Prison Break - Dysfunctional Harmony
Title: Dysfunctional Harmony
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Lincoln/Veronica/Michael
Category: Het
Rating: PG-13/R
Word Count: ~ 1885
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: They exchange one these looks that she’s never really gotten - she knows them better than anyone else and yet they’re still a mystery to her - and Lincoln casually remarks, “I think Michael’s jealous.”
Warning: This is not an incest fic, but if you're really touchy on the matter, this might not be your cup of tea.
Author's Note: Many thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta. ( French version beta-read by alohomoraa)
The living room of Lincoln’s small apartment is scruffy yet more pleasant than she remembered. Maybe it’s because it’s so full of Lincoln’s presence or because of the faint sunlight that lightens and brightens up the room; or maybe it’s just because of the awkward warmth of their reunion.
Michael is here of course; Michael has always been here and it has never bothered Veronica. It was an established fact. She never even imagined that things could have - should have - been different. It was a different time. They were teenagers back then and Michael, while reading or drawing or building things, observed them out of the corner of his eye. No ambiguity; it was a quasi-scientific interest that he displayed, not unlike the one he had for his geology or chemistry lessons. And anyway, when kisses became a bit more urgent, when hands slipped a bit deeper under clothes, Lincoln mumbled a “What about you go and play outside, Mike?” Sometimes he didn’t even have to actually speak the short ritual sentence because Michael closed his book or sketchbook, got to his feet and left the room with a small knowing wince. He always left for a while, never coming back before Veronica was out of the bathroom, refreshed, clothes back on, hair done. One would think that Lincoln and he had some kind of secret code.
It’s different now; the three of them are adults - although barely. Rather than studying them none too discreetly, Michael focuses on the small boxes of Chinese food in which he dips his chopsticks. Vee would swear that he still has to actually eat something though. He lifts his head up only to glance at the sunset through the living room window. It seems that ignoring the ruffle of fabric and the noises of wet kisses, the brisk gestures and unashamed whispers near him requires some effort on his part.
Veronica thinks that Lincoln pushes it a bit too far... Lincoln and she push it a bit too far. They’re too old to fool around in font of a familiar yet uncomfortable audience. Even though she’s rather distracted, Vee is aware of Michael’s self-conscious presence, of the way he sits on the edge of the couch, his hands clenched and his breathing labored. She can’t say how much of it is embarrassment and how much is exasperation, or even if there isn’t something else, something she’d rather not try to identify. She should pull away; tell Lincoln that this is enough, that they’ll continue this later. She can’t manage to carry out her decision. They’ve been apart way too long, she longs for Lincoln’s kisses and touch, just as she longs for the relative safety that Michael’s presence assures her. He’s the safety net that will prevent her from falling back - falling back too quickly - into what she’d left behind her. So she lets Lincoln kiss her and gently swirl her around until she’s sitting with her back against his chest, her head leaning into his shoulder; she lets him kiss and nibble at the flesh of her neck; she lets him twiddle with the buttons of her blouse and sneak his hand into its collar. She spills out a little whimper when he snakes an arm around her waist and pulls her tighter into him, and she’s suddenly drawn back to reality by the loud noise of chopsticks dropped onto the coffee table.
“What about you go and play elsewhere?” Michael suggests with a hint of harshness in his voice.
It makes her laugh. She laughs because of Lincoln’s smile against the nape of her neck; she laughs because of Michael’s words and the expression on his face when he spoke them; she laughs because of the memories the question brings up. She keeps on laughing for a few seconds, until she realizes that she’s the only one laughing. Michael is waiting, tense and stiff, and Lincoln is watching him above Veronica’s shoulder. They exchange one these looks that she’s never really gotten - she knows them better than anyone else and yet they’re still a mystery to her - and Lincoln casually remarks, “I think Michael’s jealous.”
Michael swiftly turns his heard towards his brother. There is another exchange of looks, furious from Michael, amused from Lincoln, neither of them lowering their eyes, neither of them willing to let it go. Gradually, anger and amusement are replaced with something else entirely - affection, complicity, a dash of challenge. This time around, she gets it easily. She muses that she shouldn’t be surprised, and if she wants to be fair, she’s not, not really. She’s always known that it wasn’t possible to love Lincoln without loving Michael too; they’re indivisible. Of course, there is to love and then there is to love, but right now, the way they’re looking at her as well as at each other reduces the difference to almost nothing. Things have already gone a bit too far for Veronica to take the time and think about that almost nothing. Lincoln’s remark had an already confused situation slide down into uncharted territory. So she settles a bit more comfortably between Lincoln’s arms, snuggles up to him as if to brace for what’s next, and she lays her hand on Michael’s wrist.
“Come here,” she demands, tugging at his sleeve.
They barely hesitate, the gesture seems to have been rehearsed and executed hundred of times. Michael leans into her while one of Lincoln’s hands lays on the nape of his brother’s neck. It’s so natural and affectionate, a continuation of something they’ve always had, that she feels curiosity and impatience boiling up in her stomach. Michael watches her with a mixture of nervousness and anticipation, and she wonders how they didn’t get there sooner, by what miracle they’ve been able to avoid going there until now. They pause when Michael’s face is a few inches from hers, and Michael murmurs, asking and promising at the same time, “Just a kiss.” He breathes against her, hot and moist on her mouth that still carries the traces of Lincoln’s kisses. She can’t help thinking that if the promise looks like a polite request, it’s actually nothing but provocation and taunting.
“Show me what you’ve learned, Mikey,” she retorts with half a smile.
He stays still, delaying the inevitable for a few seconds. When Lincoln strokes his jaw to urge him on, a thumb going back and forth on the stubbled skin of his chin, he brushes his mouth against Vee’s. Presses and teases delicately without trying to take it any further until she parts her lips, and with a murmur of approval, he slips his tongue between her teeth. A hand on the back of Michael’s head, Linc controls his moves, controls the kiss, presses slightly to urge him to dip deeper into Vee’s mouth or angling his head. For a few instants, Lincoln seems fascinated, enthralled by the power he holds, by their little moans and the way Michael follows his lead. When Veronica blindly fumbles, lifting her arm to pull him into her, he kisses her neck, complacent and eager, licking his way down her ear to her shoulder. Her sigh makes him groan. He releases his hold on Michael and the situation spins out of control. Their fingers start to slide on her. They go up her legs, brush her breasts, and try to sneak under her skirt and shirt. The two of them are insistent and not daring enough at the same time - polite; they ask but do not dare demand and she just wants to tell them to touch her for God’s sake - she probably would if she could talk. She arches under their caresses, shifts to offer more skin and grind into Lincoln’s crotch, and raises her chin to allow Michael to kiss her deeper. Her eyes close, her head thrown back and she doesn’t try to know who’s doing what. It doesn’t matter. Actually, not knowing who does what is the idea. They share her and share themselves altogether, and she basks into warmth that isn’t caused just by mere arousal.
She does know however that it’s Lincoln who slips his hand between Michael and her. A finger in her belt, another in Michael’s, he brings them closer against each other, stomach against stomach, and asks provocatively if they like that. By way of an answer, they hold him between them and shamelessly rub against him. She can feel Michael’s smile on her lips when Lincoln grumbles, jerks and swears in return.
He cranes his neck, bends his head to look at them, watch them, until Michael finally pulls away. She barely holds back a protest. Her ears ringing, blood throbbing at her temples, she realizes that Lincoln is fondling her breasts, that one of Michael hands has gone high, really high between her legs - a lot higher than the words Just a kiss allowed to anticipate. She wonders how they would react if she moved just a little bit, just enough to trap Michael between her thighs. The idea eludes her because Lincoln distracts her with a soft, almost friendly kiss on her cheek before turning his head towards his brother. They’re nose to nose, breathing against each other, so close that a sharp in-take of air would bring their mouths together. They stay like this long enough for Veronica to think that one of them is about to go further, too far, and she lays two fingers on Michael’s chin to keep him away.
“Stop it! What the hell is wrong with you?”
There is a pause and then Lincoln’s second kiss lands on Michael’s brow.
“I’m sorry,” Michael says. “We’re sorry.” He breathes loudly and stares at her for a few seconds, his cheeks red and his eyes shiny, before throwing a glance at Lincoln and hanging his head. Linc drags him closer to mumble into his ear a few words that she doesn’t understand, nor tries to; Michael has a tiny smile and shrugs. Slowly they disentangle from their weird embrace and she stays there, still, sitting between the two of them. She thought there would be embarrassment, awkwardness, one of them getting up and saying he had to leave. Instead, there is indecision and the indistinct regret to have stopped.
Michael reaches out for three of the boxes of food and, with a mischievous gleam in his eyes, for two pairs of chopsticks. One for him, one for Linc. Now too she gets it easily and she waits for them to feed her - she doesn’t have to wait for long. Lincoln haphazardly fishes into the various takeout and points out that this stuff is better when shared. She rolls her eyes; subtlety has never been Lincoln’s main strength and every now and then, it’s actually quite refreshing.
“We’re sorry,” Michael repeats. He feeds her a spiced shrimp. It stings and burns on her tongue, but doesn’t erase the feeling of their kiss.
Dysfunctional; this is usually the word that comes to her mind when she brings up the affection they have for each other. She muses about the way they kissed her, their gestures, breathing and feelings so perfectly tuned, and she wonders how something dysfunctional can be harmonious.
“There is nothing to be sorry for,” she answers softly.
-Fin-
Comments are always welcome.
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Lincoln/Veronica/Michael
Category: Het
Rating: PG-13/R
Word Count: ~ 1885
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: They exchange one these looks that she’s never really gotten - she knows them better than anyone else and yet they’re still a mystery to her - and Lincoln casually remarks, “I think Michael’s jealous.”
Warning: This is not an incest fic, but if you're really touchy on the matter, this might not be your cup of tea.
Author's Note: Many thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta. ( French version beta-read by alohomoraa)
The living room of Lincoln’s small apartment is scruffy yet more pleasant than she remembered. Maybe it’s because it’s so full of Lincoln’s presence or because of the faint sunlight that lightens and brightens up the room; or maybe it’s just because of the awkward warmth of their reunion.
Michael is here of course; Michael has always been here and it has never bothered Veronica. It was an established fact. She never even imagined that things could have - should have - been different. It was a different time. They were teenagers back then and Michael, while reading or drawing or building things, observed them out of the corner of his eye. No ambiguity; it was a quasi-scientific interest that he displayed, not unlike the one he had for his geology or chemistry lessons. And anyway, when kisses became a bit more urgent, when hands slipped a bit deeper under clothes, Lincoln mumbled a “What about you go and play outside, Mike?” Sometimes he didn’t even have to actually speak the short ritual sentence because Michael closed his book or sketchbook, got to his feet and left the room with a small knowing wince. He always left for a while, never coming back before Veronica was out of the bathroom, refreshed, clothes back on, hair done. One would think that Lincoln and he had some kind of secret code.
It’s different now; the three of them are adults - although barely. Rather than studying them none too discreetly, Michael focuses on the small boxes of Chinese food in which he dips his chopsticks. Vee would swear that he still has to actually eat something though. He lifts his head up only to glance at the sunset through the living room window. It seems that ignoring the ruffle of fabric and the noises of wet kisses, the brisk gestures and unashamed whispers near him requires some effort on his part.
Veronica thinks that Lincoln pushes it a bit too far... Lincoln and she push it a bit too far. They’re too old to fool around in font of a familiar yet uncomfortable audience. Even though she’s rather distracted, Vee is aware of Michael’s self-conscious presence, of the way he sits on the edge of the couch, his hands clenched and his breathing labored. She can’t say how much of it is embarrassment and how much is exasperation, or even if there isn’t something else, something she’d rather not try to identify. She should pull away; tell Lincoln that this is enough, that they’ll continue this later. She can’t manage to carry out her decision. They’ve been apart way too long, she longs for Lincoln’s kisses and touch, just as she longs for the relative safety that Michael’s presence assures her. He’s the safety net that will prevent her from falling back - falling back too quickly - into what she’d left behind her. So she lets Lincoln kiss her and gently swirl her around until she’s sitting with her back against his chest, her head leaning into his shoulder; she lets him kiss and nibble at the flesh of her neck; she lets him twiddle with the buttons of her blouse and sneak his hand into its collar. She spills out a little whimper when he snakes an arm around her waist and pulls her tighter into him, and she’s suddenly drawn back to reality by the loud noise of chopsticks dropped onto the coffee table.
“What about you go and play elsewhere?” Michael suggests with a hint of harshness in his voice.
It makes her laugh. She laughs because of Lincoln’s smile against the nape of her neck; she laughs because of Michael’s words and the expression on his face when he spoke them; she laughs because of the memories the question brings up. She keeps on laughing for a few seconds, until she realizes that she’s the only one laughing. Michael is waiting, tense and stiff, and Lincoln is watching him above Veronica’s shoulder. They exchange one these looks that she’s never really gotten - she knows them better than anyone else and yet they’re still a mystery to her - and Lincoln casually remarks, “I think Michael’s jealous.”
Michael swiftly turns his heard towards his brother. There is another exchange of looks, furious from Michael, amused from Lincoln, neither of them lowering their eyes, neither of them willing to let it go. Gradually, anger and amusement are replaced with something else entirely - affection, complicity, a dash of challenge. This time around, she gets it easily. She muses that she shouldn’t be surprised, and if she wants to be fair, she’s not, not really. She’s always known that it wasn’t possible to love Lincoln without loving Michael too; they’re indivisible. Of course, there is to love and then there is to love, but right now, the way they’re looking at her as well as at each other reduces the difference to almost nothing. Things have already gone a bit too far for Veronica to take the time and think about that almost nothing. Lincoln’s remark had an already confused situation slide down into uncharted territory. So she settles a bit more comfortably between Lincoln’s arms, snuggles up to him as if to brace for what’s next, and she lays her hand on Michael’s wrist.
“Come here,” she demands, tugging at his sleeve.
They barely hesitate, the gesture seems to have been rehearsed and executed hundred of times. Michael leans into her while one of Lincoln’s hands lays on the nape of his brother’s neck. It’s so natural and affectionate, a continuation of something they’ve always had, that she feels curiosity and impatience boiling up in her stomach. Michael watches her with a mixture of nervousness and anticipation, and she wonders how they didn’t get there sooner, by what miracle they’ve been able to avoid going there until now. They pause when Michael’s face is a few inches from hers, and Michael murmurs, asking and promising at the same time, “Just a kiss.” He breathes against her, hot and moist on her mouth that still carries the traces of Lincoln’s kisses. She can’t help thinking that if the promise looks like a polite request, it’s actually nothing but provocation and taunting.
“Show me what you’ve learned, Mikey,” she retorts with half a smile.
He stays still, delaying the inevitable for a few seconds. When Lincoln strokes his jaw to urge him on, a thumb going back and forth on the stubbled skin of his chin, he brushes his mouth against Vee’s. Presses and teases delicately without trying to take it any further until she parts her lips, and with a murmur of approval, he slips his tongue between her teeth. A hand on the back of Michael’s head, Linc controls his moves, controls the kiss, presses slightly to urge him to dip deeper into Vee’s mouth or angling his head. For a few instants, Lincoln seems fascinated, enthralled by the power he holds, by their little moans and the way Michael follows his lead. When Veronica blindly fumbles, lifting her arm to pull him into her, he kisses her neck, complacent and eager, licking his way down her ear to her shoulder. Her sigh makes him groan. He releases his hold on Michael and the situation spins out of control. Their fingers start to slide on her. They go up her legs, brush her breasts, and try to sneak under her skirt and shirt. The two of them are insistent and not daring enough at the same time - polite; they ask but do not dare demand and she just wants to tell them to touch her for God’s sake - she probably would if she could talk. She arches under their caresses, shifts to offer more skin and grind into Lincoln’s crotch, and raises her chin to allow Michael to kiss her deeper. Her eyes close, her head thrown back and she doesn’t try to know who’s doing what. It doesn’t matter. Actually, not knowing who does what is the idea. They share her and share themselves altogether, and she basks into warmth that isn’t caused just by mere arousal.
She does know however that it’s Lincoln who slips his hand between Michael and her. A finger in her belt, another in Michael’s, he brings them closer against each other, stomach against stomach, and asks provocatively if they like that. By way of an answer, they hold him between them and shamelessly rub against him. She can feel Michael’s smile on her lips when Lincoln grumbles, jerks and swears in return.
He cranes his neck, bends his head to look at them, watch them, until Michael finally pulls away. She barely holds back a protest. Her ears ringing, blood throbbing at her temples, she realizes that Lincoln is fondling her breasts, that one of Michael hands has gone high, really high between her legs - a lot higher than the words Just a kiss allowed to anticipate. She wonders how they would react if she moved just a little bit, just enough to trap Michael between her thighs. The idea eludes her because Lincoln distracts her with a soft, almost friendly kiss on her cheek before turning his head towards his brother. They’re nose to nose, breathing against each other, so close that a sharp in-take of air would bring their mouths together. They stay like this long enough for Veronica to think that one of them is about to go further, too far, and she lays two fingers on Michael’s chin to keep him away.
“Stop it! What the hell is wrong with you?”
There is a pause and then Lincoln’s second kiss lands on Michael’s brow.
“I’m sorry,” Michael says. “We’re sorry.” He breathes loudly and stares at her for a few seconds, his cheeks red and his eyes shiny, before throwing a glance at Lincoln and hanging his head. Linc drags him closer to mumble into his ear a few words that she doesn’t understand, nor tries to; Michael has a tiny smile and shrugs. Slowly they disentangle from their weird embrace and she stays there, still, sitting between the two of them. She thought there would be embarrassment, awkwardness, one of them getting up and saying he had to leave. Instead, there is indecision and the indistinct regret to have stopped.
Michael reaches out for three of the boxes of food and, with a mischievous gleam in his eyes, for two pairs of chopsticks. One for him, one for Linc. Now too she gets it easily and she waits for them to feed her - she doesn’t have to wait for long. Lincoln haphazardly fishes into the various takeout and points out that this stuff is better when shared. She rolls her eyes; subtlety has never been Lincoln’s main strength and every now and then, it’s actually quite refreshing.
“We’re sorry,” Michael repeats. He feeds her a spiced shrimp. It stings and burns on her tongue, but doesn’t erase the feeling of their kiss.
Dysfunctional; this is usually the word that comes to her mind when she brings up the affection they have for each other. She muses about the way they kissed her, their gestures, breathing and feelings so perfectly tuned, and she wonders how something dysfunctional can be harmonious.
“There is nothing to be sorry for,” she answers softly.
-Fin-
Comments are always welcome.