Prison Break - Doctor’s Orders
Title: Doctor’s Orders
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael/Sara
Categories: Het
Rating: R
Word Count: ~ 1360
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: It starts because when Sara comes back from the clinic still wearing her lab coat over her slacks and tee-shirt, Michael brushes a kiss over her lips and tells her she’s pretty. (Post-series, alternate canon)
Author’s note: Written for the ‘medical kink’ square of my kink-bingo.
Many thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
It starts because when Sara comes back from the clinic still wearing her lab coat over her slacks and tee-shirt, Michael brushes a kiss over her lips and tells her she’s pretty.
She is.
She always is, in his opinion, that being said, so it’s not like his remark makes a huge difference.
From the couch where he’s spread out for God-knows-what reason, Lincoln smirks and points out:
“Oh, yes, that’s right... Does she know?”
There’s a quick exchange of looks between the brothers, Lincoln amused and teasing, Michael annoyed and warning Linc with a blue-steel glance.
“Do I know what?”
“Nothing. Lincoln was leaving.”
“No, I wasn’t,” Lincoln assures her while settling more comfortably. Like he’s about to watch a show and enjoy it. “Michael has a thing for doctors. Keep the lab coat on and tonight, you can get anything you want from him.” He observes a meaningful, dramatic pause, and thinks it necessary to specify in a confidential tone, “I mean, sex-wise.”
Michael sits as far away as possible from his jerk of a sibling and presses his fingers to his temples. It doesn’t seem to faze Sara in the slightest and she smiles sweetly - too sweetly, Michael who knows her inside and out would say - at her brother-in-law.
“Oh, Lincoln... You have no idea of what I do get from him. I mean, sex-wise.”
Lincoln considers her carefully and - this has to count in his favor - he knows when he’s defeated because he stretches on the couch and gets up.
“As Mike said, I was leaving.” He winks at Sara on his way out. “Good night, Doc.”
“He’s a jackass,” Michael says without looking at her.
Sara stands by him with her hands in the pockets of her lab coat and her head tilted to the side.
“Does that make him a liar?” she asks. Her eyes are crinkling with laughter. “Someone like you... I can picture it.”
He sits up in his chair, spine straight and expression a bit indignant. It’s not enough to have Lincoln spill out stuff he shouldn’t know and knows because... Michael has no idea... but someone like him?
“Someone like me?” he asks.
“Someone who likes to control everything in his everyday life. You’d get off on someone else being in charge and taking care of you once in a while.”
She’s still smiling, but there’s no teasing in her words. Love and comprehension. He swallows hard. She knows he does; she knows it’s not a possibility but a fact; she knows what he likes in bed.
“After all, you ended up in my infirmary on a regular basis...” And with that, she’s back to teasing, which is oddly more comfortable.
She moves in front of him, lays her hands on his shoulders, slides them to the side of his neck and, despite himself, he grins. She’s examining his throat. Or rather, she’s pretending she’s examining his throat. He really hopes that when she touches someone like she’s touching him, she’s pretending to practice an exam.
“... And this whole time, I thought it was my key that interested you.”
He blushes. Even years later, he still feels awkward when she brings up the issue. Though, to be fair, he also flushes in anticipation because she’s moved close to him and his right knee is neatly edged between her legs.
She sweeps the back of her hand over his forehead and purses her lips.
“You seem to be running a fever.”
He blinks at her. “You serious?”
“I’m going to take a shower. You wait for me in bed and I’ll check on you.”
He complies. He’s not sure what to expect, but he complies because that’s not the kind of suggestion you pass on, right?
She’s wearing a clean lab coat when she enters the bedroom and she does have clothes underneath it - she’s subtler than that and she’s put on a long blue dress. Where she’s not subtle is when she helps him remove his tee-shirt - he could keep it when she examined him at Fox River, you know? - unbuckles his belt and pushes his pants down. Her hands are cool and business like and, God help him, she’s pressing her stethoscope against his chest and smiling, smiling crazily, at what she can hear.
She was right, he does like it, lying there like a nice patient and letting her have her way, taking care and charge of him.
She feels him down with faked professionalism. Chest, flanks, stomach, and then lower. He manages to smirk at her, which is no small feat, while her fingers pat him down with an outrageous care.
“I didn’t remember that part of the physical...” he notices when she reaches his crotch.
She doesn’t bother with an answer and keeps palpating him, from the tip to the root to the heavy globes that are becoming heavier by the second. She’s not making it pleasant - not deliberately anyway; she’s touching him the same way she touched his burnt back or his arm to jab him, back in Fox River, yet he grows harder and thicker in the palm of her hand. Even more so when her fingers dip lower and caress him where the skin is so delicate and sensitive that he bucks despite himself.
“Sara...”
She gives him a stern look.
“That’s doctor to you.”
The funny thing is that it never turned him on when she was his doctor, partly because he had so many other variables in mind and partly because if he ever went to the infirmary to see her besides his mandatory visits, it was to see her. Now, though? Now, he’s cursing and blessing Lincoln for having brought up something he thought he was over with.
Her eyes firmly planted on his, she straddles him, dress and lab coat and damn stethoscope still on, and slowly sinks onto him.
She’s hot and slick, hotter and slicker than just petting him the way she did should have made her. Except of course if...
He spots it, that glint in her eyes, that expression on her face: full of love and tenderness, but with a hint of something else, bawdier. That’s the side of her that can measure up with Lincoln in terms of dirty innuendos and makes her capable of telling a prisoner that nice girls finish last.
Her hips roll faster, her hands grips harder, her kisses become rougher, and she certainly does not finish last. She doesn’t collapse after she’s done; she keeps moving, tightening around him and kissing him. When he finally pulls her down against him, her lab coat is disheveled and un-wearable, the metal of her stethoscope warm and slick with sweat between them.
“Doctor, doctor, doctor...” he sings-songs into her neck. “Does my ass of a brother know how much you like to play doctor too?”
She lifts up languidly on her elbows, stares at him, and maybe he’s presumed his dominant position here. Because he’s still inside her, still half hard, and she has no qualms tensing around him. He gasps in over-stimulation.
“Sara!” he protests half-heartedly. “First, do no harm!”
She kisses his brow and hums in approbation.
“The fever has lowered.”
“Yes?”
He doesn’t feel at all like the fever has lowered, quite the contrary, but she is the doctor, right?
“Yes. I’m going to bring you some soup and then...” She watches him pensively. “You’ll probably need another physical.”
“If you think that’s necessary...” he banters.
“I do.”
She lifts herself off him. The warm air of the bedroom feels chilly on his flesh and the loss of pressure and contact is hardly bearable. She’s right, he decides. He will need another physical. A thorough one.
Maybe one with him lying on his stomach, she muses out loud, her tone containing threats and promises that send his mind spinning and his heart racing.
She pulls the rumpled sheets up and tucks him in bed. Then, she smoothes her dress and lab coat, straightens the stethoscope around her neck and her hair behind her ears. She looks almost, almost, decent when she concludes with a thinly veiled grin, “Doctor’s orders.”
--FIN--
--Feedback in any shape or form is always welcomed and appreciated :)
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael/Sara
Categories: Het
Rating: R
Word Count: ~ 1360
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: It starts because when Sara comes back from the clinic still wearing her lab coat over her slacks and tee-shirt, Michael brushes a kiss over her lips and tells her she’s pretty. (Post-series, alternate canon)
Author’s note: Written for the ‘medical kink’ square of my kink-bingo.
Many thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
It starts because when Sara comes back from the clinic still wearing her lab coat over her slacks and tee-shirt, Michael brushes a kiss over her lips and tells her she’s pretty.
She is.
She always is, in his opinion, that being said, so it’s not like his remark makes a huge difference.
From the couch where he’s spread out for God-knows-what reason, Lincoln smirks and points out:
“Oh, yes, that’s right... Does she know?”
There’s a quick exchange of looks between the brothers, Lincoln amused and teasing, Michael annoyed and warning Linc with a blue-steel glance.
“Do I know what?”
“Nothing. Lincoln was leaving.”
“No, I wasn’t,” Lincoln assures her while settling more comfortably. Like he’s about to watch a show and enjoy it. “Michael has a thing for doctors. Keep the lab coat on and tonight, you can get anything you want from him.” He observes a meaningful, dramatic pause, and thinks it necessary to specify in a confidential tone, “I mean, sex-wise.”
Michael sits as far away as possible from his jerk of a sibling and presses his fingers to his temples. It doesn’t seem to faze Sara in the slightest and she smiles sweetly - too sweetly, Michael who knows her inside and out would say - at her brother-in-law.
“Oh, Lincoln... You have no idea of what I do get from him. I mean, sex-wise.”
Lincoln considers her carefully and - this has to count in his favor - he knows when he’s defeated because he stretches on the couch and gets up.
“As Mike said, I was leaving.” He winks at Sara on his way out. “Good night, Doc.”
“He’s a jackass,” Michael says without looking at her.
Sara stands by him with her hands in the pockets of her lab coat and her head tilted to the side.
“Does that make him a liar?” she asks. Her eyes are crinkling with laughter. “Someone like you... I can picture it.”
He sits up in his chair, spine straight and expression a bit indignant. It’s not enough to have Lincoln spill out stuff he shouldn’t know and knows because... Michael has no idea... but someone like him?
“Someone like me?” he asks.
“Someone who likes to control everything in his everyday life. You’d get off on someone else being in charge and taking care of you once in a while.”
She’s still smiling, but there’s no teasing in her words. Love and comprehension. He swallows hard. She knows he does; she knows it’s not a possibility but a fact; she knows what he likes in bed.
“After all, you ended up in my infirmary on a regular basis...” And with that, she’s back to teasing, which is oddly more comfortable.
She moves in front of him, lays her hands on his shoulders, slides them to the side of his neck and, despite himself, he grins. She’s examining his throat. Or rather, she’s pretending she’s examining his throat. He really hopes that when she touches someone like she’s touching him, she’s pretending to practice an exam.
“... And this whole time, I thought it was my key that interested you.”
He blushes. Even years later, he still feels awkward when she brings up the issue. Though, to be fair, he also flushes in anticipation because she’s moved close to him and his right knee is neatly edged between her legs.
She sweeps the back of her hand over his forehead and purses her lips.
“You seem to be running a fever.”
He blinks at her. “You serious?”
“I’m going to take a shower. You wait for me in bed and I’ll check on you.”
He complies. He’s not sure what to expect, but he complies because that’s not the kind of suggestion you pass on, right?
She’s wearing a clean lab coat when she enters the bedroom and she does have clothes underneath it - she’s subtler than that and she’s put on a long blue dress. Where she’s not subtle is when she helps him remove his tee-shirt - he could keep it when she examined him at Fox River, you know? - unbuckles his belt and pushes his pants down. Her hands are cool and business like and, God help him, she’s pressing her stethoscope against his chest and smiling, smiling crazily, at what she can hear.
She was right, he does like it, lying there like a nice patient and letting her have her way, taking care and charge of him.
She feels him down with faked professionalism. Chest, flanks, stomach, and then lower. He manages to smirk at her, which is no small feat, while her fingers pat him down with an outrageous care.
“I didn’t remember that part of the physical...” he notices when she reaches his crotch.
She doesn’t bother with an answer and keeps palpating him, from the tip to the root to the heavy globes that are becoming heavier by the second. She’s not making it pleasant - not deliberately anyway; she’s touching him the same way she touched his burnt back or his arm to jab him, back in Fox River, yet he grows harder and thicker in the palm of her hand. Even more so when her fingers dip lower and caress him where the skin is so delicate and sensitive that he bucks despite himself.
“Sara...”
She gives him a stern look.
“That’s doctor to you.”
The funny thing is that it never turned him on when she was his doctor, partly because he had so many other variables in mind and partly because if he ever went to the infirmary to see her besides his mandatory visits, it was to see her. Now, though? Now, he’s cursing and blessing Lincoln for having brought up something he thought he was over with.
Her eyes firmly planted on his, she straddles him, dress and lab coat and damn stethoscope still on, and slowly sinks onto him.
She’s hot and slick, hotter and slicker than just petting him the way she did should have made her. Except of course if...
He spots it, that glint in her eyes, that expression on her face: full of love and tenderness, but with a hint of something else, bawdier. That’s the side of her that can measure up with Lincoln in terms of dirty innuendos and makes her capable of telling a prisoner that nice girls finish last.
Her hips roll faster, her hands grips harder, her kisses become rougher, and she certainly does not finish last. She doesn’t collapse after she’s done; she keeps moving, tightening around him and kissing him. When he finally pulls her down against him, her lab coat is disheveled and un-wearable, the metal of her stethoscope warm and slick with sweat between them.
“Doctor, doctor, doctor...” he sings-songs into her neck. “Does my ass of a brother know how much you like to play doctor too?”
She lifts up languidly on her elbows, stares at him, and maybe he’s presumed his dominant position here. Because he’s still inside her, still half hard, and she has no qualms tensing around him. He gasps in over-stimulation.
“Sara!” he protests half-heartedly. “First, do no harm!”
She kisses his brow and hums in approbation.
“The fever has lowered.”
“Yes?”
He doesn’t feel at all like the fever has lowered, quite the contrary, but she is the doctor, right?
“Yes. I’m going to bring you some soup and then...” She watches him pensively. “You’ll probably need another physical.”
“If you think that’s necessary...” he banters.
“I do.”
She lifts herself off him. The warm air of the bedroom feels chilly on his flesh and the loss of pressure and contact is hardly bearable. She’s right, he decides. He will need another physical. A thorough one.
Maybe one with him lying on his stomach, she muses out loud, her tone containing threats and promises that send his mind spinning and his heart racing.
She pulls the rumpled sheets up and tucks him in bed. Then, she smoothes her dress and lab coat, straightens the stethoscope around her neck and her hair behind her ears. She looks almost, almost, decent when she concludes with a thinly veiled grin, “Doctor’s orders.”
--FIN--
--Feedback in any shape or form is always welcomed and appreciated :)