chest heavy with too many things for him to catalogue - gratitude and friendship, remaining embarrassment, unabashed lust, and... He presses his lips against the head of Michael’s erection and, despite himself, extends his tongue to taste the clear fluid leaking out. Before taking him back in for good, he thinks he’d better warn, “I ain’t swallowing, Fish.”
Michael’s mouth slides all the way down Sucre’s shaft, the velvet of his tongue and lips mingled with a hint of sharp teeth. Sucre thinks he might lose it right here, right now.
Hot and moist air brushes across Sucre’s inner thighs when Michael whispers, “Okay.”
* *
It’s a wet and sticky kiss that they share. Sucre winces at the bitter aftertaste and gooey feel on their respective tongues. It’s almost dirtier than anything else that they did before. Because now, they don’t have the excuse of being caught in the heat of the moment anymore. The kiss is deliberate; so is the slow sliding of their hands on sweaty and relaxed muscles and the fact that they’re still lying together on Michael’s frigging bunk.
“I really don’t swing that way, Michael,” Sucre murmurs between a kiss and a pant. He shakes his head. He’ll admit he’s not convincing, not with his swollen lips and Michael’s hand on his still - or again - half-hard dick.
“Me neither,” Michael says. For all Sucre knows, he may be telling the truth. He offers him a crooked smile and trails off silkily, “But tonight...”
-End-
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Michael/Sucre
Category: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~ 1820
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: No ‘except’ or ‘however’: Sucre doesn’t swing that way. Never.
Author’s Note: This is a birthday thingie for foxriverinmate. No handcuffs or AU, but see? Michael/Sucre ;) Happy birthday, Foxy *hugs*
Author’s Note 2: Many thanks to putu2sleep for the beta and for her unique input on some issues.
No ‘except’ or ‘however’: Sucre doesn’t swing that way. Never.
But...
But sometimes, when the Fish tells him to hang up the sheet and uses that soft and low voice of his, Sucre’s mind drifts to places he’d never considered before. Places he did his best to avoid up until now, and he’s been in prison for a while so it hasn’t been all that easy. It isn’t so much avoiding the thoughts themselves that’s been an issue - not swinging that way, remember? - rather, it is avoiding being caught in those places; in all modesty, he is kinda hot after all, and has been subject to his share of propositions.
Anyway. Sucre doesn’t know if it’s the voice itself that has this weird effect on him. Maybe it’s the small smirk tugging at the corner of Michael’s lips, as if his cellmate knew where Sucre’s self-betraying mind was wandering. Or it could be the amused gleam in his eyes... There is definitely something in the way the Fish watches him.
The good thing is that after the sheet is in place, Michael disappears into the air ducts or whatever conduits the hole in the wall grants him access to. It leaves Sucre one, sometimes two, hours to collect himself. A couple of hours that he spends pacing up and down their cell. He doesn’t lie down. He has his reasons for that.
First, his fucking cellmate has opened a fucking hole in the fucking wall of their fucking cell. Now, Sucre would apologize for all the bad language, but if the fucking guards notice the fucking hole, and the fact that Michael is not in the cell, Sucre is fucking fucked. It isn’t the kind of thing that encourages you to relax. In these circumstances, there is no way Sucre can remain calm and quietly lie on his bunk, waiting for the Fish to return.
Second... he won’t lie on his bunk anyway, not after the combination of troublesome voice, smirk and look he got from Michael before he disappeared. Sucre doesn’t trust himself with what his hands might do without his own complete volition. Self-betraying mind, self-betraying hands.
Usually, the unsettling thoughts vanish quickly when Michael wriggles his way out of the hole and into the cell. Relief of not getting caught by the badges washes over Sucre and erases everything else. But tonight, it’s different. Obviously, at some point, there has to be a ‘but’; even Sucre knows that when things go on for too long, eventually they just spin out of control. When Michael slips through the hole in the wall, Sucre is standing right in front of him, right above him, way, way too close for comfort. Michael looks up from his crouched position, his eyes linger on Sucre’s crotch, and the voice-smirk-look combination strikes again.
“Something wrong, Fernando?”
His first name rolls off Michael’s tongue with that stupid American accent. He had forgotten that - the every-now-and-then first name calling. Nobody uses his first name here, it sounds way too intimate. He flushes and stammers and, when Michael lifts a questioning eyebrow, stumbles back.
“I...” He is hesitant to keep talking, wondering if Michael is aware of what he’s doing, of how provocative he can be. He thinks the Fish has to know; no one is that naïve. “I’m not into this kind of shit,” he finally decides to spit out.
Sucre is waiting for him to reply with something like ‘me neither’, but instead, Michael just says “Okay,” gets on his feet and strips his tee-shirt off. Muscles ripple with the movement. Sucre blinks, partly at the blatant display, partly at the fact that he’s ignoring Sucre’s proclaimed non-interest.
“I told you...”
“And I heard you.”
He turns his back to Sucre and faces the mirror above the small table in the corner of the cell. Sucre takes a couple of sideways steps to follow him, his eyes trained on the revealed tattoo. It shines in the dim light under a thin layer of sweat. It occurs to Sucre that the sheet is still up. He doesn’t want to think about what that means. He just reaches for Michael’s hips and lets his hands wander. Somehow, his mouth ends up between Michael’s shoulder blades and tastes the warm skin. Somehow, one of his hands undoes the button and fly of the standard-issue prison pants and slips inside. Somehow, he enjoys the weight, the softness and the moistness of the flesh growing and straining under his fingers.
Michael tips his head back, long neck exposed and mouth slightly parted. Sucre can watch him in the tiny mirror in front of them; the Fish is calm, collected and wanton in a way that should embarrass Sucre. It doesn’t. Apparently, lust is stronger than shame.
“No kissing,” Sucre warns, his eyes fixed on the pink tip of Michael’s tongue as he briefly licks his lips.
“Okay,” Michael says before turning around in his embrace and kissing him on the mouth. At first, it’s just a brush of lips against lips. Probably because Sucre doesn’t kick him in the balls or even raise a protest, Michael grows bolder. There is sucking and nipping and then a tongue dipping into Sucre’s mouth. It’s a damn good kiss. Sucre, who’s had his fair share of hot kisses, knows what he’s talking about here. He closes his eyes. Maybe moans just a little bit and angles his head because, even if he’s not supposed to kiss, better to make the most of what’s happening. Michael’s stubble chafes against his own, and with a surge of arousal, Sucre grabs the other man’s ass in both hands to pull him closer. He can feel Michael smiling against his mouth. He sweeps the offensive smirk off with a wet lick of tongue, satisfied to get an enthusiastic groan in response.
They sway against one another; and then they sway across the cell and tumble onto Michael’s bunk. Sucre’s heart beats wildly in his chest. He can’t believe this is happening, nor that he’s going to roll with it despite the very relative intimacy of the set-up - the thought of hundreds of men on the other side of the thin piece of fabric is more thrilling than it should be, even if chances are it turns into mortification tomorrow. Not to mention the fact that the guard could tear down said sheet at any moment.
He barely registers what’s going on. In a blink of an eye, his tee-shirt is off and falling to the dirty floor, and Michael is latching on one of his nipples. Sucre wonders if the Fish thinks he’s some chick, but since the nibbling and swirls of tongue feel so nice, he decides against objecting for now.
“Blow me?”
Michael asks the question candidly; at the same time, his hands are opening Sucre’s pants with calculated eagerness. Sucre momentarily freezes and gasps at the touch of the long fingers as much as at the unusually coarse language. It has a dirty-hot quality that his hard-on is enjoying way too much.
Still...
“No way, Papi,” he refuses.
“Okay.”
Lying on his side, head-to-tail with him, Michael leans into Sucre. He doesn’t tease - which is an entirely new experience for Sucre, since Michael’s rather prone to flaunting and provoking and messing with your head. He goes straight for it and engulfs Sucre in his mouth, lips tight, cheeks hollowed, and tongue fluttering.
Sucre thrashes on the narrow bed. So good, it’s been too long since anyone has done something like this for him. Not the moment to bring up the fact that he’s lost his conjugals because of the antics of the man who’s currently going down on him. His whole body twists, his hips trying to pump, and instead being held back from doing so by an iron grip and an urgent growl. Apparently, in spite of all his eagerness and self-confidence, this is the point where Michael does choke on him. The stalling is followed with luscious, apologetic licks and sucks that have Sucre biting into Michael’s pillow - he’ll laugh at himself and curse Michael for this tomorrow.
Really, really, it’s just because once Michael has found a steady rhythm and bobs his head in a smooth motion, Sucre is left facing his cellmate’s engorged, begging-for-it shaft. Maybe it’s because it’s a way to muffle his own groans and pants, or maybe it’s because he feels guilty for not giving back a bit of the pleasure Michael is providing. Anyway, it’s absolutely not because his head starts spinning and his mouth starts watering at the mere thought of the hard and velvety, musky flesh filling his mouth, weighing on his tongue, pushing against his throat. He does it to reciprocate, not because it turns him on, just to be clear.
Michael pauses in his ministrations when Sucre takes him in. A hissing intake if air, a sloppy and thankful kiss on Sucre’s stomach and the heated assurance that “It’s so good. Please, don’t stop, Fernando. Please...” Sucre can’t help thinking that horny Michael is enticing; and damn hot too, when he shifts and rearranges them so that he’s lying on his back with Sucre on all fours above him. He goes back to his licking and sucking and kissing with renewed enthusiasm. His soft moans rile up Sucre even more, the light humming in his throat sending delicious prickles throughout Sucre’s body.
Sucre sighs, his chest heavy with too many things for him to catalogue - gratitude and friendship, remaining embarrassment, unabashed lust, and... He presses his lips against the head of Michael’s erection and, despite himself, extends his tongue to taste the clear fluid leaking out. Before taking him back in for good, he thinks he’d better warn, “I ain’t swallowing, Fish.”
Michael’s mouth slides all the way down Sucre’s shaft, the velvet of his tongue and lips mingled with a hint of sharp teeth. Sucre thinks he might lose it right here, right now.
Hot and moist air brushes across Sucre’s inner thighs when Michael whispers, “Okay.”
* *
It’s a wet and sticky kiss that they share. Sucre winces at the bitter aftertaste and gooey feel on their respective tongues. It’s almost dirtier than anything else that they did before. Because now, they don’t have the excuse of being caught in the heat of the moment anymore. The kiss is deliberate; so is the slow sliding of their hands on sweaty and relaxed muscles and the fact that they’re still lying together on Michael’s frigging bunk.
“I really don’t swing that way, Michael,” Sucre murmurs between a kiss and a pant. He shakes his head. He’ll admit he’s not convincing, not with his swollen lips and Michael’s hand on his still - or again - half-hard dick.
“Me neither,” Michael says. For all Sucre knows, he may be telling the truth. He offers him a crooked smile and trails off silkily, “But tonight...”
-End-