Prison Break - A Kiss
Title: A Kiss
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael/Lincoln (implied Michael/Sara)
Category: Slash
Rating: R
Warning: Incest
Word Count: ~ 620
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: Whatever it takes to have him stop hurting and brooding. (Set during 2.20 Panama)
Author’s Note: Written for rosie-spleen’s Bleeding Cuticles Challenge (Day 12) and for kissbingo ( my card)
Prompt for kissbingo: Type: stolen
Many thanks to mystressxoxo for the beta.
Two minutes after they’ve locked the door of their small cabin on the freighter, Lincoln kisses Michael.
Whatever it takes to have him stop hurting and brooding. In Lincoln’s current state of mind, it’s either kissing him or punching him in the face, and Michael has been punched in the face more than his due in the last couple of days. So Lincoln curls a hand around his brother’s neck, brings him closer and kisses him on the mouth. He’s not the kind of man who will bother with falsely comforting bullshit: he doesn’t tell Michael that Sara will be fine because she won’t; he doesn’t tell Michael they’ll work something out to help her because there’s nothing they can do. He’s a man of action, not a man of words, and he does something right here right now. It’s outrageous, out of line and crazy, but what about this whole situation isn’t?
The kiss is meant to shock him out his stupor and pain, an acknowledgement of and an offering to Michael and the extremities he’d go - actually went - through to save Lincoln. It’s supposed to be almost innocent, almost brotherly, nothing more than lips pressing on lips. Thing is, Michael opens his mouth either in surprise or protest - maybe in need. In a split second, Lincoln’s always close to the surface instincts take over. Before he knows it, he’s going straight for what is so recklessly offered, tightening his grasp on the back of Michael’s head and pushing his tongue past his teeth.
Michael’s plump lips and small gasp, the too strong taste and velvety feel of his mouth... It summons hazy memories of something that happened once, and only once, because Lincoln was high. Maybe Michael was high too, that night. It wouldn’t make things better, but it certainly would help make them less worse. Years later, all that is left from that night is a blur of big hands, hard mouths, caresses too rough and too soft at the same time, whispered begging and grunts they eventually didn’t bother to muffle, pleasure darkened and boosted by guilt. And then, on the morning after, deafening silence, because how the hell are you supposed to broach this kind of subject?
Michael groans and jerks in Lincoln’s embrace, a feeble attempt to shake it off, almost a pretense. Instead of backing off, Lincoln pushes him against the wall and delves deeper into his mouth. Michael’s face tilts a bit, his chin angles up, his lips move beneath Lincoln’s, who hums in approval. His hands flail about for a few seconds before landing on Lincoln, on his shirt, under his shirt. He holds onto the elastic fabric and onto Lincoln himself, grips and strokes anything he can reach. His touch is greedy and moist on Lincoln’s skin, his short nails scratching and meaning to leave marks. It feels so good, so exhilarating, Lincoln can’t help wedging a knee between Michael’s legs and rubbing just a bit, just enough to have him moan and grind down. He pants into Lincoln’s mouth, half-mumbled words about “Sara” and “Bastard,” “Stop” and “More.”
It’s the quickly growing hardness against his thigh and the More that eventually wrench Lincoln out of the kiss. Stomach churning and hands clenched in fists, he takes a couple of steps back. In front of him, Michael freezes. He leans against the wall as though Lincoln has pinned him there and he now needs the support to stand. His eyes are absurdly huge, his mouth wide open, his breathing erratic; shock, lust and anger mingle on his face. Lincoln tries to take a deep breath and, in the oppressive air of the cabin, fails.
They don’t move. They stare at each other.
-Fin-
--Comments are always welcome.
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael/Lincoln (implied Michael/Sara)
Category: Slash
Rating: R
Warning: Incest
Word Count: ~ 620
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: Whatever it takes to have him stop hurting and brooding. (Set during 2.20 Panama)
Author’s Note: Written for rosie-spleen’s Bleeding Cuticles Challenge (Day 12) and for kissbingo ( my card)
Prompt for kissbingo: Type: stolen
Many thanks to mystressxoxo for the beta.
Two minutes after they’ve locked the door of their small cabin on the freighter, Lincoln kisses Michael.
Whatever it takes to have him stop hurting and brooding. In Lincoln’s current state of mind, it’s either kissing him or punching him in the face, and Michael has been punched in the face more than his due in the last couple of days. So Lincoln curls a hand around his brother’s neck, brings him closer and kisses him on the mouth. He’s not the kind of man who will bother with falsely comforting bullshit: he doesn’t tell Michael that Sara will be fine because she won’t; he doesn’t tell Michael they’ll work something out to help her because there’s nothing they can do. He’s a man of action, not a man of words, and he does something right here right now. It’s outrageous, out of line and crazy, but what about this whole situation isn’t?
The kiss is meant to shock him out his stupor and pain, an acknowledgement of and an offering to Michael and the extremities he’d go - actually went - through to save Lincoln. It’s supposed to be almost innocent, almost brotherly, nothing more than lips pressing on lips. Thing is, Michael opens his mouth either in surprise or protest - maybe in need. In a split second, Lincoln’s always close to the surface instincts take over. Before he knows it, he’s going straight for what is so recklessly offered, tightening his grasp on the back of Michael’s head and pushing his tongue past his teeth.
Michael’s plump lips and small gasp, the too strong taste and velvety feel of his mouth... It summons hazy memories of something that happened once, and only once, because Lincoln was high. Maybe Michael was high too, that night. It wouldn’t make things better, but it certainly would help make them less worse. Years later, all that is left from that night is a blur of big hands, hard mouths, caresses too rough and too soft at the same time, whispered begging and grunts they eventually didn’t bother to muffle, pleasure darkened and boosted by guilt. And then, on the morning after, deafening silence, because how the hell are you supposed to broach this kind of subject?
Michael groans and jerks in Lincoln’s embrace, a feeble attempt to shake it off, almost a pretense. Instead of backing off, Lincoln pushes him against the wall and delves deeper into his mouth. Michael’s face tilts a bit, his chin angles up, his lips move beneath Lincoln’s, who hums in approval. His hands flail about for a few seconds before landing on Lincoln, on his shirt, under his shirt. He holds onto the elastic fabric and onto Lincoln himself, grips and strokes anything he can reach. His touch is greedy and moist on Lincoln’s skin, his short nails scratching and meaning to leave marks. It feels so good, so exhilarating, Lincoln can’t help wedging a knee between Michael’s legs and rubbing just a bit, just enough to have him moan and grind down. He pants into Lincoln’s mouth, half-mumbled words about “Sara” and “Bastard,” “Stop” and “More.”
It’s the quickly growing hardness against his thigh and the More that eventually wrench Lincoln out of the kiss. Stomach churning and hands clenched in fists, he takes a couple of steps back. In front of him, Michael freezes. He leans against the wall as though Lincoln has pinned him there and he now needs the support to stand. His eyes are absurdly huge, his mouth wide open, his breathing erratic; shock, lust and anger mingle on his face. Lincoln tries to take a deep breath and, in the oppressive air of the cabin, fails.
They don’t move. They stare at each other.
-Fin-
--Comments are always welcome.