Prison Break - Wrong Picture
Title: Wrong Picture
Author: clair-de-lune
Pairings: Michael/Lincoln, Michael/Sara
Categories: Slash, het
Rating: R
Word Count: ~ 1215
Warning: Incest. Possibly.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: He’d rather avoid it, but as soon as the words ‘he can imagine’ come to his mind, it’s too late. Cat’s out of the bag.
Prompt by foophile: Michael and Sara are having sex in the next room and Lincoln can hear every moan. Brownie points if you use “Scylla” (Season 4, episode 1).
Author’s Note: No graphic slash or incest but you may want to proceed with caution if Michael/Lincoln isn’t your cup of tea. Thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta. Any remaining mistakes are mine.
Something is wrong with this picture: Lincoln is sitting in the kitchen of the small safe house. He has a mug of coffee within his reach and is rummaging through photos, reports and documents to try to figure out the mess the three of them are in. In the meantime, Michael is getting laid in the next bedroom.
The issue is: it should be the other way around. Not that Lincoln wants to get it on with Sara or thinks Michael doesn’t deserve to have a respite, a moment of intimacy. Michael deserves it more than anyone - except maybe Sara herself. It’s just that it has always been the other way around, not without a few reasons, and Lincoln doesn’t really know how he should be reacting. He could ask Mike, since Mike has been in this situation quite a few times, but Mike’s rather busy right now. And it’s a good thing, by the way. Lincoln’s glad his brother has finally found someone to love in an (almost) healthy way, and that this someone turns out to be, well, alive. Kind of stressed, of course, but very much alive.
He can hear them. Not just the bangs and thumps of the bed against the wall, but also the noises the two of them utter: the damn wall is not the thickest stuff ever built, so he can hear it all. Groans and moans, and the crescendo of Sara’s whimpers. Every now and then, the sounds are interrupted, either by a kiss, a few whispered words or possibly because the pleasure is so intense that they just can’t vocalize it anymore. There is nothing left to hear then, but he can imagine.
He’d rather avoid it, but as soon as the words ‘he can imagine’ come to his mind, it’s too late. Cat’s out of the bag and he does imagine sweaty bodies, lips lovingly searching each other’s, hands stroking and grabbing with a mixture of tenderness and desperation. The mental images are spicy and disturbing on so many levels. They make sweat break on his brow, pressure tense his shoulders, heat pool in his lap. They make him all worked up at the idea of his brother and his girlfriend making love so yeah, spicy and disturbing is an accurate description.
‘Unnerving’ would be appropriate too. He won’t feel guilty because, when the need arose back in Fox River, he imagined the Doc’ in less than decent positions or pictured her ass or boobs or whatever. A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do, and anyway, he stopped doing that almost as soon as he realized what she meant to Michael. Sara is not the problem. It’s rather that, as far as Michael is concerned, Lincoln doesn’t need to use his imagination. He has memories. Maybe. Memories of Michael hot and hard and pliable, lying in his bed right against him, beneath him, on top of him. He knows exactly how his brother would use his mouth, hands and whole body to gratify a lover, just as he knows exactly how to pleasure Michael. He remembers how Michael tasted, smelled and sounded when he was so tightly pressed against him, and he remembers how it felt to have this flavor of his brother’s attention lavished upon him - so fucking good and wrong, each feeling intricately bound to the other one in a sinful combination.
It happened once... he thinks. Demanding mouths, big hands, hard muscles, guilt mixed with bliss and indecently enhancing their lust, so different from anything else he’d experienced. He’s never been sure whether the memories were real, a hallucination or a mere figment of his imagination, but it doesn’t really make a difference at this point. Reality or imagination, it’s getting to him in a way it shouldn’t. Something is definitely, utterly wrong with this picture too.
The gasping and grunting starts again and, with a loud huff, he tries to block it out and delve back into the files and pictures. No success. Trying to focus on the reports won’t be enough to distract him from what’s going on a few feet away. Trying to focus on the reports won’t be enough to convince his dick that it shouldn’t be interested in what’s going on a few feet away; that choosing this specific moment to perk up and harden is undeniably a bad idea; that throbbing in cadence with the noises filtering through the wall makes him kind of depraved.
The slow and languid, almost even, sounds from earlier have morphed into something urgent and needy, a staccato of moans from Sara, a few plaintive groans from Michael. Same song, different rhythm, low and muffled. Lincoln can tell they’re trying to keep it discreet but it doesn’t help the slightest bit. Quite the contrary actually. The stifled, desperate echoes ratchet him up a bit more and it feels like they’re pulling on him a refined form of torture.
He doesn’t really want to, he’s not fully aware of doing it, but before he can put any actual thought into it, his hand is moving on its own, sliding up his thigh. He cups himself through his jeans and lets his thumb linger on the fly. It’s such a plain touch, just his fingers curling on his groin, but it tears out of him a heavy, relieved grunt that covers any other sounds in the safe house.
It spurs him, the sharp flash of pleasure, and he works on the button and zipper of his pants in frenzy, freeing himself from his clothes and wrapping his hand around his shaft. He starts to pump up and down immediately, stroke and squeeze the stiff flesh with determination. He doesn’t care for niceties and delayed gratification right now. With a shiver, he understands why he’s so keen to get off when the whines and groans in the bedroom reach another notch. Doesn’t want to be left behind. He shifts on the uncomfortable chair, wishing he’d had the good sense to take this to a cozier place of the house - but then, if he had any good sense, he wouldn’t be jerking off on his brother fucking his girlfriend, right? - and thrusts into his fist.
If the rough cry of pleasure wrenched out of her is any indication, he comes in tandem with Sara. Which kind of makes sense, actually. He jolts on his seat and half collapses on the table, shooting off, harsh and fast. When he’s done, when his brain starts functioning again, he can feel warm and gooey fluid on his fingers and figures it hit his jeans too. He winces slightly at the thought that the underside of the kitchen table has probably not been spared either. Messy. What’s even messier is the sparkle of lust clenching his lower stomach when a coarse grunt of release echoes Sara’s cry on the other side of the wall. He bolts and feels a final spurt dribbling in the palm of his hand.
Fuck.
Something is wrong with this picture: Lincoln just got off on his brother and Sara having sex in the next room, most probably having their first time together.
The issue is: when he came, he didn’t imagine Sara’s mouth working on his cock, but he pictured, very vividly, Michael’s.
END
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Author: clair-de-lune
Pairings: Michael/Lincoln, Michael/Sara
Categories: Slash, het
Rating: R
Word Count: ~ 1215
Warning: Incest. Possibly.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: He’d rather avoid it, but as soon as the words ‘he can imagine’ come to his mind, it’s too late. Cat’s out of the bag.
Prompt by foophile: Michael and Sara are having sex in the next room and Lincoln can hear every moan. Brownie points if you use “Scylla” (Season 4, episode 1).
Author’s Note: No graphic slash or incest but you may want to proceed with caution if Michael/Lincoln isn’t your cup of tea. Thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta. Any remaining mistakes are mine.
Something is wrong with this picture: Lincoln is sitting in the kitchen of the small safe house. He has a mug of coffee within his reach and is rummaging through photos, reports and documents to try to figure out the mess the three of them are in. In the meantime, Michael is getting laid in the next bedroom.
The issue is: it should be the other way around. Not that Lincoln wants to get it on with Sara or thinks Michael doesn’t deserve to have a respite, a moment of intimacy. Michael deserves it more than anyone - except maybe Sara herself. It’s just that it has always been the other way around, not without a few reasons, and Lincoln doesn’t really know how he should be reacting. He could ask Mike, since Mike has been in this situation quite a few times, but Mike’s rather busy right now. And it’s a good thing, by the way. Lincoln’s glad his brother has finally found someone to love in an (almost) healthy way, and that this someone turns out to be, well, alive. Kind of stressed, of course, but very much alive.
He can hear them. Not just the bangs and thumps of the bed against the wall, but also the noises the two of them utter: the damn wall is not the thickest stuff ever built, so he can hear it all. Groans and moans, and the crescendo of Sara’s whimpers. Every now and then, the sounds are interrupted, either by a kiss, a few whispered words or possibly because the pleasure is so intense that they just can’t vocalize it anymore. There is nothing left to hear then, but he can imagine.
He’d rather avoid it, but as soon as the words ‘he can imagine’ come to his mind, it’s too late. Cat’s out of the bag and he does imagine sweaty bodies, lips lovingly searching each other’s, hands stroking and grabbing with a mixture of tenderness and desperation. The mental images are spicy and disturbing on so many levels. They make sweat break on his brow, pressure tense his shoulders, heat pool in his lap. They make him all worked up at the idea of his brother and his girlfriend making love so yeah, spicy and disturbing is an accurate description.
‘Unnerving’ would be appropriate too. He won’t feel guilty because, when the need arose back in Fox River, he imagined the Doc’ in less than decent positions or pictured her ass or boobs or whatever. A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do, and anyway, he stopped doing that almost as soon as he realized what she meant to Michael. Sara is not the problem. It’s rather that, as far as Michael is concerned, Lincoln doesn’t need to use his imagination. He has memories. Maybe. Memories of Michael hot and hard and pliable, lying in his bed right against him, beneath him, on top of him. He knows exactly how his brother would use his mouth, hands and whole body to gratify a lover, just as he knows exactly how to pleasure Michael. He remembers how Michael tasted, smelled and sounded when he was so tightly pressed against him, and he remembers how it felt to have this flavor of his brother’s attention lavished upon him - so fucking good and wrong, each feeling intricately bound to the other one in a sinful combination.
It happened once... he thinks. Demanding mouths, big hands, hard muscles, guilt mixed with bliss and indecently enhancing their lust, so different from anything else he’d experienced. He’s never been sure whether the memories were real, a hallucination or a mere figment of his imagination, but it doesn’t really make a difference at this point. Reality or imagination, it’s getting to him in a way it shouldn’t. Something is definitely, utterly wrong with this picture too.
The gasping and grunting starts again and, with a loud huff, he tries to block it out and delve back into the files and pictures. No success. Trying to focus on the reports won’t be enough to distract him from what’s going on a few feet away. Trying to focus on the reports won’t be enough to convince his dick that it shouldn’t be interested in what’s going on a few feet away; that choosing this specific moment to perk up and harden is undeniably a bad idea; that throbbing in cadence with the noises filtering through the wall makes him kind of depraved.
The slow and languid, almost even, sounds from earlier have morphed into something urgent and needy, a staccato of moans from Sara, a few plaintive groans from Michael. Same song, different rhythm, low and muffled. Lincoln can tell they’re trying to keep it discreet but it doesn’t help the slightest bit. Quite the contrary actually. The stifled, desperate echoes ratchet him up a bit more and it feels like they’re pulling on him a refined form of torture.
He doesn’t really want to, he’s not fully aware of doing it, but before he can put any actual thought into it, his hand is moving on its own, sliding up his thigh. He cups himself through his jeans and lets his thumb linger on the fly. It’s such a plain touch, just his fingers curling on his groin, but it tears out of him a heavy, relieved grunt that covers any other sounds in the safe house.
It spurs him, the sharp flash of pleasure, and he works on the button and zipper of his pants in frenzy, freeing himself from his clothes and wrapping his hand around his shaft. He starts to pump up and down immediately, stroke and squeeze the stiff flesh with determination. He doesn’t care for niceties and delayed gratification right now. With a shiver, he understands why he’s so keen to get off when the whines and groans in the bedroom reach another notch. Doesn’t want to be left behind. He shifts on the uncomfortable chair, wishing he’d had the good sense to take this to a cozier place of the house - but then, if he had any good sense, he wouldn’t be jerking off on his brother fucking his girlfriend, right? - and thrusts into his fist.
If the rough cry of pleasure wrenched out of her is any indication, he comes in tandem with Sara. Which kind of makes sense, actually. He jolts on his seat and half collapses on the table, shooting off, harsh and fast. When he’s done, when his brain starts functioning again, he can feel warm and gooey fluid on his fingers and figures it hit his jeans too. He winces slightly at the thought that the underside of the kitchen table has probably not been spared either. Messy. What’s even messier is the sparkle of lust clenching his lower stomach when a coarse grunt of release echoes Sara’s cry on the other side of the wall. He bolts and feels a final spurt dribbling in the palm of his hand.
Fuck.
Something is wrong with this picture: Lincoln just got off on his brother and Sara having sex in the next room, most probably having their first time together.
The issue is: when he came, he didn’t imagine Sara’s mouth working on his cock, but he pictured, very vividly, Michael’s.
END
Fics love to be commented ;-)