Prison Break - Embedment
Title: Embedment
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael/Lincoln
Category: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Incest
Word Count: ~ 1010
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: It was yet another ordeal Michael had put himself through because of his brother, a relief and a betrayal all at once. (Set at the beginning of the fourth season.)
Author’s Note: Second and last fic for maerhys’s help_pakistan donation.
Many thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
It was yet another ordeal Michael had put himself through because of his brother, a relief and a betrayal all at once, unraveled in expanses of pinkish burnt skin. The tattoo was gone in an even bigger agony than the one in which it had been carved into Michael’s flesh, and Lincoln’s rough palms were skimming over uneven and sore skin. He could only hope the pain was worth it. There had been hope and faith when Michael had his plans inked on him; at least, Lincoln thought so. All that was left now was determination to put the Company down. It didn’t warrant the same kind of positive energy and thinking; far from it.
Lincoln pushed his hands higher under Michael’s sweater, thrust deeper into his warmth, kissed harder the nape of his neck, panted louder into his ear... Always more. Maybe if he sank lower, slipped further into Michael’s body and mind, he would forget about what felt like guilt, relief and betrayal.
Michael moaned beneath him, in pain or pleasure, perhaps both at the same time. Lincoln kept up what he’d been doing.
He had loved the tattoo. It was possessiveness speaking, foolish albeit silenced conceit, and a thrill, a warm feeling, for eliciting such devotion.
He had hated the damn thing almost as much as he had loved it; the notion that Michael had foolishly marked himself so deeply and intrinsically.
On some level, seeing it gone was comforting. On another one, he loathed that Michael had it removed, as though his brother considered he’d had a debt and it had been paid. Clean slate, turning the page - the always-in-the-trouble big brother’s page - moving on. It wasn’t like that of course, Lincoln knew. This wasn’t how Michael ticked and worked; they merely needed to remember this. Maybe Lincoln was the only one needing the reminder, but it didn’t matter since Michael had always been willing to play along.
Lincoln whispered something sappy about how good Michael felt, and Michael rolled his spine and clenched around him, just so that Lincoln could appreciate how damn intoxicating he indeed was.
They had locked themselves in a dusty dark space in the upper level of the warehouse Self had set them up in. They hadn’t done this - fuck, have sex, make love, claim each other in the most basic way, whatever they wanted to call it - in a long time, and Michael had gasped in surprise when Lincoln half pushed and half hauled him into the room hardly bigger than a closet. The others, Sara included, were discussing and arguing a level below them. The mildly heavy box they’d pushed to block the door wouldn’t resist any firm attempt to barge in the room. The noise and the metallic rattling their movements were creating were just discreet enough not to drag attention on them; a few more decibels and someone would wonder about their whereabouts and activities. Lincoln shifted, adjusted his angle and snapped his hips in a way that he knew would have his brother groan a tad louder. Michael smirked at him over his shoulder, all too aware of Lincoln’s little kinks.
It had to be hell for Michael, being pushed and held down like that. His torso and stomach were rubbing and chaffing against the fabric of his sweater and the wood of the workbench Lincoln had him bent over. He didn’t seem to mind, too lost in the steady slapping of Lincoln’s hips against his bottom and Lincoln’s sweat dripping on the side of his face and the back of his sweater. Not realizing the pain he’d have to endure when they were done because Lincoln was petting his raw skin too roughly.
The thought fueled the ‘guilt’ part of Lincoln’s mixed feelings. He curled down on himself to reach Michael’s flank, licked and blew over a patch of peeling skin. Michael was burning hot; no way could it be chalked up to the heat of the moment or the stuffy air of the tiny room.
He saw Michael’s lips move in the half-darkness before he understood what his brother was saying. He had to make him say it again, actually, and what Michael wanted was, “Come closer. I want to feel you. Lean down.” Which actually meant ‘bear down on me’.
Lincoln faltered. It would hurt him - hurt him more. But then, this was what Lincoln had been wanting when he dragged him in there, wasn’t it? Not hurting him, but embedding himself into, onto his brother’s flesh after having been erased and chased from it.
He leaned down and lay heavily against Michael’s back and shoulders, trapping him between his chest and the workbench. One of his hands reached down and fisted the neglected erection that was bobbing between Michael’s legs; the other one closed on Michael’s own hand as it was holding for dear life onto the opposite edge of the table, knuckles white under the strain.
He came first, panting and licking their mingled sweat on Michael’s cheek; he staggered for a few seconds before starting to move back and forth again. He kept it up until Michael spilled all over his hand, and then a bit longer after he’d been done and gasped at the now unwelcomed pressure inside of him. He kept it up until it was almost unbearable for the two of them and he was too soft to continue this anyway. He kept it up until one of Michael’s hands halfheartedly pushed at his hip to protest, testing how too far he could go.
“Don’t move,” he demanded.
He took a step back, grabbed the waistband of Michael’s clothes and pulled everything up, boxers and jeans, in one swift motion. Michael’s grin was a white flash of teeth in the dim light as he acknowledged Lincoln’s unspoken statement that there would be no cleaning up, that he would rejoin everybody down there with the sticky reminder of what they just did. He straightened up, turned around and let Lincoln finish dressing him - buttons and zipper and belt securing Lincoln’s claims.
-End-
--Comments are always welcome.
End Notes: I hated the tattoo removal 'twist' for a whole bunch of reasons. I'm not sure how I ended up writing someting that uses it, but here it is...
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael/Lincoln
Category: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Incest
Word Count: ~ 1010
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: It was yet another ordeal Michael had put himself through because of his brother, a relief and a betrayal all at once. (Set at the beginning of the fourth season.)
Author’s Note: Second and last fic for maerhys’s help_pakistan donation.
Many thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
It was yet another ordeal Michael had put himself through because of his brother, a relief and a betrayal all at once, unraveled in expanses of pinkish burnt skin. The tattoo was gone in an even bigger agony than the one in which it had been carved into Michael’s flesh, and Lincoln’s rough palms were skimming over uneven and sore skin. He could only hope the pain was worth it. There had been hope and faith when Michael had his plans inked on him; at least, Lincoln thought so. All that was left now was determination to put the Company down. It didn’t warrant the same kind of positive energy and thinking; far from it.
Lincoln pushed his hands higher under Michael’s sweater, thrust deeper into his warmth, kissed harder the nape of his neck, panted louder into his ear... Always more. Maybe if he sank lower, slipped further into Michael’s body and mind, he would forget about what felt like guilt, relief and betrayal.
Michael moaned beneath him, in pain or pleasure, perhaps both at the same time. Lincoln kept up what he’d been doing.
He had loved the tattoo. It was possessiveness speaking, foolish albeit silenced conceit, and a thrill, a warm feeling, for eliciting such devotion.
He had hated the damn thing almost as much as he had loved it; the notion that Michael had foolishly marked himself so deeply and intrinsically.
On some level, seeing it gone was comforting. On another one, he loathed that Michael had it removed, as though his brother considered he’d had a debt and it had been paid. Clean slate, turning the page - the always-in-the-trouble big brother’s page - moving on. It wasn’t like that of course, Lincoln knew. This wasn’t how Michael ticked and worked; they merely needed to remember this. Maybe Lincoln was the only one needing the reminder, but it didn’t matter since Michael had always been willing to play along.
Lincoln whispered something sappy about how good Michael felt, and Michael rolled his spine and clenched around him, just so that Lincoln could appreciate how damn intoxicating he indeed was.
They had locked themselves in a dusty dark space in the upper level of the warehouse Self had set them up in. They hadn’t done this - fuck, have sex, make love, claim each other in the most basic way, whatever they wanted to call it - in a long time, and Michael had gasped in surprise when Lincoln half pushed and half hauled him into the room hardly bigger than a closet. The others, Sara included, were discussing and arguing a level below them. The mildly heavy box they’d pushed to block the door wouldn’t resist any firm attempt to barge in the room. The noise and the metallic rattling their movements were creating were just discreet enough not to drag attention on them; a few more decibels and someone would wonder about their whereabouts and activities. Lincoln shifted, adjusted his angle and snapped his hips in a way that he knew would have his brother groan a tad louder. Michael smirked at him over his shoulder, all too aware of Lincoln’s little kinks.
It had to be hell for Michael, being pushed and held down like that. His torso and stomach were rubbing and chaffing against the fabric of his sweater and the wood of the workbench Lincoln had him bent over. He didn’t seem to mind, too lost in the steady slapping of Lincoln’s hips against his bottom and Lincoln’s sweat dripping on the side of his face and the back of his sweater. Not realizing the pain he’d have to endure when they were done because Lincoln was petting his raw skin too roughly.
The thought fueled the ‘guilt’ part of Lincoln’s mixed feelings. He curled down on himself to reach Michael’s flank, licked and blew over a patch of peeling skin. Michael was burning hot; no way could it be chalked up to the heat of the moment or the stuffy air of the tiny room.
He saw Michael’s lips move in the half-darkness before he understood what his brother was saying. He had to make him say it again, actually, and what Michael wanted was, “Come closer. I want to feel you. Lean down.” Which actually meant ‘bear down on me’.
Lincoln faltered. It would hurt him - hurt him more. But then, this was what Lincoln had been wanting when he dragged him in there, wasn’t it? Not hurting him, but embedding himself into, onto his brother’s flesh after having been erased and chased from it.
He leaned down and lay heavily against Michael’s back and shoulders, trapping him between his chest and the workbench. One of his hands reached down and fisted the neglected erection that was bobbing between Michael’s legs; the other one closed on Michael’s own hand as it was holding for dear life onto the opposite edge of the table, knuckles white under the strain.
He came first, panting and licking their mingled sweat on Michael’s cheek; he staggered for a few seconds before starting to move back and forth again. He kept it up until Michael spilled all over his hand, and then a bit longer after he’d been done and gasped at the now unwelcomed pressure inside of him. He kept it up until it was almost unbearable for the two of them and he was too soft to continue this anyway. He kept it up until one of Michael’s hands halfheartedly pushed at his hip to protest, testing how too far he could go.
“Don’t move,” he demanded.
He took a step back, grabbed the waistband of Michael’s clothes and pulled everything up, boxers and jeans, in one swift motion. Michael’s grin was a white flash of teeth in the dim light as he acknowledged Lincoln’s unspoken statement that there would be no cleaning up, that he would rejoin everybody down there with the sticky reminder of what they just did. He straightened up, turned around and let Lincoln finish dressing him - buttons and zipper and belt securing Lincoln’s claims.
-End-
--Comments are always welcome.
End Notes: I hated the tattoo removal 'twist' for a whole bunch of reasons. I'm not sure how I ended up writing someting that uses it, but here it is...