Prison Break - The Walk In
Title: The Walk In
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael/Lincoln
Category: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Incest
Word Count: ~ 1160
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: He should walk away right now. (Pre-series.)
Author’s note: Written for mmom.
Many thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
He should walk away right fucking now.
(He should walk away from Michael, for Michael’s own good, for a million reasons, but at that very second, he has a more urgent motivation to do so.)
He stands frozen at the door of the bedroom, mercifully hidden in the shadows of the hallway.
Michael’s naked on his bed, lean and finely muscled body on top of the rumpled sheets and blankets, the bedside lamp casting its halo on him. He’s more tanned than Lincoln would have imagined - if he had imagined, y’know? which he hadn’t, obviously; the lightly golden shade looks good on him.
(What doesn’t look good on Michael, that said?)
He should walk away, not because Michael’s naked on his bed, but because Michael’s hand is wrapped around his cock, loose and still playful - been there, done that himself, Lincoln knows the playfulness won’t last for long. Eyes closed and head tipped back, he’s smiling to himself, to whatever fantasy is playing in that freakish brain of his. At least, for once, it has to be a kind of fantasy that Lincoln is able to get.
He doesn’t dare move, fearing that Michael might hear him, and he tries to breathe low, low, quiet and discreet.
(That’s the worst excuse ever not to walk away. Michael’s probably deep enough in his thoughts, picturing breasts and ass and a red mouth around his cock instead of his own hand, that he wouldn’t even notice him.)
He swallows hard and feels like the sound reverberates in the whole loft.
It’s sick enough to watch and not being able to walk away. But what’s even sicker is that it gets to him; how much it gets to him. He’s too bothered about that to even reflect on the breach of intimacy. Michael should have learned to close his door long ago, anyway.
(Michael did learn to close his door long ago, when they were still living together. Maybe Lincoln needs to learn not to sneak into his apartment unannounced.)
He stares with fascination as Michael’s fingers leisurely trail up and down, circle, brush and gradually grip tighter and tighter.
Tightness is a feeling Lincoln, to his dismay, is currently experiencing too.
Long, elegant, nimble fingers usually up to suitable-for-broad-daylight tasks are enthusiastically engaged in primal, old-as-the-world, activities. Lincoln wonders how he will react next time Michael hands him a bottle of beer or touches his shoulder. A not entirely unpleasant shiver runs down his spine and he goes back to watching because sure, watching is bad, but less bad than thinking about the effects it has on him.
(Apparently, Michael likes a hint of nails on the upstroke. It’s a knowledge Lincoln could have lived without. Or maybe not.)
He speeds up his movements, and Lincoln’s breathing speeds up alongside, as if his lungs were linked to Michael’s wrist. He’s a bit too rough with himself, in a way that both worries and arouses Lincoln. Oddest time to feel big brotherly about how Mike could chafe a delicate part of his anatomy, isn’t it?
The sounds. They go straight to his guts. The friction of skin on skin, wet and fast, but also the short grunts escaping from Michael’s mouth. His head is thrown back, almost invisible in the fluffy pillow. All Lincoln can see of his face is the long line of his neck and his wide open mouth.
(Right. Because now he is focusing on Michael’s face.)
Michael’s lower body shifts slightly on the bed. Back arching, hips rising, left hand dipping between his thighs, and two fingers pushed between his buttocks, thrust in, decisively, easy and oh so welcomed if his long groan of satisfaction is any indication. Lincoln, who’s past freaking out for now, smirks. Quite raunchy for someone usually looking so smart and primped.
(Fucking scorching hot.)
It doesn’t take Michael long from there. Lincoln holds onto the door frame - better holding onto the door frame than touching himself through his jeans. He’s a grown man. Not gonna come in his pants like a thirteen years old.
More importantly, not gonna come in his pants watching his baby brother beat off.
(Not gonna admit he’s one touch away from following Michael’s lead.)
Michael goes quiet before coming. Something else Lincoln could have done without knowing. It’s not only the groans stopping, it’s also a sharp intake of air and then, he stops breathing as if it required too much attention.
Come gushes from Michael’s cock - red, hard, hard cock - and splashes all over his stomach and chest in harsh spurts. The last one looks almost painful, bending him a bit at the waist in its intensity. Lincoln peers at his body coiling and uncoiling, at the drops of whitish fluid on his flawless skin with way too much enthrallment. A mess of jizz, an impressive one, granted, is nothing new to him and shouldn’t mesmerize him like that.
(Should. What he should have done was walk away five minutes - or maybe it was five hours - ago.)
When Lincoln comes out of his haze, Michael is staring right back at him from his reclined position.
(Now would be a good time to leave. Or perhaps it would the worst time to leave?)
Shame lasts only a split second on Michael’s face before he takes in that he has nothing to be ashamed of. Then, anger, disbelief and something darker and more primal that Lincoln does not want to identify clouds his eyes, colors his cheeks. In a quick roll to the side, he’s sitting on the edge of his bed, taking the sheets with him to wrap them around his hips, and getting up.
Lincoln doesn’t move. Lincoln doesn’t have the nerve nor the guts to tell him that the sheets thing is a nice try, but so totally unnecessary by now.
(Also, Michael’s still half-hard under those fucking sheets, and Lincoln must make a conscious effort to look up. Not that he’s keen to look his brother in the eye right now, to be honest, but still better than...)
Michael marches up to him. Confident pace, confident face and posture, eyes so dark that Lincoln doesn’t recognize them.
Michael would never hurt him. Michael can’t hurt him; Lincoln could have the upper hand on him in his sleep any time, and what’s to fear anyway?
Except tonight. He’s never been more afraid of a man than he is of his brother tonight.
END
Alternate ending:
Michael halts a couple of inches from him, heat, anger and musk radiating from his body, so close that the sheets bunched at his waist and held tight by those long fingers brush Lincoln’s belt buckle.
Lincoln comes in his pants.
--Feedback in any shape or form is always welcomed and appreciated :)
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael/Lincoln
Category: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Incest
Word Count: ~ 1160
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: He should walk away right now. (Pre-series.)
Author’s note: Written for mmom.
Many thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
He should walk away right fucking now.
(He should walk away from Michael, for Michael’s own good, for a million reasons, but at that very second, he has a more urgent motivation to do so.)
He stands frozen at the door of the bedroom, mercifully hidden in the shadows of the hallway.
Michael’s naked on his bed, lean and finely muscled body on top of the rumpled sheets and blankets, the bedside lamp casting its halo on him. He’s more tanned than Lincoln would have imagined - if he had imagined, y’know? which he hadn’t, obviously; the lightly golden shade looks good on him.
(What doesn’t look good on Michael, that said?)
He should walk away, not because Michael’s naked on his bed, but because Michael’s hand is wrapped around his cock, loose and still playful - been there, done that himself, Lincoln knows the playfulness won’t last for long. Eyes closed and head tipped back, he’s smiling to himself, to whatever fantasy is playing in that freakish brain of his. At least, for once, it has to be a kind of fantasy that Lincoln is able to get.
He doesn’t dare move, fearing that Michael might hear him, and he tries to breathe low, low, quiet and discreet.
(That’s the worst excuse ever not to walk away. Michael’s probably deep enough in his thoughts, picturing breasts and ass and a red mouth around his cock instead of his own hand, that he wouldn’t even notice him.)
He swallows hard and feels like the sound reverberates in the whole loft.
It’s sick enough to watch and not being able to walk away. But what’s even sicker is that it gets to him; how much it gets to him. He’s too bothered about that to even reflect on the breach of intimacy. Michael should have learned to close his door long ago, anyway.
(Michael did learn to close his door long ago, when they were still living together. Maybe Lincoln needs to learn not to sneak into his apartment unannounced.)
He stares with fascination as Michael’s fingers leisurely trail up and down, circle, brush and gradually grip tighter and tighter.
Tightness is a feeling Lincoln, to his dismay, is currently experiencing too.
Long, elegant, nimble fingers usually up to suitable-for-broad-daylight tasks are enthusiastically engaged in primal, old-as-the-world, activities. Lincoln wonders how he will react next time Michael hands him a bottle of beer or touches his shoulder. A not entirely unpleasant shiver runs down his spine and he goes back to watching because sure, watching is bad, but less bad than thinking about the effects it has on him.
(Apparently, Michael likes a hint of nails on the upstroke. It’s a knowledge Lincoln could have lived without. Or maybe not.)
He speeds up his movements, and Lincoln’s breathing speeds up alongside, as if his lungs were linked to Michael’s wrist. He’s a bit too rough with himself, in a way that both worries and arouses Lincoln. Oddest time to feel big brotherly about how Mike could chafe a delicate part of his anatomy, isn’t it?
The sounds. They go straight to his guts. The friction of skin on skin, wet and fast, but also the short grunts escaping from Michael’s mouth. His head is thrown back, almost invisible in the fluffy pillow. All Lincoln can see of his face is the long line of his neck and his wide open mouth.
(Right. Because now he is focusing on Michael’s face.)
Michael’s lower body shifts slightly on the bed. Back arching, hips rising, left hand dipping between his thighs, and two fingers pushed between his buttocks, thrust in, decisively, easy and oh so welcomed if his long groan of satisfaction is any indication. Lincoln, who’s past freaking out for now, smirks. Quite raunchy for someone usually looking so smart and primped.
(Fucking scorching hot.)
It doesn’t take Michael long from there. Lincoln holds onto the door frame - better holding onto the door frame than touching himself through his jeans. He’s a grown man. Not gonna come in his pants like a thirteen years old.
More importantly, not gonna come in his pants watching his baby brother beat off.
(Not gonna admit he’s one touch away from following Michael’s lead.)
Michael goes quiet before coming. Something else Lincoln could have done without knowing. It’s not only the groans stopping, it’s also a sharp intake of air and then, he stops breathing as if it required too much attention.
Come gushes from Michael’s cock - red, hard, hard cock - and splashes all over his stomach and chest in harsh spurts. The last one looks almost painful, bending him a bit at the waist in its intensity. Lincoln peers at his body coiling and uncoiling, at the drops of whitish fluid on his flawless skin with way too much enthrallment. A mess of jizz, an impressive one, granted, is nothing new to him and shouldn’t mesmerize him like that.
(Should. What he should have done was walk away five minutes - or maybe it was five hours - ago.)
When Lincoln comes out of his haze, Michael is staring right back at him from his reclined position.
(Now would be a good time to leave. Or perhaps it would the worst time to leave?)
Shame lasts only a split second on Michael’s face before he takes in that he has nothing to be ashamed of. Then, anger, disbelief and something darker and more primal that Lincoln does not want to identify clouds his eyes, colors his cheeks. In a quick roll to the side, he’s sitting on the edge of his bed, taking the sheets with him to wrap them around his hips, and getting up.
Lincoln doesn’t move. Lincoln doesn’t have the nerve nor the guts to tell him that the sheets thing is a nice try, but so totally unnecessary by now.
(Also, Michael’s still half-hard under those fucking sheets, and Lincoln must make a conscious effort to look up. Not that he’s keen to look his brother in the eye right now, to be honest, but still better than...)
Michael marches up to him. Confident pace, confident face and posture, eyes so dark that Lincoln doesn’t recognize them.
Michael would never hurt him. Michael can’t hurt him; Lincoln could have the upper hand on him in his sleep any time, and what’s to fear anyway?
Except tonight. He’s never been more afraid of a man than he is of his brother tonight.
END
Alternate ending:
Michael halts a couple of inches from him, heat, anger and musk radiating from his body, so close that the sheets bunched at his waist and held tight by those long fingers brush Lincoln’s belt buckle.
Lincoln comes in his pants.
--Feedback in any shape or form is always welcomed and appreciated :)