Prison Break - Friendship (With Benefits)
Title: Friendship (With Benefits)
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael/Sucre
Categories: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~ 1190
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: This is about help and fellowship. Sort of. (Season 1)
Author’s note: Written for mmom
Many thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
The fifth time Michael shifts restlessly and turns over in his bed to face the wall, the upper bunk creaks, his mattress dips, and someone slouches behind him.
He’s in this state between wakefulness and slumber, unable to fall into the comfort of sleep, so he needs a couple of seconds to understand what’s going on, to realize who is spooning him, whose arm is thrown across his midriff, whose breath is brushing over the nape of his neck.
He needs more than a couple of seconds to come to terms with said realization.
He barely has the time to open his mouth and gasp. Sucre is whispering, warm and comforting, into his ear before he can even move or ask.
“Shush.”
The block is as silent and dark as Gen Pop can be, too dim for anyone to actually see from the other cells that they’re in the same bunk. No need to worry about that. No need to worry about Sucre either. Anyone else in there, sure, but Sucre? A word, a shake of the head, a breath, and he’d be back up in his bunk.
Michael’s not even sure how or why he’s ended up plastered against him in the first place.
“I thought you didn’t...”
Because his intentions are pretty much unmistakable. The way his hand is sliding down Michael’s hip and edging into the crease of his thigh, scouting, patting, sneaking into his boxer shorts, leaves nothing to doubt. He’s good at it in an odd yet expected way - used to doing it to himself, not to another man
“I don’t,” Sucre replies evenly. Michael startles when the fingers brush his cock. He’s half-hard; he hadn’t even noticed he was half-hard. “You can’t sleep,” he adds as if it explained everything. “You need to sleep. You need to rest.” So much to do to make that crazy plan work... He wraps his hand around Michael, nice and straightforward, friendly except for where he’s touching him. “Okay with that, Papi?”
Despite the heat, despite Sucre’s moist chest pressed into his back, Michael shivers. This is taking friendship a tad far, but on the other hand, he does need to sleep and rest; he needs to be able to focus and think clearly. This isn’t about sex, this is about help and fellowship.
Sort of.
Right now, he also needs... he desperately needs Sucre’s hand to move, to stroke and pump - any pressure Sucre would like to apply, any speed he’d like to use, will do. His cheeks flush and burn at his earnestness, part embarrassment, part arousal, maybe the former adding to the latter. It’s been a while since anyone, woman and even more so man, touched him that way, that good, that hot.
It is good and hot. Not only in relief of that deprivation, but because of Fernando. He knows what he’s doing, and he seems to guess what Michael needs, wants and likes, attuned to the smallest hitches in his breathing and twitching of his body, to his faintest gasps and swallowed-back pleas.
With more determination and harshness than Michael would have ever suspected him capable of, Sucre pulls down his boxer shorts. One brisk gesture and Michael’s suddenly bare-assed and getting off on the idea, on the trust it implies and on the fake exposure. The atmosphere is sultry, made of hundreds of respirations out there that he can’t hear anymore because Sucre is breathing against the side of his face, the moment reduced to Sucre’s chest against his back and his hand cupping and stroking him.
“Good?” he asks softly.
As though he needed an answer, as though Michael wasn’t already coming undone by and in his hand. His fingers, rough and gentle at the same time, explore, weight and feel, so delicate - too fucking delicate - when they stroke Michael’s balls, strong and sure as they move up and down his shaft.
“You can picture anyone you want, y’know?” Sucre suggests. “The hot lawyer visiting your brother? The pretty doctor?”
He’s right. Michael should picture anyone because this isn’t supposed to be about sex and them, but about help and fellowship, right?
He can’t help chuckling in his pillow. “No offense, Sucre, but you feel nothing like them. Like I guess they would feel,” he amends quickly.
“None taken, Fish.”
The answer is like velvet in his ear, warm, soft and yet decadent - it’s something else Michael would have never imagined about his so-nice cellmate, but no wonder Maricruz melted. There’s a flash of guilt attached to that thought, but it flees away as fast as it came as Sucre resumes his ministrations. His determination has kicked up a notch, and all Michael can do is rest a hand onto the wall in front of him for support.
“Never done this for any man before, you know, Papi.”
Michael wants to say something witty; saying anything at all to show that he’s not totally losing it would be nice, but the fact is he is losing it, fast and hard. The silky whispers into his neck, the warm body, and the steady friction... they do that to him, they work so damn well. He leans into the touch and shamelessly fucks into Sucre’s willing fist. That’s the point in the end anyway, right? Coming and then finding a few hours of peace. He stutters, but Sucre gets it nonetheless; his grips tightens, his movements speed up, his hips absorb Michael’s erratic jerks.
Later, remembering that Sucre used his free hand to gag him and stifle his moans, he’ll realize how utterly he lost it. He doesn’t care about that for now. Neither about the fact that he makes a mess of himself and of Sucre when he comes. He’s pretty sure it hits the wall in front of him, and he knows it coats the palm of Sucre’s hand. He doesn’t bother with a ‘sorry’; breathless thanks are more appropriate, as much as anything can be appropriate right now.
His eyelids are heavier than they’ve been in days, his body more lax, his heartbeat still fast but in a comforting way. He is falling asleep, totally, deeply now, but not fast enough not to feel something moist and sticky on the small of his back, where Sucre’s lower stomach is pressed into him.
He glances at Sucre over his shoulder. He can hardly see a thing in the dark, but Sucre’s eyes shine bright enough to pierce the dimness; bright, amused and the slightest bit embarrassed. Michael smirks at him and Sucre smirks back. This is new. Sucre isn’t the smirking kind: Sucre smiles, grins, pouts, but the sarcasm needed for a smirk isn’t part of his usual character.
Maybe the satisfaction of a job well done deserves a smirk, that said.
“Sorry, Fish.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all and Michael can’t blame him. “It happens. Especially given some jackass has had my conjugals revoked.”
“‘s okay,” Michael mumbles, not caring they’re falling asleep in the same bed, not caring what will happen tomorrow. He settles comfortably and ignores the grunt of so-called protest escaping from Sucre. “What are friends for?”
END
--Comments are always welcomed and appreciated :)
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael/Sucre
Categories: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~ 1190
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: This is about help and fellowship. Sort of. (Season 1)
Author’s note: Written for mmom
Many thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
The fifth time Michael shifts restlessly and turns over in his bed to face the wall, the upper bunk creaks, his mattress dips, and someone slouches behind him.
He’s in this state between wakefulness and slumber, unable to fall into the comfort of sleep, so he needs a couple of seconds to understand what’s going on, to realize who is spooning him, whose arm is thrown across his midriff, whose breath is brushing over the nape of his neck.
He needs more than a couple of seconds to come to terms with said realization.
He barely has the time to open his mouth and gasp. Sucre is whispering, warm and comforting, into his ear before he can even move or ask.
“Shush.”
The block is as silent and dark as Gen Pop can be, too dim for anyone to actually see from the other cells that they’re in the same bunk. No need to worry about that. No need to worry about Sucre either. Anyone else in there, sure, but Sucre? A word, a shake of the head, a breath, and he’d be back up in his bunk.
Michael’s not even sure how or why he’s ended up plastered against him in the first place.
“I thought you didn’t...”
Because his intentions are pretty much unmistakable. The way his hand is sliding down Michael’s hip and edging into the crease of his thigh, scouting, patting, sneaking into his boxer shorts, leaves nothing to doubt. He’s good at it in an odd yet expected way - used to doing it to himself, not to another man
“I don’t,” Sucre replies evenly. Michael startles when the fingers brush his cock. He’s half-hard; he hadn’t even noticed he was half-hard. “You can’t sleep,” he adds as if it explained everything. “You need to sleep. You need to rest.” So much to do to make that crazy plan work... He wraps his hand around Michael, nice and straightforward, friendly except for where he’s touching him. “Okay with that, Papi?”
Despite the heat, despite Sucre’s moist chest pressed into his back, Michael shivers. This is taking friendship a tad far, but on the other hand, he does need to sleep and rest; he needs to be able to focus and think clearly. This isn’t about sex, this is about help and fellowship.
Sort of.
Right now, he also needs... he desperately needs Sucre’s hand to move, to stroke and pump - any pressure Sucre would like to apply, any speed he’d like to use, will do. His cheeks flush and burn at his earnestness, part embarrassment, part arousal, maybe the former adding to the latter. It’s been a while since anyone, woman and even more so man, touched him that way, that good, that hot.
It is good and hot. Not only in relief of that deprivation, but because of Fernando. He knows what he’s doing, and he seems to guess what Michael needs, wants and likes, attuned to the smallest hitches in his breathing and twitching of his body, to his faintest gasps and swallowed-back pleas.
With more determination and harshness than Michael would have ever suspected him capable of, Sucre pulls down his boxer shorts. One brisk gesture and Michael’s suddenly bare-assed and getting off on the idea, on the trust it implies and on the fake exposure. The atmosphere is sultry, made of hundreds of respirations out there that he can’t hear anymore because Sucre is breathing against the side of his face, the moment reduced to Sucre’s chest against his back and his hand cupping and stroking him.
“Good?” he asks softly.
As though he needed an answer, as though Michael wasn’t already coming undone by and in his hand. His fingers, rough and gentle at the same time, explore, weight and feel, so delicate - too fucking delicate - when they stroke Michael’s balls, strong and sure as they move up and down his shaft.
“You can picture anyone you want, y’know?” Sucre suggests. “The hot lawyer visiting your brother? The pretty doctor?”
He’s right. Michael should picture anyone because this isn’t supposed to be about sex and them, but about help and fellowship, right?
He can’t help chuckling in his pillow. “No offense, Sucre, but you feel nothing like them. Like I guess they would feel,” he amends quickly.
“None taken, Fish.”
The answer is like velvet in his ear, warm, soft and yet decadent - it’s something else Michael would have never imagined about his so-nice cellmate, but no wonder Maricruz melted. There’s a flash of guilt attached to that thought, but it flees away as fast as it came as Sucre resumes his ministrations. His determination has kicked up a notch, and all Michael can do is rest a hand onto the wall in front of him for support.
“Never done this for any man before, you know, Papi.”
Michael wants to say something witty; saying anything at all to show that he’s not totally losing it would be nice, but the fact is he is losing it, fast and hard. The silky whispers into his neck, the warm body, and the steady friction... they do that to him, they work so damn well. He leans into the touch and shamelessly fucks into Sucre’s willing fist. That’s the point in the end anyway, right? Coming and then finding a few hours of peace. He stutters, but Sucre gets it nonetheless; his grips tightens, his movements speed up, his hips absorb Michael’s erratic jerks.
Later, remembering that Sucre used his free hand to gag him and stifle his moans, he’ll realize how utterly he lost it. He doesn’t care about that for now. Neither about the fact that he makes a mess of himself and of Sucre when he comes. He’s pretty sure it hits the wall in front of him, and he knows it coats the palm of Sucre’s hand. He doesn’t bother with a ‘sorry’; breathless thanks are more appropriate, as much as anything can be appropriate right now.
His eyelids are heavier than they’ve been in days, his body more lax, his heartbeat still fast but in a comforting way. He is falling asleep, totally, deeply now, but not fast enough not to feel something moist and sticky on the small of his back, where Sucre’s lower stomach is pressed into him.
He glances at Sucre over his shoulder. He can hardly see a thing in the dark, but Sucre’s eyes shine bright enough to pierce the dimness; bright, amused and the slightest bit embarrassed. Michael smirks at him and Sucre smirks back. This is new. Sucre isn’t the smirking kind: Sucre smiles, grins, pouts, but the sarcasm needed for a smirk isn’t part of his usual character.
Maybe the satisfaction of a job well done deserves a smirk, that said.
“Sorry, Fish.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all and Michael can’t blame him. “It happens. Especially given some jackass has had my conjugals revoked.”
“‘s okay,” Michael mumbles, not caring they’re falling asleep in the same bed, not caring what will happen tomorrow. He settles comfortably and ignores the grunt of so-called protest escaping from Sucre. “What are friends for?”
END
--Comments are always welcomed and appreciated :)