Prison Break - It's Those Hands
Title: It’s Those Hands
Author: clair-de-lune
Pairings: Michael/Lincoln. A tiny bit of Lincoln/Veronica, Lincoln/Lisa, Lincoln/OFC, Lincoln/Derek - and yes, that’s it.
Genre: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~ 3600
Warning: Incest
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: And then there are Michael’s hands. Of course. Always drove Lincoln crazy. One way or another.
Prompt by foophile: What those fingers could do if only given the chance. Hand fetishization.
Notes: Many thanks to recycledfaery for the beta.
Read entry in light format
Hands.
One would think he’s into tits and mouths and pussies and asses. And well, he is because frankly, who isn’t? But hands have always had this weird, overwhelming effect on him.
Melissa Collins laying her hand with its blue painted nails on his knee in junior high school in a falsely casual gesture. He had to pull his shirt out of his pants and let it fall over his fly before he painfully walked to the men’s room to lock himself in one of the small stalls. Sure, he was fourteen and it didn’t take much to make him hard in the blink of an eye. Still. He was pretty sure that his buddies would have pictured Melissa’s boobs or mouth while taking care of the situation, not her fingers and their blue nails slipping past his lips.
One of Veronica’s hands cupping a perky breast and the other one trailing on the inside of her own thigh, her short nails leaving rosy marks on the smooth and pale flesh. She stared at him the whole time she stroked herself, making a deliberate show of it; he couldn’t take his eyes off her fingers. He didn’t dare touch her, touch them, mesmerized. Just took them in his mouth when she was finished, one finger after another from pinky to thumb, and swirled his tongue around them. He was still sucking on them when Vee straddled him and slowly sank down on him. He bit into the edge of her palm when he came.
Lisa’s fist tight around his cock, pumping and tugging. It was light pink against his red flesh, surprisingly strong. It seemed so tiny, because Lisa was a small woman with small hands. Skilled and soft small hands. There was a very awkward moment when he realized that he came way sooner than he would have liked to. She watched her fingers, smiled, grabbed his hand and placed it between her legs. “Well, you know what you have to do, now.” He thrust his fingers into the slick, moist warmth, enjoying the sensation as much as Lisa’s moans of appreciation.
Damn, even Derek one night when they were very, very high, asking him if it was wrong to like having things - not big things, Derek made it clear that he didn’t swing that way - up his ass. Then he was pushing a blunt, coated with spit, digit inside of Lincoln and begging him to reciprocate. Not a big deal. Just a helping hand. The sensation was similar, yet different from the one created by his own fingers. Rougher than a girl’s and more taunting than if he had fondled himself. Made him think about another man’s hands he knew he shouldn’t have thought about that way. He was not sure what actually got him off, the touch or the mental image; he didn’t really want to know.
Doc Tancredi’s hands taking care of a nasty cut on his thigh and provoking quite an embarrassing reaction. Sure he might not be fourteen anymore, but he hadn’t been touched down there by anything else than his own hands for over two years. And the doc’s hands, all professional and careful beneath the gloves, were so delicate and nimble. She smiled, shrugged and told him not to worry when he grumbled a “Sorry, you know how it is,” because she did know how it was. He watched, transfixed, while she pulled off the gloves. She told him that she had ‘stuff’ to get and it would take her a few minutes. Then she mercifully drew the curtain and left her office. He could still feel her fingers on his thigh. In his thoughts, he let them creep up just a little bit.
* *
And then there are Michael’s hands. Of course. Always drove Lincoln crazy. One way or another. Because they used to borrow his stuff when they were kids, used to have this propensity to take things apart just so Michael could look inside and most of the time - but not always - rebuild them. Wide open hands, fingers twisting when Lincoln tickled him. Closed in fists and arms up to protect his face when Lincoln hit him. Knuckles smeared with blood, disbelief in Michael’s eyes the first time he hit back. Palm nestled on the small of the back of some girl, fingers splayed on the hollow of her waist, eliciting an absurd burst of jealousy in Lincoln. Friendly lying on Veronica’s shoulder and giving Lincoln distressingly arousing thoughts. Fingers fiddling with some wood model until the damn thing reached perfection. One hand holding a pen, the other one nonchalantly resting on the table.
Not to mention both hands wrapped around his shaft, stroking himself in the intimacy and the dim light of his bedroom. Lincoln watched the long, elegant fingers brush and lift, caress and rub, and he had to lean into the door frame and hold on to it to stay put and silent. Honestly, he didn’t mean to walk in on Michael that day, and he knew that he should have left, not stuck around like some perv and spied until... He took care not to think about the implications - and he was good at not thinking, he admitted sarcastically - when later, in his own room, he fisted his dick and pictured Michael’s hands touching him. Unlike Michael, he did lock the door though.
Michael’s hands had always driven Lincoln crazy. The years, the estrangement and the distance had quietly nurtured the weird obsession and it hits him at the most inopportune moment. The two of them sitting in the back of the police van, ankles and wrists chained to the floor, Lincoln throws sideway glances at Michael’s hands; his imagination runs a bit wild when he muses about what those fingers could do if only given the chance. The first very bad idea: for a couple of minutes, he absolutely doesn’t think about Michael’s fingers in correlation with their up-coming, imperative escape and what said fingers might accomplish in this context. It’s really not his train of thought. The second very bad idea, maybe worse than the first: he wonders if Michael’s handcuffs really have to go. An image, a fantasy of his brother’s restrained hands, wrists bound and fingers sliding and slipping on and in Lincoln, pops into his mind and refuses to go away. He squirms uncomfortably in the seat, which gets him a worried look from Michael and a warning stare from the cop in front of them.
* *
But it isn’t until they are aboard the cargo sailing to Panama that things escalate to the point where it becomes problematic and, then, uncontrollable.
Sixteen to twenty hours a day together in a small cabin. They can hardly wander around the ship, so they leave the cabin as little as possible. Just enough so that the crew and the other passengers don’t have to wonder about them always locked up in their quarters. Not enough to be noticed and spotted.
Lincoln had never thought a human being could use his hands that much. They’re always on display. They dangle in the air, fingers brushing the grey-brown floor when Michael is sprawled out on his bunk on the other side of the cabin - a mere six feet away. They write, hold a book or a newspaper, are neatly folded on his stomach or casually wrapped around the headboard bars of the bed. They move when he talks. They touch Lincoln’s shoulder to get his attention. Worse, they button and unbutton clothes, drum on a belt buckle or bring food to his mouth.
Bringing food to his mouth was the last straw. Maybe Lincoln could have taken it, though, if Michael hadn’t sucked on his thumb to lick off it the juice dripping from the orange he’s eating. Once. Twice. Lincoln watches the digits dip past his brother’s lips, visualizes the flick of tongue on the flesh. There is no third time: when Michael moves again, Lincoln reaches out and forcefully grabs his wrist and restrains it. Michael jerks his head up in surprise and tries to pull back. Lincoln strengthens his grip, feeling the muscles harden under his palm and the droplets of orange juice run down Michael’s thumb and onto his own little finger.
“What’s the matter with you!” Michael protests, fighting to break free. Lincoln doesn’t pay much attention, just enough to secure his hold before he repositions his fingers. He rubs the curvy part of his brother’s thumb and smears the sticky juice on the skin; leans forwards until his lips touches their joined hands, and the tip of his tongue traces a line from the base of Michael’s wrist to his fingernail. The tastes of the salty skin mingled with the orange drags a small growl out of him. By then, Michael isn’t resisting anymore, isn’t speaking anymore. Watching Lincoln with hooded eyes, he lets him lick off all the sticky juice, then grasp both his hands and force them flat on the table between them. “Linc?”
He doesn’t answer. He runs his fingers on the back of Michael’s hands, flips them around and does the same on his palms. They are as long as his own, a bit less large, the fingers absurdly graceful for a man. Soft skin but definitely not as smooth as a woman’s, and there are light calluses that he brushes faintly; he wonders how they would feel on him.
“It’s your fucking hands,” he grumbles, loosening his grip.
Despite the moist heat of the cabin, Michael quivers. Then, holding his gaze, he tentatively puts his middle finger on Lincoln’s lips and presses into the parched flesh to gain access to the inside of his brother’s mouth.
“Stop it, Michael,” Lincoln warns him, tilting his head back to escape him. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“What if I do know?”
He is a grown-up, Lincoln ponders. An incredibly foolish grown-up for someone who is that smart and clever, a grown-up who likes to play with fire, but a grown-up nonetheless. So Lincoln lets him slip one finger past his lips and teeth, then another one. He takes a sharp breath and sucks lightly on the two digits. Rubs them with his tongue, flicks at the taut skin between them, grazes the pulpy part with his teeth. With a wicked smile, Michael moves them in and out, leisurely, regularly, leaving nothing to imagination about what he’s mimicking.
“You really have no idea what you’re doing,” Lincoln grouses, speaking around the two fingers he won’t let go. He wriggles awkwardly on the uncomfortable chair, relieved to have his legs under the small table. He felt the first manifestations of a very unwelcome erection after the first lick and things are not getting better.
“No?”
“No.” Although to be honest, he isn’t so sure because this is Michael: God only knows what is going on in that creepy brain of his. Anger, challenge and desire mixing and bubbling inside him, Lincoln pushes back his chair, roughly hauls Michael up by his collar and walks him backwards until his calves hit one of their bunks. There is a jolt of surprise, a flash of panic in his brother’s eyes, and Lincoln gets his response - it has been a long time since Michael last seemed so taken aback by Lincoln’s behavior. It feels surprisingly good, knowing that he can totally overpower him in such a way. They fight in silence, ultimately falling across the narrow bed, legs tangled and stomachs pressed together. Lincoln lays flat on him and pins him to the mattress. Michael, little adaptable freak that he is, only needs a few seconds to recover from the shock and then he offers his fingers to Lincoln again.
Foolish smart grown-up playing with fire. Will eventually get burned, Lincoln thinks, and probably drag Lincoln along.
“It’s not in my mouth that I want them.” If Michael wants to play, they will play. He pushes on his hands and towers Michael, straddles him, his knees deep in the thin mattress on each side of his hips.
Michael watches him with huge, black eyes, as he unties the string of his sweatpants and shoves everything down his hips, pants and boxers, at the same time. His cock springs free right in front of Michael, who after a slight hesitation, lifts his hand and runs a finger along its length. The touch feels agonizingly good and Lincoln juts his hips just a little bit, trying to get more. Breathing hard and his face flush, Michael demands, “Your t-shirt too. Take it off,” his voice almost normal. Lincoln can’t quite decide if he really wants the garment off or is refusing to give up all control. Doesn’t really matter anyway. He shrugs off the shirt and tosses it on the floor.
The room, already stuffy, becomes unbearable to Lincoln when Michael’s hands slide up the front of his body. They’re spread flat on his skin, palms massaging and fingertips digging into his flesh, slightly scratching it. His pulse quickens and he has to breathe through his mouth. He tries to grab Michael’s wrists, but his brother escapes him and creeps up his chest to graze his nipples; then his fingers move up again, reach his lips, and Lincoln frowns.
“I told you...”
“Lick.” Michael gives the blunt order and holds out his hand, palm turned upwards. Lincoln dutifully draws his tongue along the heart line, the life line, the fucking head line, and deeply enjoys the way Michael grows restless and throws him an exasperated glance. “Get it wet, Lincoln. If you want me to...” He trails off when Lincoln obeys with a grin and liberally coats the palm and fingers with spit.
He moans out loud in a really embarrassing way when Michael, without warning or flourish, tightly wraps his slick hand around him. Squeezes, pumps up and down and twists his wrist. Lincoln thrusts his hips, thrusts in Michael’s hand, unable to restrain himself. Michael’s hands are just like Michael himself: beautiful, strong, skilled, able to do smart and wicked and crazy things. How could Lincoln not love them? He remembers how they used to take things apart so Michael could look inside of them. He has the strange feeling that it’s exactly what they’re doing to him right now. Baring him from his last threads of sense and self-control and allowing Michael to plunge in his eyes and see everything Lincoln hides. The heat, the one coming from his groin as well as the one radiating from Michael, is excruciating. He sinks back a bit and grinds down against Michael’s crotch, looking for friction, looking for a way to blow up his brother’s fucking stance. He feels a hard bulge under his butt, thinks it has to be painful, that kind of hard-on firmly imprisoned in the rough jeans, and rubs a bit more.
Michael pants and, half closing his eyes in anticipation, sucks two of his fingers into his mouth. Lincoln’s gaze goes back and forth between the red lips and Michael’s hand working him. Too enthralled to realize what is going on - he jerks with surprise and growls when Michael, reaching between his thighs, pushes a long, wet finger in him.
“Fuck!”
Michael smiles at him, a fond, amused smile, while he thrusts and crooks his finger, then carefully adds the second one, still moving his other hand; the weird tenderness of his gestures contrasts with their frantic, almost harsh previous caresses. Lincoln shifts his hips, unable to decide whether he should move forward or shove backward, trying to do both at the same time. The sight, the sensations are getting the better of him. A familiar tingling travels down his spine, sparks in his lower back and stomach to finally explode in a white heat and spread through him. He thrashes between Michael’s hands, panting and swearing, grabs his shoulders and holds on to them. The violent shudders of pleasure leave him breathless and unsteady on his knees and he slowly collapses half on the bed and half on his brother, spent. He closes his eyes. For a while, everything is narrowed to Michael’s warm body under his, Michael’s breath on his temple and Michael’s hand leisurely gliding up from his ass to the nape of his neck. The hand rests there and strokes him in a protective way that would usually bug him; he just hums his appreciation.
When he finally looks up at Michael, he sees him lick peacefully the translucent white substance staining his hand. He blinks and winces but something clenches in his belly. The “Freak,” he blurts out is answered by a disturbingly hot gaze and the spectacle of Michael’s tongue extending a bit more. It’s a blatant, gratuitous provocation that works just fine and makes him grunt - more wincing and even more clenching in his belly. He rolls on his side, not caring that his pants and underwear are still shoved down; it’s a bit late for this kind of shyness anyway.
“Why?” he asks.
He’s surprised when Michael kisses him on the lips. Jerking him off was one thing - Lincoln won’t linger on how wrong and crazy it was of him to demand it and of Michael to go for it - but kissing him has a different quality, a different meaning. He’s a little shocked by the contact and by how fervent and greedy the kiss is. Then he remembers the straining bulge under his ass, remembers that Michael didn’t come, not yet. Trying not to ponder what the previous, rolling-with-it reaction and now eager touch imply, he opens his mouth to Michael and tastes himself on his brother’s tongue. There is a moan low in Michael’s throat and he arches his back, hoping for some contact. Lincoln gingerly palms his erection and the moan morphs into a growl.
“Why did you do it?” he asks again.
“You wanted me to.” Lincoln looks at him, not impressed. “I thought that by now you would have figured out that I love you.”
“Freak,” he repeats. “You don’t think it’s a rather extreme way to show it?”
“Depends on what you consider to be extreme.” Lincoln thinks about tattoos, willing incarcerations and crazy escapes, and he has to concede to him on this one. Kinda. “And by the way, you threw me on the bed.” Yeah, well, he has to concede to that one too. “Now, I’m sorry but if you’ll excuse me...” He shifts on the bed, dislodging Lincoln and facing away from him. Lincoln leans on his elbow and can’t help looking over Michael’s shoulder, staring at his fingers as they reach for the belt and lazily open it. He can still feel them on him, in him; he swallows hard.
“You really have a thing for fingers, don’t you? Or hands?” Michael smirks, twisting his neck to watch him.
“Yeah.” He unconsciously licks his lips when Michael frees himself from the constraints of his clothes. He decides not to tell him that even though he does have a thing for hands, Michael’s hands just makes him lose all common sense. “I watched you once,” he confesses. “While you were...”
“Yes, thanks,” he cuts him off, rolling his eyes. “I got it. Voyeuristic.”
“Fancy way to call me a perv.”
“You’re going to have to watch again because I’m not moving right now.”
“Exhibitionist. Perv.”
“I just got you off. Let’s not go there.”
“Fair enough.”
He grabs him by the shoulder to pull him on his back, sneering when he opens his eyes wide with surprise. He pushes up Michael’s shirt and bends as much as he can on the small bed to nuzzle his chest. Closes his lips on a nipple and rolls it on his tongue. Michael bucks against him.
“About fairness...,” he drawls. Looming over him, he kisses his side and slides across his stomach to his belly button. He mouths, licks and tongues at the skin, enjoying the soft roll of muscles, the harsh in-takes of air and the way Michael clutches desperately at him. His ministrations start to get lower, bit by bit, without haste, and he glances up. Gives Michael a leer and is rewarded by a gasp and a sparkling in his eyes.
“You wouldn’t...,” Michael whispers in disbelief.
He totally would. He’s going to. He’s a bit taken aback by how much he wants this - it goes beyond fairness and reciprocity - but the mixture of hope, anxiety and lust on Michael’s face is too good to pass up.
“Try me.”
“You like it that much to have things in your mouth?” He spreads his legs and - despite Lincoln’s offer - seems astonished when Lincoln does settle between them.
“Rude, man.”
“I learned from the best.”
Sniffling at that, Lincoln gnaws the sensitive flesh of his lower stomach, just to teach him a lesson, then ducks his head lower.
“Wait,” Michael asks. He half sits up, propelled on his elbows and leaning against the pillow. “Give me your fingers.”
Lincoln complies willingly, transfixed by the way they got in and out of the red, swollen lips. With a groan, he wriggles his way down. Michael flicks his tongue against his wrist, his palm, sucks harder on his fingers, making it as dirty as he can, and Lincoln playfully echoes the action down here. There is a long whine above his head and an involuntary bite on his knuckles. Very soon, Michael’s hands come around his head, cradling and stroking it lovingly with sweaty palms and long, avid fingers. Lincoln sighs with pleasure and basks in the touch.
-End-
Comments are always appreciated ;)
Author: clair-de-lune
Pairings: Michael/Lincoln. A tiny bit of Lincoln/Veronica, Lincoln/Lisa, Lincoln/OFC, Lincoln/Derek - and yes, that’s it.
Genre: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~ 3600
Warning: Incest
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: And then there are Michael’s hands. Of course. Always drove Lincoln crazy. One way or another.
Prompt by foophile: What those fingers could do if only given the chance. Hand fetishization.
Notes: Many thanks to recycledfaery for the beta.
Read entry in light format
Hands.
One would think he’s into tits and mouths and pussies and asses. And well, he is because frankly, who isn’t? But hands have always had this weird, overwhelming effect on him.
Melissa Collins laying her hand with its blue painted nails on his knee in junior high school in a falsely casual gesture. He had to pull his shirt out of his pants and let it fall over his fly before he painfully walked to the men’s room to lock himself in one of the small stalls. Sure, he was fourteen and it didn’t take much to make him hard in the blink of an eye. Still. He was pretty sure that his buddies would have pictured Melissa’s boobs or mouth while taking care of the situation, not her fingers and their blue nails slipping past his lips.
One of Veronica’s hands cupping a perky breast and the other one trailing on the inside of her own thigh, her short nails leaving rosy marks on the smooth and pale flesh. She stared at him the whole time she stroked herself, making a deliberate show of it; he couldn’t take his eyes off her fingers. He didn’t dare touch her, touch them, mesmerized. Just took them in his mouth when she was finished, one finger after another from pinky to thumb, and swirled his tongue around them. He was still sucking on them when Vee straddled him and slowly sank down on him. He bit into the edge of her palm when he came.
Lisa’s fist tight around his cock, pumping and tugging. It was light pink against his red flesh, surprisingly strong. It seemed so tiny, because Lisa was a small woman with small hands. Skilled and soft small hands. There was a very awkward moment when he realized that he came way sooner than he would have liked to. She watched her fingers, smiled, grabbed his hand and placed it between her legs. “Well, you know what you have to do, now.” He thrust his fingers into the slick, moist warmth, enjoying the sensation as much as Lisa’s moans of appreciation.
Damn, even Derek one night when they were very, very high, asking him if it was wrong to like having things - not big things, Derek made it clear that he didn’t swing that way - up his ass. Then he was pushing a blunt, coated with spit, digit inside of Lincoln and begging him to reciprocate. Not a big deal. Just a helping hand. The sensation was similar, yet different from the one created by his own fingers. Rougher than a girl’s and more taunting than if he had fondled himself. Made him think about another man’s hands he knew he shouldn’t have thought about that way. He was not sure what actually got him off, the touch or the mental image; he didn’t really want to know.
Doc Tancredi’s hands taking care of a nasty cut on his thigh and provoking quite an embarrassing reaction. Sure he might not be fourteen anymore, but he hadn’t been touched down there by anything else than his own hands for over two years. And the doc’s hands, all professional and careful beneath the gloves, were so delicate and nimble. She smiled, shrugged and told him not to worry when he grumbled a “Sorry, you know how it is,” because she did know how it was. He watched, transfixed, while she pulled off the gloves. She told him that she had ‘stuff’ to get and it would take her a few minutes. Then she mercifully drew the curtain and left her office. He could still feel her fingers on his thigh. In his thoughts, he let them creep up just a little bit.
* *
And then there are Michael’s hands. Of course. Always drove Lincoln crazy. One way or another. Because they used to borrow his stuff when they were kids, used to have this propensity to take things apart just so Michael could look inside and most of the time - but not always - rebuild them. Wide open hands, fingers twisting when Lincoln tickled him. Closed in fists and arms up to protect his face when Lincoln hit him. Knuckles smeared with blood, disbelief in Michael’s eyes the first time he hit back. Palm nestled on the small of the back of some girl, fingers splayed on the hollow of her waist, eliciting an absurd burst of jealousy in Lincoln. Friendly lying on Veronica’s shoulder and giving Lincoln distressingly arousing thoughts. Fingers fiddling with some wood model until the damn thing reached perfection. One hand holding a pen, the other one nonchalantly resting on the table.
Not to mention both hands wrapped around his shaft, stroking himself in the intimacy and the dim light of his bedroom. Lincoln watched the long, elegant fingers brush and lift, caress and rub, and he had to lean into the door frame and hold on to it to stay put and silent. Honestly, he didn’t mean to walk in on Michael that day, and he knew that he should have left, not stuck around like some perv and spied until... He took care not to think about the implications - and he was good at not thinking, he admitted sarcastically - when later, in his own room, he fisted his dick and pictured Michael’s hands touching him. Unlike Michael, he did lock the door though.
Michael’s hands had always driven Lincoln crazy. The years, the estrangement and the distance had quietly nurtured the weird obsession and it hits him at the most inopportune moment. The two of them sitting in the back of the police van, ankles and wrists chained to the floor, Lincoln throws sideway glances at Michael’s hands; his imagination runs a bit wild when he muses about what those fingers could do if only given the chance. The first very bad idea: for a couple of minutes, he absolutely doesn’t think about Michael’s fingers in correlation with their up-coming, imperative escape and what said fingers might accomplish in this context. It’s really not his train of thought. The second very bad idea, maybe worse than the first: he wonders if Michael’s handcuffs really have to go. An image, a fantasy of his brother’s restrained hands, wrists bound and fingers sliding and slipping on and in Lincoln, pops into his mind and refuses to go away. He squirms uncomfortably in the seat, which gets him a worried look from Michael and a warning stare from the cop in front of them.
* *
But it isn’t until they are aboard the cargo sailing to Panama that things escalate to the point where it becomes problematic and, then, uncontrollable.
Sixteen to twenty hours a day together in a small cabin. They can hardly wander around the ship, so they leave the cabin as little as possible. Just enough so that the crew and the other passengers don’t have to wonder about them always locked up in their quarters. Not enough to be noticed and spotted.
Lincoln had never thought a human being could use his hands that much. They’re always on display. They dangle in the air, fingers brushing the grey-brown floor when Michael is sprawled out on his bunk on the other side of the cabin - a mere six feet away. They write, hold a book or a newspaper, are neatly folded on his stomach or casually wrapped around the headboard bars of the bed. They move when he talks. They touch Lincoln’s shoulder to get his attention. Worse, they button and unbutton clothes, drum on a belt buckle or bring food to his mouth.
Bringing food to his mouth was the last straw. Maybe Lincoln could have taken it, though, if Michael hadn’t sucked on his thumb to lick off it the juice dripping from the orange he’s eating. Once. Twice. Lincoln watches the digits dip past his brother’s lips, visualizes the flick of tongue on the flesh. There is no third time: when Michael moves again, Lincoln reaches out and forcefully grabs his wrist and restrains it. Michael jerks his head up in surprise and tries to pull back. Lincoln strengthens his grip, feeling the muscles harden under his palm and the droplets of orange juice run down Michael’s thumb and onto his own little finger.
“What’s the matter with you!” Michael protests, fighting to break free. Lincoln doesn’t pay much attention, just enough to secure his hold before he repositions his fingers. He rubs the curvy part of his brother’s thumb and smears the sticky juice on the skin; leans forwards until his lips touches their joined hands, and the tip of his tongue traces a line from the base of Michael’s wrist to his fingernail. The tastes of the salty skin mingled with the orange drags a small growl out of him. By then, Michael isn’t resisting anymore, isn’t speaking anymore. Watching Lincoln with hooded eyes, he lets him lick off all the sticky juice, then grasp both his hands and force them flat on the table between them. “Linc?”
He doesn’t answer. He runs his fingers on the back of Michael’s hands, flips them around and does the same on his palms. They are as long as his own, a bit less large, the fingers absurdly graceful for a man. Soft skin but definitely not as smooth as a woman’s, and there are light calluses that he brushes faintly; he wonders how they would feel on him.
“It’s your fucking hands,” he grumbles, loosening his grip.
Despite the moist heat of the cabin, Michael quivers. Then, holding his gaze, he tentatively puts his middle finger on Lincoln’s lips and presses into the parched flesh to gain access to the inside of his brother’s mouth.
“Stop it, Michael,” Lincoln warns him, tilting his head back to escape him. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“What if I do know?”
He is a grown-up, Lincoln ponders. An incredibly foolish grown-up for someone who is that smart and clever, a grown-up who likes to play with fire, but a grown-up nonetheless. So Lincoln lets him slip one finger past his lips and teeth, then another one. He takes a sharp breath and sucks lightly on the two digits. Rubs them with his tongue, flicks at the taut skin between them, grazes the pulpy part with his teeth. With a wicked smile, Michael moves them in and out, leisurely, regularly, leaving nothing to imagination about what he’s mimicking.
“You really have no idea what you’re doing,” Lincoln grouses, speaking around the two fingers he won’t let go. He wriggles awkwardly on the uncomfortable chair, relieved to have his legs under the small table. He felt the first manifestations of a very unwelcome erection after the first lick and things are not getting better.
“No?”
“No.” Although to be honest, he isn’t so sure because this is Michael: God only knows what is going on in that creepy brain of his. Anger, challenge and desire mixing and bubbling inside him, Lincoln pushes back his chair, roughly hauls Michael up by his collar and walks him backwards until his calves hit one of their bunks. There is a jolt of surprise, a flash of panic in his brother’s eyes, and Lincoln gets his response - it has been a long time since Michael last seemed so taken aback by Lincoln’s behavior. It feels surprisingly good, knowing that he can totally overpower him in such a way. They fight in silence, ultimately falling across the narrow bed, legs tangled and stomachs pressed together. Lincoln lays flat on him and pins him to the mattress. Michael, little adaptable freak that he is, only needs a few seconds to recover from the shock and then he offers his fingers to Lincoln again.
Foolish smart grown-up playing with fire. Will eventually get burned, Lincoln thinks, and probably drag Lincoln along.
“It’s not in my mouth that I want them.” If Michael wants to play, they will play. He pushes on his hands and towers Michael, straddles him, his knees deep in the thin mattress on each side of his hips.
Michael watches him with huge, black eyes, as he unties the string of his sweatpants and shoves everything down his hips, pants and boxers, at the same time. His cock springs free right in front of Michael, who after a slight hesitation, lifts his hand and runs a finger along its length. The touch feels agonizingly good and Lincoln juts his hips just a little bit, trying to get more. Breathing hard and his face flush, Michael demands, “Your t-shirt too. Take it off,” his voice almost normal. Lincoln can’t quite decide if he really wants the garment off or is refusing to give up all control. Doesn’t really matter anyway. He shrugs off the shirt and tosses it on the floor.
The room, already stuffy, becomes unbearable to Lincoln when Michael’s hands slide up the front of his body. They’re spread flat on his skin, palms massaging and fingertips digging into his flesh, slightly scratching it. His pulse quickens and he has to breathe through his mouth. He tries to grab Michael’s wrists, but his brother escapes him and creeps up his chest to graze his nipples; then his fingers move up again, reach his lips, and Lincoln frowns.
“I told you...”
“Lick.” Michael gives the blunt order and holds out his hand, palm turned upwards. Lincoln dutifully draws his tongue along the heart line, the life line, the fucking head line, and deeply enjoys the way Michael grows restless and throws him an exasperated glance. “Get it wet, Lincoln. If you want me to...” He trails off when Lincoln obeys with a grin and liberally coats the palm and fingers with spit.
He moans out loud in a really embarrassing way when Michael, without warning or flourish, tightly wraps his slick hand around him. Squeezes, pumps up and down and twists his wrist. Lincoln thrusts his hips, thrusts in Michael’s hand, unable to restrain himself. Michael’s hands are just like Michael himself: beautiful, strong, skilled, able to do smart and wicked and crazy things. How could Lincoln not love them? He remembers how they used to take things apart so Michael could look inside of them. He has the strange feeling that it’s exactly what they’re doing to him right now. Baring him from his last threads of sense and self-control and allowing Michael to plunge in his eyes and see everything Lincoln hides. The heat, the one coming from his groin as well as the one radiating from Michael, is excruciating. He sinks back a bit and grinds down against Michael’s crotch, looking for friction, looking for a way to blow up his brother’s fucking stance. He feels a hard bulge under his butt, thinks it has to be painful, that kind of hard-on firmly imprisoned in the rough jeans, and rubs a bit more.
Michael pants and, half closing his eyes in anticipation, sucks two of his fingers into his mouth. Lincoln’s gaze goes back and forth between the red lips and Michael’s hand working him. Too enthralled to realize what is going on - he jerks with surprise and growls when Michael, reaching between his thighs, pushes a long, wet finger in him.
“Fuck!”
Michael smiles at him, a fond, amused smile, while he thrusts and crooks his finger, then carefully adds the second one, still moving his other hand; the weird tenderness of his gestures contrasts with their frantic, almost harsh previous caresses. Lincoln shifts his hips, unable to decide whether he should move forward or shove backward, trying to do both at the same time. The sight, the sensations are getting the better of him. A familiar tingling travels down his spine, sparks in his lower back and stomach to finally explode in a white heat and spread through him. He thrashes between Michael’s hands, panting and swearing, grabs his shoulders and holds on to them. The violent shudders of pleasure leave him breathless and unsteady on his knees and he slowly collapses half on the bed and half on his brother, spent. He closes his eyes. For a while, everything is narrowed to Michael’s warm body under his, Michael’s breath on his temple and Michael’s hand leisurely gliding up from his ass to the nape of his neck. The hand rests there and strokes him in a protective way that would usually bug him; he just hums his appreciation.
When he finally looks up at Michael, he sees him lick peacefully the translucent white substance staining his hand. He blinks and winces but something clenches in his belly. The “Freak,” he blurts out is answered by a disturbingly hot gaze and the spectacle of Michael’s tongue extending a bit more. It’s a blatant, gratuitous provocation that works just fine and makes him grunt - more wincing and even more clenching in his belly. He rolls on his side, not caring that his pants and underwear are still shoved down; it’s a bit late for this kind of shyness anyway.
“Why?” he asks.
He’s surprised when Michael kisses him on the lips. Jerking him off was one thing - Lincoln won’t linger on how wrong and crazy it was of him to demand it and of Michael to go for it - but kissing him has a different quality, a different meaning. He’s a little shocked by the contact and by how fervent and greedy the kiss is. Then he remembers the straining bulge under his ass, remembers that Michael didn’t come, not yet. Trying not to ponder what the previous, rolling-with-it reaction and now eager touch imply, he opens his mouth to Michael and tastes himself on his brother’s tongue. There is a moan low in Michael’s throat and he arches his back, hoping for some contact. Lincoln gingerly palms his erection and the moan morphs into a growl.
“Why did you do it?” he asks again.
“You wanted me to.” Lincoln looks at him, not impressed. “I thought that by now you would have figured out that I love you.”
“Freak,” he repeats. “You don’t think it’s a rather extreme way to show it?”
“Depends on what you consider to be extreme.” Lincoln thinks about tattoos, willing incarcerations and crazy escapes, and he has to concede to him on this one. Kinda. “And by the way, you threw me on the bed.” Yeah, well, he has to concede to that one too. “Now, I’m sorry but if you’ll excuse me...” He shifts on the bed, dislodging Lincoln and facing away from him. Lincoln leans on his elbow and can’t help looking over Michael’s shoulder, staring at his fingers as they reach for the belt and lazily open it. He can still feel them on him, in him; he swallows hard.
“You really have a thing for fingers, don’t you? Or hands?” Michael smirks, twisting his neck to watch him.
“Yeah.” He unconsciously licks his lips when Michael frees himself from the constraints of his clothes. He decides not to tell him that even though he does have a thing for hands, Michael’s hands just makes him lose all common sense. “I watched you once,” he confesses. “While you were...”
“Yes, thanks,” he cuts him off, rolling his eyes. “I got it. Voyeuristic.”
“Fancy way to call me a perv.”
“You’re going to have to watch again because I’m not moving right now.”
“Exhibitionist. Perv.”
“I just got you off. Let’s not go there.”
“Fair enough.”
He grabs him by the shoulder to pull him on his back, sneering when he opens his eyes wide with surprise. He pushes up Michael’s shirt and bends as much as he can on the small bed to nuzzle his chest. Closes his lips on a nipple and rolls it on his tongue. Michael bucks against him.
“About fairness...,” he drawls. Looming over him, he kisses his side and slides across his stomach to his belly button. He mouths, licks and tongues at the skin, enjoying the soft roll of muscles, the harsh in-takes of air and the way Michael clutches desperately at him. His ministrations start to get lower, bit by bit, without haste, and he glances up. Gives Michael a leer and is rewarded by a gasp and a sparkling in his eyes.
“You wouldn’t...,” Michael whispers in disbelief.
He totally would. He’s going to. He’s a bit taken aback by how much he wants this - it goes beyond fairness and reciprocity - but the mixture of hope, anxiety and lust on Michael’s face is too good to pass up.
“Try me.”
“You like it that much to have things in your mouth?” He spreads his legs and - despite Lincoln’s offer - seems astonished when Lincoln does settle between them.
“Rude, man.”
“I learned from the best.”
Sniffling at that, Lincoln gnaws the sensitive flesh of his lower stomach, just to teach him a lesson, then ducks his head lower.
“Wait,” Michael asks. He half sits up, propelled on his elbows and leaning against the pillow. “Give me your fingers.”
Lincoln complies willingly, transfixed by the way they got in and out of the red, swollen lips. With a groan, he wriggles his way down. Michael flicks his tongue against his wrist, his palm, sucks harder on his fingers, making it as dirty as he can, and Lincoln playfully echoes the action down here. There is a long whine above his head and an involuntary bite on his knuckles. Very soon, Michael’s hands come around his head, cradling and stroking it lovingly with sweaty palms and long, avid fingers. Lincoln sighs with pleasure and basks in the touch.
-End-
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