Prison Break Fic: Mr. Sandman
Title: Mr. Sandman
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Jane Phillips/Lincoln Burrows/Gretchen Morgan (kinda sorta)
Category: Het
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Warnings: No spoilers unless you have no idea who the women are. Takes place anytime during S3 or S4. Take your pick.
Summary: Dreaming men are haunted men. ~ Stephen Vincent Benet
Notes: For domfangirl’s birthday. Better late than never. Not as porny as I would’ve liked. There’s a reason why I don’t write threesome. It’s hard to do. Plus, my muse decided to get emo. I hope you like anyway.
His morning shower is as cold as he can stand it and then some.
He had a dream. He knows it’s not right, what he dreamt. He knows it makes him sick. He also knows it couldn’t be helped. He has no control. Not when it’s been so long.
There’s no other way to explain waking up in a cold sweat, panting with his dick hard because in his head he’d just fucked Gretchen.
And Jane.
And loved it.
It starts: They, him and Jane, talking. Well, arguing. The quiet kind. About what? He has no idea. Not that matters.
Then they kiss. More like bite. They tear at their clothes, in a hurry. Soon skin to skin. Him flat on his back with her on top.
It’s not long before he realizes it’s not just him and Jane. Someone else is there, too. There are more arms and legs covered by skin, paler than his and softer, too. She’s too warm for someone that looks that cold.
His eyes open. Jane and Gretchen look at him like they want to devour him. It feels like it when their lips and fingers press into his flesh, not always gentle but always insistent. In sync, they are, the way their bodies move around him.
Too many of everything - body parts, sensations, feelings - but not enough at the same time.
He fucks one harder than the other. He hates her more than what’s probably possible. All Gretchen does is laugh. He hears, “You can’t break me.” He tries and succeeds. He knows that he sees tiny cracks in her eyes. It makes him work harder, growl louder until she’s shuddering around him.
He takes his time with Jane. He pretends like they’re alone; ignores the fingernails that don’t belong to her scraping hard - harder than necessary - down his back. She wants to hurt him some more. He won’t let her. At least not right now. He just sinks and sinks into Jane’s warmth, mouths at her skin, smells her, looks into eyes he never really got to know.
It ends: Abruptly. A loud knock on his door and a man’s voice - he can’t tell whose - telling him "It’s time."
He lets the water wash the dream away. He tells himself it means nothing. None of his other dreams have come true. Not that he wants this one to. But even if he did, there’s no reason for that to start happening now.
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Jane Phillips/Lincoln Burrows/Gretchen Morgan (kinda sorta)
Category: Het
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Warnings: No spoilers unless you have no idea who the women are. Takes place anytime during S3 or S4. Take your pick.
Summary: Dreaming men are haunted men. ~ Stephen Vincent Benet
Notes: For domfangirl’s birthday. Better late than never. Not as porny as I would’ve liked. There’s a reason why I don’t write threesome. It’s hard to do. Plus, my muse decided to get emo. I hope you like anyway.
His morning shower is as cold as he can stand it and then some.
He had a dream. He knows it’s not right, what he dreamt. He knows it makes him sick. He also knows it couldn’t be helped. He has no control. Not when it’s been so long.
There’s no other way to explain waking up in a cold sweat, panting with his dick hard because in his head he’d just fucked Gretchen.
And Jane.
And loved it.
It starts: They, him and Jane, talking. Well, arguing. The quiet kind. About what? He has no idea. Not that matters.
Then they kiss. More like bite. They tear at their clothes, in a hurry. Soon skin to skin. Him flat on his back with her on top.
It’s not long before he realizes it’s not just him and Jane. Someone else is there, too. There are more arms and legs covered by skin, paler than his and softer, too. She’s too warm for someone that looks that cold.
His eyes open. Jane and Gretchen look at him like they want to devour him. It feels like it when their lips and fingers press into his flesh, not always gentle but always insistent. In sync, they are, the way their bodies move around him.
Too many of everything - body parts, sensations, feelings - but not enough at the same time.
He fucks one harder than the other. He hates her more than what’s probably possible. All Gretchen does is laugh. He hears, “You can’t break me.” He tries and succeeds. He knows that he sees tiny cracks in her eyes. It makes him work harder, growl louder until she’s shuddering around him.
He takes his time with Jane. He pretends like they’re alone; ignores the fingernails that don’t belong to her scraping hard - harder than necessary - down his back. She wants to hurt him some more. He won’t let her. At least not right now. He just sinks and sinks into Jane’s warmth, mouths at her skin, smells her, looks into eyes he never really got to know.
It ends: Abruptly. A loud knock on his door and a man’s voice - he can’t tell whose - telling him "It’s time."
He lets the water wash the dream away. He tells himself it means nothing. None of his other dreams have come true. Not that he wants this one to. But even if he did, there’s no reason for that to start happening now.