Prison Break - Small Pieces
Title: Small Pieces
Author: clair-de-lune
Pairing: Lincoln/Sara, implied Michael/Sara/Lincoln and Michael/Lincoln
Category: Het, implied slash
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Implied incest
Word Count: ~ 1915
Summary: Of course, it has to happen while Michael is not here. (Post-series, alternate canon.)
Author’s Note: Set in the Sum of the Parts ‘verse. Thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
Set in the Sum of the Parts ‘verse, probably a bit before or after Sunday Nights, Monday Mornings.
Written for the washing/cleaning square of my second kink_bigo card.
Of course, it has to happen while Michael is not here, gone to the nearest city for a couple of days to buy stuff for the shop. It’s not something that arrangement of theirs had anticipated.
Lincoln stands five feet from the bed, stares at Sara and scratches the nape of his neck. He had almost forgotten that you could get the flu with those temperatures; that said temperatures and fever would somehow make it worse; or maybe she’s merely got hit with a bad one.
Either way, Sara is limp and damp on the bed, a mess of sweat-stained white shirt, flushed skin and tangled hair.
“You need to see a doctor,” Lincoln says.
“I am a doctor.” Her voice is rough as though she’s been shouting, but firm and determined. “I need to hydrate and cool down. I’ll be just fine.”
He can provide the drink, no problem. He brings her water, juice and fruits. She sets the fruits aside and empties both glasses, holding them with shaky hands.
And he can help her to cool down, too - a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do. After she’s gulped down her glass of water, he lifts her out of bed and half carries half drags her to the bathroom. She leans against him, holds onto his shoulder and lets him settle her against the wall near the shower. Her squeak of protest and feeble attempt to fight him when he strips her of her shirt and panties make him roll his eyes.
“Nothing here I haven’t seen before, Sara,” he points out.
A sideways glance at her to make sure she can stand on her own, and he stills mid-motion with the water from the shower he’s just turned on dripping down his arm and wetting his shirt.
This is where he’s wrong. Sure, he’s seen her naked before. He’s seen her half-naked and in way more indecent positions, doing way more indecent things than just leaning against the wall for support, lean body on display, hair tousled and head rolling back and forth as if too heavy for her slender neck.
But none of their previous impish antics help right now. Nothing about having sex with her - Michael involved or not, it doesn’t matter - has prepared him for her current vulnerability and helplessness, and for the intimacy of what he’s about to do.
In an attempt to divert this train of thought he scrunches his nose and adds “It’s not like you’re at your sexiest, anyway. You stink.”
She does. Luckily, she’s also too weak to kick him in the shin, and too lucid to kick him out of the bathroom.
He watches her get under the spray, stumble a bit and reach for the tiled wall for support; that’s how long he needs to shed his t-shirt and pants and follow her. No way is he leaving her alone in there, not when it’s so easy to picture her slipping and breaking her neck; or less dramatically, her wrist. Michael won’t mind - too much - the showering together itself, but he’ll kick his ass if she sprains her ankle or something.
She smirks when she notices he’s kept his boxer shorts on.
“Nothing here I haven’t seen before, Lincoln.”
He grunts “You’re funny,” and does not remove the shorts. He adjusts their elastic waistband, holding onto it the same way he holds onto the difference between her nakedness when she’s spread open on a bed, a couch or whatever, and her nakedness now that she needs his help.
He starts with her hair. Water, shampoo, scrub as softly as possible, be careful not to put lather in her eyes, rinse. The long strands tangle around his fingers, but she barely flinches when he accidentally pulls on them and murmurs appreciatively as he massages her scalp. She braces herself against the wall, her hands at her shoulder level, and lets him do whatever he needs. Consent given, he carries on.
He soaps up the bath sponge and swabs her shoulders and neck with it. She sighs and arches into his touch. It’s relief for getting rid of the stickiness of the sweat, and he won’t mistake it for something else. He knows how she feels; he’s done this before for Michael. Years ago when fever kicked in out of the blue and rendered him helpless, Lincoln would step with him into the shower - or stay right outside if the shower was too small - soap, rub and rinse. It didn’t beat the fever, but it helped Michael to feel better. Less crappy. It’s funny how Sara reacts the same, today: oversensitivity, small happy sighs and goose-bumps prickling her skin because the sponge feels so rough and so good at the same time.
He slides it down her flank, watches another wake of goose-bumps rise on her collarbone, and licks his lips.
Shit.
It’s embarrassing how he reacts the same to both of them, no matter how business-like and helpful he tried to keep it back then, and tries to keep it today. Hard dick and tight throat, hands needing to touch and mind unable to cope, intent on providing the needed help and not take advantage of it. The trust and the intimacy it implies have always gotten to him. They’re not notions he’s elicited in a lot of people, but up until the moment things went really shitty, Michael - control freak Michael of all people - never thought twice about relinquishing this kind of power into Lincoln’s hands. Quite the contrary.
Sara doesn’t question him either. He tugs her half a step back to steady her against his chest, and she goes willingly, head tipping and resting on his shoulder. A fond smile curls the corner of her mouth, though, and he knows why - she’s pressed from shoulders to thighs into him and yeah...
“Shut up,” he tells her, and the smile breaks free on her face. Amused and lazy and with just a hint of naughtiness.
This is when things go astray for her, he thinks.
The foul scent of sweat and exhaustion is starting to wash off; even better, she starts smelling like Sara again, clean, sweet and familiar. He glances down and makes a conscious effort to ignore the fact that her breasts rest on his arm where it’s wrapped around her to support her; that her nipples are dark pink and half hard; an even more conscious effort to ignore the idea that it would just take a touch of his fingers to make said nipples darker and harder. For a few seconds, he observes the frenzied run of the water down her breasts and stomach, the droplets glistening on her skin, then he drags the sponge down her hip.
He stops at her crotch, the sponge an inch from the patch of curly hair, and he feels her tense and melt all at once in his embrace. She slightly widens her stance, the invitation as obvious as it is instinctive; unguarded. He knows. If the earlier comparison with Michael about fever and showers can be carried on, he knows what kind of effect it has on her.
He taps his index finger against her belly and lifts the sponge in offering. “Do you want to...” ... do it yourself? He doesn’t finish his sentence.
She clears her throat, pondering. They never go there when Michael’s not around. Not that it would be cheating, there isn’t a rule against it or anything, they just don’t go there - but when Michael knows, Lincoln warns her with barely a hint of mischief, he’ll say it’s okay and then he will fuck them senseless.
She pushes his hand down and gasps at the first touch: if her skin looks flushed and oversensitive on her back and on her stomach, it reaches a whole new level there. He doesn’t touch her the way he does when they fuck, no fingers gliding over slick flesh, looking for her clit or pushing into her; he doesn’t touch her directly at all, anyway. He moves to actually wash her, soft and repeated pressures, slow back and forth and careful circles, until she’s moaning and quivering, her arms resting against the wall and visibly straining with tension.
“More?” he asks.
She nods and bucks in his hands. She’s shaking, eyes screwed shut and mouth slightly agape. Burning hot because of the fever, no matter that barely tepid water is still cascading onto them, and because of him. He grinds against her butt with only the thin and damp fabric of his shorts between them, and presses the sponge rhythmically between her thighs. The squishy fabric keeps absorbing water and releasing it each time he squeezes it; it drips down Sara’s thighs in an erratic flow while the shower runs down them in a continuing stream.
Her stomach clenches and unclenches in quick spasms; eventually clenches tighter and tighter and she totally relies on him - to hold her up, to get her off. She sags against him, heavy and trusting.
He grunts at the contact, at the soft body nestling against his; inhales the tangy smell of her orgasm, faint and already evaporating within soap-scented steam. Her head lolls back against his shoulder; her mouth is only a few inches from his, but he only allows himself a quick nip at her neck. One of her hands slides from the wall and strokes his.
He waits until she’s done quivering and panting to turn her around; he makes sure she’s safely resting against the wall and that makes her smile. Eyebrows arching in a mockingly dirty innuendo, he rinses the sponge, soaps it again and trails it down her legs. She blinks to chase the water out of her eyes. He remembers Michael doing that too, the gratitude and drowsiness in his eyes as heartwarming back then as in Sara’s today.
“Come on.”
He gets her out of the shower as swiftly as he got her in, wraps her in a towel and sits her in an armchair while he rips the moist sheets off the bed to replace them with fresh ones. She doesn’t bother with clothes. She ditches her bath towel and stumbles into bed naked, her hair and skin still slightly moist. He watches her delicate form barely hidden under the cotton sheets and she returns his stare, brown eyes heavily lidded and thoughtful.
“You’re a nice man,” she drawls.
He sits on the edge of the mattress.
“Performing sponge porn on my sister-in-law is being nice?”
“Mmm. When you ask for nothing in return, it is nice.”
He doesn’t answer, even when she reaches for him and gently cups his jaw. He doesn’t tell her that if stripping her down or the sponge porn made him hard, bathing and holding her made him soft and fuzzy inside, and this is the reason why he won’t ask for anything from her. Can’t ask for anything, doesn’t need nor want anything else for now. To each their own little idiosyncrasies.
For months, he’s been giving sex with her for half a dozen of reasons, good and bad. He won’t today, and for the first time, he thinks it may be a bit more than what Michael bargained for. More small pieces of affection and intimacy sticking together than Michael ever imagined.
His hand is large and tanned on the white sheets when he curls it around her hip and pats her lightly.
“Go to sleep, Sara.”
-End
--Comments are always welcome.
Author: clair-de-lune
Pairing: Lincoln/Sara, implied Michael/Sara/Lincoln and Michael/Lincoln
Category: Het, implied slash
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Implied incest
Word Count: ~ 1915
Summary: Of course, it has to happen while Michael is not here. (Post-series, alternate canon.)
Author’s Note: Set in the Sum of the Parts ‘verse. Thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
Set in the Sum of the Parts ‘verse, probably a bit before or after Sunday Nights, Monday Mornings.
Written for the washing/cleaning square of my second kink_bigo card.
Of course, it has to happen while Michael is not here, gone to the nearest city for a couple of days to buy stuff for the shop. It’s not something that arrangement of theirs had anticipated.
Lincoln stands five feet from the bed, stares at Sara and scratches the nape of his neck. He had almost forgotten that you could get the flu with those temperatures; that said temperatures and fever would somehow make it worse; or maybe she’s merely got hit with a bad one.
Either way, Sara is limp and damp on the bed, a mess of sweat-stained white shirt, flushed skin and tangled hair.
“You need to see a doctor,” Lincoln says.
“I am a doctor.” Her voice is rough as though she’s been shouting, but firm and determined. “I need to hydrate and cool down. I’ll be just fine.”
He can provide the drink, no problem. He brings her water, juice and fruits. She sets the fruits aside and empties both glasses, holding them with shaky hands.
And he can help her to cool down, too - a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do. After she’s gulped down her glass of water, he lifts her out of bed and half carries half drags her to the bathroom. She leans against him, holds onto his shoulder and lets him settle her against the wall near the shower. Her squeak of protest and feeble attempt to fight him when he strips her of her shirt and panties make him roll his eyes.
“Nothing here I haven’t seen before, Sara,” he points out.
A sideways glance at her to make sure she can stand on her own, and he stills mid-motion with the water from the shower he’s just turned on dripping down his arm and wetting his shirt.
This is where he’s wrong. Sure, he’s seen her naked before. He’s seen her half-naked and in way more indecent positions, doing way more indecent things than just leaning against the wall for support, lean body on display, hair tousled and head rolling back and forth as if too heavy for her slender neck.
But none of their previous impish antics help right now. Nothing about having sex with her - Michael involved or not, it doesn’t matter - has prepared him for her current vulnerability and helplessness, and for the intimacy of what he’s about to do.
In an attempt to divert this train of thought he scrunches his nose and adds “It’s not like you’re at your sexiest, anyway. You stink.”
She does. Luckily, she’s also too weak to kick him in the shin, and too lucid to kick him out of the bathroom.
He watches her get under the spray, stumble a bit and reach for the tiled wall for support; that’s how long he needs to shed his t-shirt and pants and follow her. No way is he leaving her alone in there, not when it’s so easy to picture her slipping and breaking her neck; or less dramatically, her wrist. Michael won’t mind - too much - the showering together itself, but he’ll kick his ass if she sprains her ankle or something.
She smirks when she notices he’s kept his boxer shorts on.
“Nothing here I haven’t seen before, Lincoln.”
He grunts “You’re funny,” and does not remove the shorts. He adjusts their elastic waistband, holding onto it the same way he holds onto the difference between her nakedness when she’s spread open on a bed, a couch or whatever, and her nakedness now that she needs his help.
He starts with her hair. Water, shampoo, scrub as softly as possible, be careful not to put lather in her eyes, rinse. The long strands tangle around his fingers, but she barely flinches when he accidentally pulls on them and murmurs appreciatively as he massages her scalp. She braces herself against the wall, her hands at her shoulder level, and lets him do whatever he needs. Consent given, he carries on.
He soaps up the bath sponge and swabs her shoulders and neck with it. She sighs and arches into his touch. It’s relief for getting rid of the stickiness of the sweat, and he won’t mistake it for something else. He knows how she feels; he’s done this before for Michael. Years ago when fever kicked in out of the blue and rendered him helpless, Lincoln would step with him into the shower - or stay right outside if the shower was too small - soap, rub and rinse. It didn’t beat the fever, but it helped Michael to feel better. Less crappy. It’s funny how Sara reacts the same, today: oversensitivity, small happy sighs and goose-bumps prickling her skin because the sponge feels so rough and so good at the same time.
He slides it down her flank, watches another wake of goose-bumps rise on her collarbone, and licks his lips.
Shit.
It’s embarrassing how he reacts the same to both of them, no matter how business-like and helpful he tried to keep it back then, and tries to keep it today. Hard dick and tight throat, hands needing to touch and mind unable to cope, intent on providing the needed help and not take advantage of it. The trust and the intimacy it implies have always gotten to him. They’re not notions he’s elicited in a lot of people, but up until the moment things went really shitty, Michael - control freak Michael of all people - never thought twice about relinquishing this kind of power into Lincoln’s hands. Quite the contrary.
Sara doesn’t question him either. He tugs her half a step back to steady her against his chest, and she goes willingly, head tipping and resting on his shoulder. A fond smile curls the corner of her mouth, though, and he knows why - she’s pressed from shoulders to thighs into him and yeah...
“Shut up,” he tells her, and the smile breaks free on her face. Amused and lazy and with just a hint of naughtiness.
This is when things go astray for her, he thinks.
The foul scent of sweat and exhaustion is starting to wash off; even better, she starts smelling like Sara again, clean, sweet and familiar. He glances down and makes a conscious effort to ignore the fact that her breasts rest on his arm where it’s wrapped around her to support her; that her nipples are dark pink and half hard; an even more conscious effort to ignore the idea that it would just take a touch of his fingers to make said nipples darker and harder. For a few seconds, he observes the frenzied run of the water down her breasts and stomach, the droplets glistening on her skin, then he drags the sponge down her hip.
He stops at her crotch, the sponge an inch from the patch of curly hair, and he feels her tense and melt all at once in his embrace. She slightly widens her stance, the invitation as obvious as it is instinctive; unguarded. He knows. If the earlier comparison with Michael about fever and showers can be carried on, he knows what kind of effect it has on her.
He taps his index finger against her belly and lifts the sponge in offering. “Do you want to...” ... do it yourself? He doesn’t finish his sentence.
She clears her throat, pondering. They never go there when Michael’s not around. Not that it would be cheating, there isn’t a rule against it or anything, they just don’t go there - but when Michael knows, Lincoln warns her with barely a hint of mischief, he’ll say it’s okay and then he will fuck them senseless.
She pushes his hand down and gasps at the first touch: if her skin looks flushed and oversensitive on her back and on her stomach, it reaches a whole new level there. He doesn’t touch her the way he does when they fuck, no fingers gliding over slick flesh, looking for her clit or pushing into her; he doesn’t touch her directly at all, anyway. He moves to actually wash her, soft and repeated pressures, slow back and forth and careful circles, until she’s moaning and quivering, her arms resting against the wall and visibly straining with tension.
“More?” he asks.
She nods and bucks in his hands. She’s shaking, eyes screwed shut and mouth slightly agape. Burning hot because of the fever, no matter that barely tepid water is still cascading onto them, and because of him. He grinds against her butt with only the thin and damp fabric of his shorts between them, and presses the sponge rhythmically between her thighs. The squishy fabric keeps absorbing water and releasing it each time he squeezes it; it drips down Sara’s thighs in an erratic flow while the shower runs down them in a continuing stream.
Her stomach clenches and unclenches in quick spasms; eventually clenches tighter and tighter and she totally relies on him - to hold her up, to get her off. She sags against him, heavy and trusting.
He grunts at the contact, at the soft body nestling against his; inhales the tangy smell of her orgasm, faint and already evaporating within soap-scented steam. Her head lolls back against his shoulder; her mouth is only a few inches from his, but he only allows himself a quick nip at her neck. One of her hands slides from the wall and strokes his.
He waits until she’s done quivering and panting to turn her around; he makes sure she’s safely resting against the wall and that makes her smile. Eyebrows arching in a mockingly dirty innuendo, he rinses the sponge, soaps it again and trails it down her legs. She blinks to chase the water out of her eyes. He remembers Michael doing that too, the gratitude and drowsiness in his eyes as heartwarming back then as in Sara’s today.
“Come on.”
He gets her out of the shower as swiftly as he got her in, wraps her in a towel and sits her in an armchair while he rips the moist sheets off the bed to replace them with fresh ones. She doesn’t bother with clothes. She ditches her bath towel and stumbles into bed naked, her hair and skin still slightly moist. He watches her delicate form barely hidden under the cotton sheets and she returns his stare, brown eyes heavily lidded and thoughtful.
“You’re a nice man,” she drawls.
He sits on the edge of the mattress.
“Performing sponge porn on my sister-in-law is being nice?”
“Mmm. When you ask for nothing in return, it is nice.”
He doesn’t answer, even when she reaches for him and gently cups his jaw. He doesn’t tell her that if stripping her down or the sponge porn made him hard, bathing and holding her made him soft and fuzzy inside, and this is the reason why he won’t ask for anything from her. Can’t ask for anything, doesn’t need nor want anything else for now. To each their own little idiosyncrasies.
For months, he’s been giving sex with her for half a dozen of reasons, good and bad. He won’t today, and for the first time, he thinks it may be a bit more than what Michael bargained for. More small pieces of affection and intimacy sticking together than Michael ever imagined.
His hand is large and tanned on the white sheets when he curls it around her hip and pats her lightly.
“Go to sleep, Sara.”
-End
--Comments are always welcome.