Prison Break - Worth the Ache
Title: Worth the Ache
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Michael/Lincoln
Category: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Incest
Word Count: ~ 1140
Summary: The instant Michael decides they’re safe and sound, the cops and the FBI and the other escapees left far behind, he tells Lincoln to pull over. (Season 2)
Notes: Written for rounds-of-kink’s Summer Heat Mini-Round 2012 with the prompt ‘sleek’ and the kink ‘Adrenaline and crisis’.
Thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
There’s no foreplay. No need nor time, let alone desire for it. The instant Michael decides they’re safe and sound, the cops and the FBI and the other escapees left far - far enough, at least - behind, he tells Lincoln to pull over. Lincoln has barely complied that Michael’s hands are on his belt, on his jeans, inside his jeans, on his skin. Michael leans sideways and down, takes him into his mouth, licks and sucks, coating him with saliva.
This isn’t foreplay. This as much lubrication as he’s going to get, that sheen of saliva.
Lincoln is out and around the car in less than no time, just the few seconds it takes Michael to step out, undo his own pants and rest his arms on the roof to brace himself, offered and indecent with his bare ass canted back and the rest of his clothes still on.
Lincoln would love to have it in him to hesitate and dither, ask Michael if he’s sure that’s what he wants, how he wants it. But his heart is pounding in his chest, making his ears buzz and his vision fuzzy, and it’s not like he doesn’t already have his jeans pushed down to free him just enough, and... and... and...
He just wants.
He parts Michael’s buttocks and watches him clench and unclench under the stroke of Lincoln’s spit-wet thumb. He hears his moan, the hitch in his breathing, the harsh demand to do it already, and he slides in without giving it any more thought, swift and steady and deep, just the way Michael likes it. He pauses only when his stomach is flush against Michael’s lower back and he can feel the moist heat of his body even through theirs clothes.
Michael is tight, so tight, as if he hasn’t done this in fucking years. It’s probably the case, Lincoln realizes eerily. It must hurt for him; it certainly hurts for Lincoln, but that’s such a pleasant burn.
“Harder,” Michael tells him. “I’m not going to break. I’m...”
The rest is lost in a whimper when Lincoln thrusts in, hard and fast and deep, wraps a hand around his erection and holds it firmly.
“That’s more like it,” Michael breathes out, meeting each roll of Lincoln’s hips.
It doesn’t take long. If Michael hasn’t done this in years, Lincoln hasn’t either. Not like that, not with him, not that good, not that perfect despite how rushed they are. Just a few back and forth movements, the rhythmical pressure of Michael’s body around him, the pleas rolling off Michael’s tongue, so bossy that Lincoln could snicker, so explicit that he would almost - almost - blush.
He bites Michael’s shoulder when he comes, and he rests his forehead against the nape of his neck where the skin is sleek and sticky. He licks him there, tastes the perspiration and the dirt. When it earns him a half-protesting half-aroused groan, he does it again - who wouldn’t?
“No.” Lincoln is quite proud of himself for having the reflex to grab Michael’s hands when they slide down toward his own lower stomach. “Not like that.”
One hand on Michael’s hip to guide him, the other one still wrapped around his cock to make sure Michael doesn’t come - not yet, no damn way - he pulls out as delicately as he can, his lips quirking because Michael gasps and shudders in pleased pain, and Lincoln really, really shouldn’t enjoy the sound or the feeling.
He turns him around and kisses him like he’s been wanting to kiss him since they landed on the other side of those walls, miles and miles away: deep, sweet, demanding, giving and taking everything. He has brutally unleashed months of pent-up tension when he fucked him mere seconds ago. In the kiss, he lets sip the remaining strain slowly, measures it and uses it to finish undoing Michael.
And it works so well. Michael holds on to his shoulders, dizzy with heat and need and lust. He whispers fervently, right against Lincoln’s lips, the mumbled words brushing over his chin and mouth.
“God, don’t stop, you’re going to make me come. Don’t stop, Linc...”
It used to happen, every now and then. Before Fox River, before everything. A bruising kiss, a helping hand, and Michael was losing it, eyes closed and mouth opened, small whimpers and warm semen gushing into the palm of Lincoln’s hand.
“Not like that,” Lincoln says again.
He almost changes his mind when he breaks the kiss and Michael moans in protest, the sound desperate and frustrated. The cock weighing heavy in his hand calls him back to what he has in mind just in time. He shushes Michael, winks at him, and sinks to his knees.
He never breaks eye contact; not when he encases his brother’s narrow hips between his hands, not when he darts his tongue out and tastes the tip of Michael’s cock, not when he opens up and takes him into his mouth; even less so when he starts properly sucking him off, lips rubbing the velvety skin, tongue moving, fluttering, licking, playing...
Michael’s arms shoot out jerkily, one hand landing on the car’s door for support, the other on Lincoln himself, gripping just where his shoulder meets his neck. He presses a tiny bit, but doesn’t dare pushing it further - not until Lincoln hums appreciatively and makes him move his hips, makes him thrust into his mouth. Lincoln hollows out his cheeks. This is for Michael, he thinks. This is for Michael, but it doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy it, does it? Michael’s scent, feel, taste, fill him, thick and strong and tangy, and yeah, that’s more like it indeed, no possible comparison with a deft kiss and a helping hand.
He swallows everything when Michael’s release floods his mouth, drinks him to the last drop, and keeps nuzzling for more. He pulls back only when Michael shivers with oversensitivity. He catches him, then, because it looks like Michael can’t stand on his own and that makes Lincoln pretty pleased with himself. He catches him, helps him back into the seat, and grins a bit smugly when Michael blinks up at him dazedly.
He doesn’t start the car right away. Once back behind the wheel, he watches Michael tuck himself back inside his pants, long fingers still shaking.
“Does it, um, hurt?” Lincoln asks with a nod in the vague direction of Michael’s backside.
His brother shifts in his seat and winces, his expression not devoid of all satisfaction.
“Like hell,” he admits. “Totally worth it, though.”
He leans across the seat, and for a split second, Lincoln hope-fears he’ll start it all over again. But he doesn’t touch him; he just lets his lips brush over Lincoln’s ear when he breathes out the end of his answer.
“Like everything about you.”
END
--Comments are always welcome :)
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Michael/Lincoln
Category: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Incest
Word Count: ~ 1140
Summary: The instant Michael decides they’re safe and sound, the cops and the FBI and the other escapees left far behind, he tells Lincoln to pull over. (Season 2)
Notes: Written for rounds-of-kink’s Summer Heat Mini-Round 2012 with the prompt ‘sleek’ and the kink ‘Adrenaline and crisis’.
Thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
There’s no foreplay. No need nor time, let alone desire for it. The instant Michael decides they’re safe and sound, the cops and the FBI and the other escapees left far - far enough, at least - behind, he tells Lincoln to pull over. Lincoln has barely complied that Michael’s hands are on his belt, on his jeans, inside his jeans, on his skin. Michael leans sideways and down, takes him into his mouth, licks and sucks, coating him with saliva.
This isn’t foreplay. This as much lubrication as he’s going to get, that sheen of saliva.
Lincoln is out and around the car in less than no time, just the few seconds it takes Michael to step out, undo his own pants and rest his arms on the roof to brace himself, offered and indecent with his bare ass canted back and the rest of his clothes still on.
Lincoln would love to have it in him to hesitate and dither, ask Michael if he’s sure that’s what he wants, how he wants it. But his heart is pounding in his chest, making his ears buzz and his vision fuzzy, and it’s not like he doesn’t already have his jeans pushed down to free him just enough, and... and... and...
He just wants.
He parts Michael’s buttocks and watches him clench and unclench under the stroke of Lincoln’s spit-wet thumb. He hears his moan, the hitch in his breathing, the harsh demand to do it already, and he slides in without giving it any more thought, swift and steady and deep, just the way Michael likes it. He pauses only when his stomach is flush against Michael’s lower back and he can feel the moist heat of his body even through theirs clothes.
Michael is tight, so tight, as if he hasn’t done this in fucking years. It’s probably the case, Lincoln realizes eerily. It must hurt for him; it certainly hurts for Lincoln, but that’s such a pleasant burn.
“Harder,” Michael tells him. “I’m not going to break. I’m...”
The rest is lost in a whimper when Lincoln thrusts in, hard and fast and deep, wraps a hand around his erection and holds it firmly.
“That’s more like it,” Michael breathes out, meeting each roll of Lincoln’s hips.
It doesn’t take long. If Michael hasn’t done this in years, Lincoln hasn’t either. Not like that, not with him, not that good, not that perfect despite how rushed they are. Just a few back and forth movements, the rhythmical pressure of Michael’s body around him, the pleas rolling off Michael’s tongue, so bossy that Lincoln could snicker, so explicit that he would almost - almost - blush.
He bites Michael’s shoulder when he comes, and he rests his forehead against the nape of his neck where the skin is sleek and sticky. He licks him there, tastes the perspiration and the dirt. When it earns him a half-protesting half-aroused groan, he does it again - who wouldn’t?
“No.” Lincoln is quite proud of himself for having the reflex to grab Michael’s hands when they slide down toward his own lower stomach. “Not like that.”
One hand on Michael’s hip to guide him, the other one still wrapped around his cock to make sure Michael doesn’t come - not yet, no damn way - he pulls out as delicately as he can, his lips quirking because Michael gasps and shudders in pleased pain, and Lincoln really, really shouldn’t enjoy the sound or the feeling.
He turns him around and kisses him like he’s been wanting to kiss him since they landed on the other side of those walls, miles and miles away: deep, sweet, demanding, giving and taking everything. He has brutally unleashed months of pent-up tension when he fucked him mere seconds ago. In the kiss, he lets sip the remaining strain slowly, measures it and uses it to finish undoing Michael.
And it works so well. Michael holds on to his shoulders, dizzy with heat and need and lust. He whispers fervently, right against Lincoln’s lips, the mumbled words brushing over his chin and mouth.
“God, don’t stop, you’re going to make me come. Don’t stop, Linc...”
It used to happen, every now and then. Before Fox River, before everything. A bruising kiss, a helping hand, and Michael was losing it, eyes closed and mouth opened, small whimpers and warm semen gushing into the palm of Lincoln’s hand.
“Not like that,” Lincoln says again.
He almost changes his mind when he breaks the kiss and Michael moans in protest, the sound desperate and frustrated. The cock weighing heavy in his hand calls him back to what he has in mind just in time. He shushes Michael, winks at him, and sinks to his knees.
He never breaks eye contact; not when he encases his brother’s narrow hips between his hands, not when he darts his tongue out and tastes the tip of Michael’s cock, not when he opens up and takes him into his mouth; even less so when he starts properly sucking him off, lips rubbing the velvety skin, tongue moving, fluttering, licking, playing...
Michael’s arms shoot out jerkily, one hand landing on the car’s door for support, the other on Lincoln himself, gripping just where his shoulder meets his neck. He presses a tiny bit, but doesn’t dare pushing it further - not until Lincoln hums appreciatively and makes him move his hips, makes him thrust into his mouth. Lincoln hollows out his cheeks. This is for Michael, he thinks. This is for Michael, but it doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy it, does it? Michael’s scent, feel, taste, fill him, thick and strong and tangy, and yeah, that’s more like it indeed, no possible comparison with a deft kiss and a helping hand.
He swallows everything when Michael’s release floods his mouth, drinks him to the last drop, and keeps nuzzling for more. He pulls back only when Michael shivers with oversensitivity. He catches him, then, because it looks like Michael can’t stand on his own and that makes Lincoln pretty pleased with himself. He catches him, helps him back into the seat, and grins a bit smugly when Michael blinks up at him dazedly.
He doesn’t start the car right away. Once back behind the wheel, he watches Michael tuck himself back inside his pants, long fingers still shaking.
“Does it, um, hurt?” Lincoln asks with a nod in the vague direction of Michael’s backside.
His brother shifts in his seat and winces, his expression not devoid of all satisfaction.
“Like hell,” he admits. “Totally worth it, though.”
He leans across the seat, and for a split second, Lincoln hope-fears he’ll start it all over again. But he doesn’t touch him; he just lets his lips brush over Lincoln’s ear when he breathes out the end of his answer.
“Like everything about you.”
END
--Comments are always welcome :)