Prison Break - Syllogism (Harmless Fantasies For Modern Women)
Title: Syllogism (Harmless Fantasies For Modern Women)
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael/Sara
Category: Het
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~ 1080
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: Sara knows that fantasies are harmless. Or not. (Season 1)
Author’s note: Notes: I guess the title makes this sound smarter than it is? It’s not. Moreover, syllogisms are supposed to have only two premises; Sara’s has three. Bear with me ;) Written for mmom
Many thanls to foxriverinmate for the beta.
The details may change minutely, but all in all, it goes like that:
Michael is sitting on the exam table of her infirmary and she’s standing before him. She’s close, but not close enough that it would be inappropriate during a medical exam. What is inappropriate during a medical exam is the way her stomach warm up and flutter, the images forming at the back of her head, her breathing picking up.
He doesn’t say anything even though he noticed something. She’ll admit she doesn’t bother much to hide it. He just slides his hand down between them and up her legs. Easy access because she’s been smart stupid enough to wear a skirt today - which never happens for obvious reasons. His fingers press into the cotton of her panties and tease her. (Sometimes, it’s silk panties or lace ones. She won’t go into the trivialities of how he ripped them off her, once, but let’s say that in that respect, cotton panties aren’t so bad.)
Fantasies are harmless.
Modern women know that fantasies are harmless.
Sara’s a modern woman.
Ergo, Sara knows that fantasies are harmless.
Whoever first wrote that utter crap in Cosmo or whatever other stupid magazine has never been a prison doctor fantasizing on an inmate.
He’s not gentle. Careful, considerate, respectful, sure. But not gentle. Straightforward and demanding, too. He sneaks his hand beneath the elastic band of her panties and palms her shortly before delving further. One, two, three fingers in quick succession, pushing in, stretching her, and he smiles at her when she gasps in pain-pleasure.
She glances at his other hand, resting carelessly on the white paper sheet covering the exam table. His nails are unusually taken care of, especially for a man in his situation, and his fingers so damn long. They respectively dig a bit into the white sheet for support and curl into her without mercy.
She never lets the not-harmless fantasies happen during working hours, nor the waking hours for that matter. She tries to, at least: sometimes, they just pop in. And then, there are the wee hours of the morning, when she’s deep into the comfort and safety of her bed, all safe-guards down...
There also are the working days after those wee hours of the morning, when she has to face him. He’s smiling today, joking, bantering, this close to openly flirting with her.
“Do you need my finger?” he asks as she’s setting her stethoscope aside.
She whirls around and does end up standing before him as he’s sitting on the exam table, his hands splayed on the paper sheet. He raises one of them, forefinger pointed at her and offered, and waits.
She feels her cheeks reddening as bright as her shirt.
“What?” she snaps.
“For testing the sugar level?” He tilts his head and watches her with genuine concern. “Everything’s okay, doctor? You look...”
“I’m hot. Warm,” she corrects quickly. “It’s hot out there and I’m... Yes, everything is okay.”
She smiles and fans herself with her hand in an attempt to demonstrate how the suddenly hot weather is making her uncomfortable.
His eyes move down her neck, to her shoulders and then her bare arms - hot weather, showing more skin, dumb enough not to wear her lab coat - and the look on his face suggests that he agrees with her first statement about her being hot. In a literal way.
“Yes? No?” he asks moving his finger from right to left, back and forth.
She stares at the proffered finger and can’t help wondering how he would react if she leaned in and took it into her mouth. That’s very unprofessional, and the evidence that fantasies are not, in fact, harmless when they collide with reality.
He holds her in the palm of his hand: the heel of his hand pressing hard against her crotch, his fingers deep inside her, crooking, thrusting, playing with her until she slumps forward and rests her forehead against his. He doesn’t try to kiss her and she doesn’t try to be kissed. He’s a man with a one-tracked mind and he’s focusing on lower parts of her anatomy right now; there’s no room for kissing.
He wraps his free arm around her waist to support her. Very welcomed. Very welcomed too, the barely-there touch of his thumb between her thighs. The fingers inside her are nice and good, but this, this is just the perfect... “Don’t tease,” she groans. Because he’s a teasing asshole, who suggests but doesn’t quite act on it, who promises but delays the delivering. At least, until she moans against his mouth, high and needy and begging, and the next second, that damn thumb is stroking her clit, circling it, lightly at first, then with growing pressure.
“It’s okay,” she tells him. “I ran a test last week.”
“All right.”
It’s fast. She barely has the time to register what happens. In a swift gesture, he grabs her wrist and moves her hand to his mouth, turns it around and kisses the inside of her palm. The kiss is soft but so-not-innocent - warm breath, soft lips and the faintest brush of tongue - and she jerks her hand away in reflex, before doing something stupid.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his face as flushed as hers was minutes ago. “I don’t know what... I’m sorry.”
She comes hard and fast when he stops teasing, holding his eyes and panting in his space. For a few minutes, the pleasure erases any thread of guilt, has her arch and twist, makes her breathing deep and strong when she goes lax and sated.
There is guilt. But not enough not to allow her hands to wander down at the wee hours of the morning. And not because of the fantasies themselves but because of what they mean and because of the potential mess on their trail.
“Don’t worry. It’s hot out there, and I bet it’s even worse in Gen Pop. It messes with our heads.”
“Yes. The heat.”
Her eyes fall on his hand still resting on the exam table. Long, elegant, not as relaxed as it usually is.
He’s a man in jail. He’s a young, fit man in jail. She has a pretty good idea of what kind of use that long and elegant hand is put every now and then, perhaps late at night, perhaps on the wee hours of the morning. Perfectly natural, perfectly healthy.
She tries not to wonder what imagery he summons in those moments.
END
End note: I will (probably) post a short sequel/addendum to this. Just need to edit it a bit - that one, and half a dozen of other ficlets *sighs*
--Comments are always welcomed and appreciated :)
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael/Sara
Category: Het
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~ 1080
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: Sara knows that fantasies are harmless. Or not. (Season 1)
Author’s note: Notes: I guess the title makes this sound smarter than it is? It’s not. Moreover, syllogisms are supposed to have only two premises; Sara’s has three. Bear with me ;) Written for mmom
Many thanls to foxriverinmate for the beta.
The details may change minutely, but all in all, it goes like that:
Michael is sitting on the exam table of her infirmary and she’s standing before him. She’s close, but not close enough that it would be inappropriate during a medical exam. What is inappropriate during a medical exam is the way her stomach warm up and flutter, the images forming at the back of her head, her breathing picking up.
He doesn’t say anything even though he noticed something. She’ll admit she doesn’t bother much to hide it. He just slides his hand down between them and up her legs. Easy access because she’s been smart stupid enough to wear a skirt today - which never happens for obvious reasons. His fingers press into the cotton of her panties and tease her. (Sometimes, it’s silk panties or lace ones. She won’t go into the trivialities of how he ripped them off her, once, but let’s say that in that respect, cotton panties aren’t so bad.)
Fantasies are harmless.
Modern women know that fantasies are harmless.
Sara’s a modern woman.
Ergo, Sara knows that fantasies are harmless.
Whoever first wrote that utter crap in Cosmo or whatever other stupid magazine has never been a prison doctor fantasizing on an inmate.
He’s not gentle. Careful, considerate, respectful, sure. But not gentle. Straightforward and demanding, too. He sneaks his hand beneath the elastic band of her panties and palms her shortly before delving further. One, two, three fingers in quick succession, pushing in, stretching her, and he smiles at her when she gasps in pain-pleasure.
She glances at his other hand, resting carelessly on the white paper sheet covering the exam table. His nails are unusually taken care of, especially for a man in his situation, and his fingers so damn long. They respectively dig a bit into the white sheet for support and curl into her without mercy.
She never lets the not-harmless fantasies happen during working hours, nor the waking hours for that matter. She tries to, at least: sometimes, they just pop in. And then, there are the wee hours of the morning, when she’s deep into the comfort and safety of her bed, all safe-guards down...
There also are the working days after those wee hours of the morning, when she has to face him. He’s smiling today, joking, bantering, this close to openly flirting with her.
“Do you need my finger?” he asks as she’s setting her stethoscope aside.
She whirls around and does end up standing before him as he’s sitting on the exam table, his hands splayed on the paper sheet. He raises one of them, forefinger pointed at her and offered, and waits.
She feels her cheeks reddening as bright as her shirt.
“What?” she snaps.
“For testing the sugar level?” He tilts his head and watches her with genuine concern. “Everything’s okay, doctor? You look...”
“I’m hot. Warm,” she corrects quickly. “It’s hot out there and I’m... Yes, everything is okay.”
She smiles and fans herself with her hand in an attempt to demonstrate how the suddenly hot weather is making her uncomfortable.
His eyes move down her neck, to her shoulders and then her bare arms - hot weather, showing more skin, dumb enough not to wear her lab coat - and the look on his face suggests that he agrees with her first statement about her being hot. In a literal way.
“Yes? No?” he asks moving his finger from right to left, back and forth.
She stares at the proffered finger and can’t help wondering how he would react if she leaned in and took it into her mouth. That’s very unprofessional, and the evidence that fantasies are not, in fact, harmless when they collide with reality.
He holds her in the palm of his hand: the heel of his hand pressing hard against her crotch, his fingers deep inside her, crooking, thrusting, playing with her until she slumps forward and rests her forehead against his. He doesn’t try to kiss her and she doesn’t try to be kissed. He’s a man with a one-tracked mind and he’s focusing on lower parts of her anatomy right now; there’s no room for kissing.
He wraps his free arm around her waist to support her. Very welcomed. Very welcomed too, the barely-there touch of his thumb between her thighs. The fingers inside her are nice and good, but this, this is just the perfect... “Don’t tease,” she groans. Because he’s a teasing asshole, who suggests but doesn’t quite act on it, who promises but delays the delivering. At least, until she moans against his mouth, high and needy and begging, and the next second, that damn thumb is stroking her clit, circling it, lightly at first, then with growing pressure.
“It’s okay,” she tells him. “I ran a test last week.”
“All right.”
It’s fast. She barely has the time to register what happens. In a swift gesture, he grabs her wrist and moves her hand to his mouth, turns it around and kisses the inside of her palm. The kiss is soft but so-not-innocent - warm breath, soft lips and the faintest brush of tongue - and she jerks her hand away in reflex, before doing something stupid.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his face as flushed as hers was minutes ago. “I don’t know what... I’m sorry.”
She comes hard and fast when he stops teasing, holding his eyes and panting in his space. For a few minutes, the pleasure erases any thread of guilt, has her arch and twist, makes her breathing deep and strong when she goes lax and sated.
There is guilt. But not enough not to allow her hands to wander down at the wee hours of the morning. And not because of the fantasies themselves but because of what they mean and because of the potential mess on their trail.
“Don’t worry. It’s hot out there, and I bet it’s even worse in Gen Pop. It messes with our heads.”
“Yes. The heat.”
Her eyes fall on his hand still resting on the exam table. Long, elegant, not as relaxed as it usually is.
He’s a man in jail. He’s a young, fit man in jail. She has a pretty good idea of what kind of use that long and elegant hand is put every now and then, perhaps late at night, perhaps on the wee hours of the morning. Perfectly natural, perfectly healthy.
She tries not to wonder what imagery he summons in those moments.
END
End note: I will (probably) post a short sequel/addendum to this. Just need to edit it a bit - that one, and half a dozen of other ficlets *sighs*
--Comments are always welcomed and appreciated :)