Prison Break - The Outsider
Title: The Outsider
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael/Lincoln/Sucre, Michael/Lincoln
Category: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Incest
Word Count: ~ 1365
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: Michael, Lincoln and Sucre are in a shack... that’s pretty much it. Do not look for a plot in there. (Second season.)
Author’s Note: Let’s say this is a smuttier version of what could have happened in Sucre’s POV in Kaleidoscope if the settings and timing had been different.
Thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
They’d ambushed him. He’d been so surprised he didn’t fight much.
Okay. He didn’t fight at all, and he’ll admit they would have stopped right away if he had raised a protest. But he’ll cling to the ‘taken by surprise’ explanation. It’s not like he could have seen it coming, you know?
Michael’s grip on his hips is tight; Lincoln’s grip on his brother’s hands is even tighter. The two of them considerably restrain his freedom of movement, but right now, Sucre’s rather liking it. He’s the first to be amazed, but it’s an issue he’ll address later - or not at all as he doubts he’ll want to bring up the subject again.
His hands flat on the wall in front of him, he steadies his stance the best he can, bows his shoulders and tries to block the sounds coming to his ears. He knows that most of said sounds - low and harsh grunts - are wrenched out his throat; there’s nothing he can do to prevent them from spilling out of his mouth. The other ones belong to Michael and Lincoln, mixed with wet slapping and sucking noises that would usually make him curse in annoyance.
He’d seen Michael’s tool before and then again, right before he stuck it into Sucre. Regular, although totally respectable, size. Sucre would never have suspected it would feel so thick and long and damn hard in him; burning hot too. It’s almost painful, but it’s a nice kind of painful, and Sucre, who’s not big on pain, finds himself getting off on it. He feels like he’s torn in two and put back together with each flex of Michael’s hips. The firm friction, the sensation of being filled up leaves him gasping.
Michael is assertive. Smooth, silky Michael screws like he talks and persuades you to do as he wants: thoughtful and merciless. He’s slipping in and out of him in long and slow moves, biting his neck and murmuring filthy nonsense into his ear. His chest is warm and damp with sweat against Sucre’s back; Sucre wants to avoid and lean into the contact at the same time. He grits his teeth. He gets a bit more leverage when one of Michael’s hands falls from Sucre’s hip to the back of Lincoln’s head, pushing the other man’s face deeper into Sucre’s crotch.
And that’s the other kick of the surreal situation he’s in: Lincoln crouching between Sucre’s legs, sucking him off like there’s no tomorrow. A chill runs down Sucre’s spine when the head of his cock slides deeper. There’s a special thrill at the thought of Linc the Sink going on his knees for you. It’s better not to move as you never know what the man may have in store for you; it’s better not to refuse what’s offered as you never know how he’d take a rebuttal. He’s fucking good at it, and the hint of fear he inspires in Sucre makes the experience even better.
Lincoln seems to enjoy himself. He has to, because when Michael asks him how good Sucre tastes, he replies with a deep hum that does marvelous things to Sucre’s cock. He hollows his cheeks, presses and wraps his tongue around the shaft. Sucre starts panting and begging. Michael, the bastard, chuckles against the nape of his neck, and snaps his hips harder, faster. The pounding makes Sucre push forward despite himself and fuck Lincoln’s mouth a bit too roughly. His mind spins at the brothers’ complicity and at the implication behind Michael’s actions.
As though to sustain those implications, Michael whispers something, and Lincoln sneaks a hand between Sucre’s thighs. He skims and fumbles until he finds the exact spot where Michael is sheathed in Sucre; he brushes his knuckles here, his thumb rubbing Sucre’s taut skin, his other fingers stroking Michael.
The intimate caress, the delicious lingering threat of Lincoln trying to slip a finger inside him along with Michael’s cock... It throws Sucre over the edge. He comes with a shout, cock encased in the wet velvet of Linc’s mouth, ass stretched, and skin damp with sweat and saliva where Michael is gently licking and nibbling him. Both men hold him close, petting and kissing him through his orgasm. They let him slide down and collapse on the floor only when they’re sure he’s sated and spent. He sits there, head resting against the wooden wall and legs extended in front of him, his breathing short and shallow.
When he can focus again on the here and now, Michael has knelt and he is crawling - prowling - on the dirty floor, cock jutted forward and gaze trained on Lincoln. The two of them kiss with abandon; their mouths are wide open, their eyes hooded in delight. Sucre can see their tongues playing with each other’s; he can hear small growls, and smell sweat and the sour scent of their arousal. Linc’s big hand wraps around both his and Michal’s cocks and fondles them. The image is shocking and appealing all at once, and Sucre presses the back of his hand against his mouth, not sure whether he means to avoid a retch or a moan.
“You were right,” Michael whispers between two sweeps of tongue against his brother’s lips. “He does taste nice.”
Sucre blushes. Where he can find a hint of shame left in him is a mystery, but he can, obviously. Then he forgets about what he’s just heard, too busy watching with fascination as Lincoln urges Michael onto his back. Two fingers generously coated in saliva push between the firm buttocks. This is as much lubrication as Sucre himself got, and fuck because it wasn’t nearly enough, but Michael doesn’t seem to mind because he’s spreading his thighs wantonly, offered and exposed.
“My little bitch,” Lincoln teases; the words are oddly tender, laced with more affection than any sugar-coated declaration. His fingers fuck into Michael a couple of times and his lips latch onto a dark nipple, but Michael is getting impatient. Definitely not in the mood for foreplay anymore, as dirty as it may be. He drags his brother on top of him, begging as eagerly as Sucre suspects he was begging a few minutes ago.
Gross, Sucre thinks as Lincoln’s hips slot between his brother’s legs. At least, it should be gross. Maybe it would be if Sucre could see Lincoln’s cock slide in easily - it certainly slides in easily if the way the two of them purr and arch in pleasure is any indication. But from this angle, all he can see are sweaty muscles grinding together, strong limbs wrapping and entwining tightly, hips rising, falling and meeting in perfect and needy synchronization. They look like a sappy, fucking hot illustration for the ‘two people making one’ cliché.
He licks his lips. He wants to touch them and reciprocate, to give back a bit of what they offered to him. He wants to kiss the dip in Lincoln’s back, worm his hand between their stomachs and stroke Michael. He doesn’t dare. They’re lost in one another; he’s been an outsider, a mere watcher, right from the beginning, even as he was locked between them, even as they were both screwing him.
The dust of the small shack they’ve found refuge in is sticking to them, making the skin of both men dull with a thin layer of grayish powder. It whirls around them as their movements grow more frantic and reckless. Michael pants heavily. His hands scramble on Lincoln’s ass, grip it and leave small red imprints on the flesh; Lincoln obligingly shoves deeper into him. Sucre can tell the exact moment the younger brother comes because his head lolls back and Lincoln slows the slightest bit to kiss him softly, to bear down on him and rub his stomach into the wet and sticky mess Michael has spilled between them.
Another thing Sucre can tell? Michael doesn’t mind taking it deep even after he’s come: Lincoln is all but ramming into him, pushing small grunts of exertion out of the two of them. His eyes glassy with bliss, Michael hitches his knees higher around Lincoln’s torso, relaxes and welcomes the forceful thrusts.
-End-
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael/Lincoln/Sucre, Michael/Lincoln
Category: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Incest
Word Count: ~ 1365
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: Michael, Lincoln and Sucre are in a shack... that’s pretty much it. Do not look for a plot in there. (Second season.)
Author’s Note: Let’s say this is a smuttier version of what could have happened in Sucre’s POV in Kaleidoscope if the settings and timing had been different.
Thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
They’d ambushed him. He’d been so surprised he didn’t fight much.
Okay. He didn’t fight at all, and he’ll admit they would have stopped right away if he had raised a protest. But he’ll cling to the ‘taken by surprise’ explanation. It’s not like he could have seen it coming, you know?
Michael’s grip on his hips is tight; Lincoln’s grip on his brother’s hands is even tighter. The two of them considerably restrain his freedom of movement, but right now, Sucre’s rather liking it. He’s the first to be amazed, but it’s an issue he’ll address later - or not at all as he doubts he’ll want to bring up the subject again.
His hands flat on the wall in front of him, he steadies his stance the best he can, bows his shoulders and tries to block the sounds coming to his ears. He knows that most of said sounds - low and harsh grunts - are wrenched out his throat; there’s nothing he can do to prevent them from spilling out of his mouth. The other ones belong to Michael and Lincoln, mixed with wet slapping and sucking noises that would usually make him curse in annoyance.
He’d seen Michael’s tool before and then again, right before he stuck it into Sucre. Regular, although totally respectable, size. Sucre would never have suspected it would feel so thick and long and damn hard in him; burning hot too. It’s almost painful, but it’s a nice kind of painful, and Sucre, who’s not big on pain, finds himself getting off on it. He feels like he’s torn in two and put back together with each flex of Michael’s hips. The firm friction, the sensation of being filled up leaves him gasping.
Michael is assertive. Smooth, silky Michael screws like he talks and persuades you to do as he wants: thoughtful and merciless. He’s slipping in and out of him in long and slow moves, biting his neck and murmuring filthy nonsense into his ear. His chest is warm and damp with sweat against Sucre’s back; Sucre wants to avoid and lean into the contact at the same time. He grits his teeth. He gets a bit more leverage when one of Michael’s hands falls from Sucre’s hip to the back of Lincoln’s head, pushing the other man’s face deeper into Sucre’s crotch.
And that’s the other kick of the surreal situation he’s in: Lincoln crouching between Sucre’s legs, sucking him off like there’s no tomorrow. A chill runs down Sucre’s spine when the head of his cock slides deeper. There’s a special thrill at the thought of Linc the Sink going on his knees for you. It’s better not to move as you never know what the man may have in store for you; it’s better not to refuse what’s offered as you never know how he’d take a rebuttal. He’s fucking good at it, and the hint of fear he inspires in Sucre makes the experience even better.
Lincoln seems to enjoy himself. He has to, because when Michael asks him how good Sucre tastes, he replies with a deep hum that does marvelous things to Sucre’s cock. He hollows his cheeks, presses and wraps his tongue around the shaft. Sucre starts panting and begging. Michael, the bastard, chuckles against the nape of his neck, and snaps his hips harder, faster. The pounding makes Sucre push forward despite himself and fuck Lincoln’s mouth a bit too roughly. His mind spins at the brothers’ complicity and at the implication behind Michael’s actions.
As though to sustain those implications, Michael whispers something, and Lincoln sneaks a hand between Sucre’s thighs. He skims and fumbles until he finds the exact spot where Michael is sheathed in Sucre; he brushes his knuckles here, his thumb rubbing Sucre’s taut skin, his other fingers stroking Michael.
The intimate caress, the delicious lingering threat of Lincoln trying to slip a finger inside him along with Michael’s cock... It throws Sucre over the edge. He comes with a shout, cock encased in the wet velvet of Linc’s mouth, ass stretched, and skin damp with sweat and saliva where Michael is gently licking and nibbling him. Both men hold him close, petting and kissing him through his orgasm. They let him slide down and collapse on the floor only when they’re sure he’s sated and spent. He sits there, head resting against the wooden wall and legs extended in front of him, his breathing short and shallow.
When he can focus again on the here and now, Michael has knelt and he is crawling - prowling - on the dirty floor, cock jutted forward and gaze trained on Lincoln. The two of them kiss with abandon; their mouths are wide open, their eyes hooded in delight. Sucre can see their tongues playing with each other’s; he can hear small growls, and smell sweat and the sour scent of their arousal. Linc’s big hand wraps around both his and Michal’s cocks and fondles them. The image is shocking and appealing all at once, and Sucre presses the back of his hand against his mouth, not sure whether he means to avoid a retch or a moan.
“You were right,” Michael whispers between two sweeps of tongue against his brother’s lips. “He does taste nice.”
Sucre blushes. Where he can find a hint of shame left in him is a mystery, but he can, obviously. Then he forgets about what he’s just heard, too busy watching with fascination as Lincoln urges Michael onto his back. Two fingers generously coated in saliva push between the firm buttocks. This is as much lubrication as Sucre himself got, and fuck because it wasn’t nearly enough, but Michael doesn’t seem to mind because he’s spreading his thighs wantonly, offered and exposed.
“My little bitch,” Lincoln teases; the words are oddly tender, laced with more affection than any sugar-coated declaration. His fingers fuck into Michael a couple of times and his lips latch onto a dark nipple, but Michael is getting impatient. Definitely not in the mood for foreplay anymore, as dirty as it may be. He drags his brother on top of him, begging as eagerly as Sucre suspects he was begging a few minutes ago.
Gross, Sucre thinks as Lincoln’s hips slot between his brother’s legs. At least, it should be gross. Maybe it would be if Sucre could see Lincoln’s cock slide in easily - it certainly slides in easily if the way the two of them purr and arch in pleasure is any indication. But from this angle, all he can see are sweaty muscles grinding together, strong limbs wrapping and entwining tightly, hips rising, falling and meeting in perfect and needy synchronization. They look like a sappy, fucking hot illustration for the ‘two people making one’ cliché.
He licks his lips. He wants to touch them and reciprocate, to give back a bit of what they offered to him. He wants to kiss the dip in Lincoln’s back, worm his hand between their stomachs and stroke Michael. He doesn’t dare. They’re lost in one another; he’s been an outsider, a mere watcher, right from the beginning, even as he was locked between them, even as they were both screwing him.
The dust of the small shack they’ve found refuge in is sticking to them, making the skin of both men dull with a thin layer of grayish powder. It whirls around them as their movements grow more frantic and reckless. Michael pants heavily. His hands scramble on Lincoln’s ass, grip it and leave small red imprints on the flesh; Lincoln obligingly shoves deeper into him. Sucre can tell the exact moment the younger brother comes because his head lolls back and Lincoln slows the slightest bit to kiss him softly, to bear down on him and rub his stomach into the wet and sticky mess Michael has spilled between them.
Another thing Sucre can tell? Michael doesn’t mind taking it deep even after he’s come: Lincoln is all but ramming into him, pushing small grunts of exertion out of the two of them. His eyes glassy with bliss, Michael hitches his knees higher around Lincoln’s torso, relaxes and welcomes the forceful thrusts.
-End-