Prison Break - Shades of Vanilla
Title: Shades of Vanilla
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Michael/Sara
Category: Het
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2035
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: She’s just starting to admit to herself that maybe she shouldn’t have cackled and called him vanilla when he’d blushed at her answer. It had been reckless of her. (Post-series, non-epilogue-compliant.)
Author’s Note: Written for
kink_bingo ( my card). Many thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
Kink/prompt: This is for ‘sensation play’ (and probably a few other kinks).
I've realized that - except when adding Lincoln to the mix and hence making it a threesome - I rarely write NC-17 Michael/Sara. I guess this makes up for lost time...
“Oh, God!”
The exclamation escapes Sara despite her resolve - a small defeat she doesn’t entirely regret. She arches up under Michael’s delicate caress and presses her lips together not to beg, plead or cry louder.
He’s been kissing and feather-like-touching her for long minutes, but she’s resilient. She’s just starting to admit to herself that maybe she shouldn’t have cackled and called him vanilla when he’d blushed at her answer. It had been reckless of her. She knows he isn’t; she also knows he loves nothing more than a challenge, and there was no way he wouldn’t take her remark as one.
But really, the name calling was his fault. Small smirk, velvety voice and gleaming eyes, he asked her about her favorite fantasy. Not if she had any, not if she was willing to share it with him, just about her favorite fantasy. She bit her lip, caught the absolute benevolence and the equally absolute lust on his face, and spilled the beans. Every now and then, she volunteered, she fancied watching Lincoln and Sofia together - as in together; she wouldn’t mind Lincoln and Sofia watching them either; on a few occasions, she may have pictured things going somewhat further than merely watching. She thinks it’s at this point that Michael reached the deeper, lovelier shade of red.
The vanilla incident is the reason she’s ended up in bed, naked and blindfolded, Michael looming over her and still fully clothed, as far as she can tell. He's driven on proving her wrong. He bends down, licks the underside of a breast before blowing softly on her skin, while his long fingers linger low on her stomach. All right. Thinking about it, maybe teasing him has been a damn fine idea.
“Is this your favorite fantasy?” she asks with a grin. “Blindfold me and have me at your mercy?”
“It’s one among many others involving you.”
The blindfold enhances her other senses. The blend of leer and emotion in his voice reverberates with an unusual strength. The spicy and faintly musky scent rising from off his skin invades her nose and mouth. It’s nothing compared to the way her skin feels, though - burning, oversensitive, too tight to contain her. She can sense every minute difference in the fabrics touching her. The cotton sheets under her back are a bit rumpled and moist with her perspiration, but still soft and pleasant. Even softer is the long silk scarf that blinds her eyes, its loose ends tickling her neck and shoulders. The inside of her knees rests against Michael’s rough jeans and, every time he leans in to kiss her, the linen of his shirt scratches her stomach and breasts; it’s going to make her go wild sooner rather than later.
He’s kneeling between her spread legs, just a couple of inches too far to let her rub against him the parts of her anatomy she desperately needs him to touch. It’s typical of the way he’s caressing her tonight. His fingers and tongue work her with chirurgical precision: they pinch and fondle, lick and swirl, aiming with care and deliberate paucity. He’s frustrating her on purpose, each small touch making her hope for more, writhe and pant for more. Right now, in addition to vanilla, she’d call him a few others names if what he was doing to her didn’t feel so sinfully delicious.
He won’t allow full body contact. He won’t let her touch him either. Each time her hands flail around and try to get to him, he stops whatever he’s doing, grips her wrists softly but firmly and pins them above her head. He holds them for a few seconds, uttering small disapproving and amused tsk tsk sounds. She scratches around helplessly, failing to find a purchase on the flat wooden bedpost and eventually grabbing the pillow to hold onto it. She almost wishes he had tied her up on top of everything else; at least, it would make things easier, not having to control her own instinctive gestures. Then, the implication of being tied up registers, gets to her and she moans.
He plays with another scarf, a woolen one: rubs it against her cheek so that she knows what’s about to happen, wraps it around her wrists and playfully pulls on its end - still no tying up - and tickles her armpit. She glares because tickling here is out of line. Or, well, she would be glaring if she wasn’t blindfolded.
God only knows why he has a woolen scarf in his closet in that always warm climate - probably a leftover from another life - but it’s not really the question of the moment. He lazily trails it between her breasts and down her stomach, ghosts over her hip with it and slides lower. The piece of clothing feels abrasive in the best possible way on her heated skin. She squirms under the long fringes that tantalize her and linger in its wake, like an afterthought, as if it moved forward with regret.
Lower, lower, and he reaches the inside of her thighs. She’s dripping wet. Even if she wasn’t aware of it, he’s saucy and smug enough to point out it to her. She opens her legs wider. She can feel him so close; her heart beats wildly in her chest, her hopes that he strokes her here suddenly rising. She bucks invitingly, but he bypasses her crotch and slides the fucking scarf up, once again across her belly.
She could cry; she certainly whimpers. Her second “Oh, God,” of the night is followed with a dirty “Clit tease!” and a breathless “Please, Michael...” Because it’s part of the game, and because she doesn’t care anymore how desperate she sounds, she throws in a second please just for good measure.
She’s not sure if it’s intended to be a reward for her pleas or a punishment for her interjection, but the scarf circles her breasts, slowly, leisurely. It follows their round curves clockwise, one and then the other, several times until eventually, it catches her nipples. She gasps. Gasps more as he drags the coarse scarf back and forth between the two hard nubs, whirling it in a steady motion. He’s rougher than he habitually is with her, but so carefully and tenderly that her throat constricts.
“Don’t move,” he instructs.
His tone suffers no contestation and she complies. The mattress dips as he retreats. She bites her lips. She feels even more spread, even more exposed, with her raised arms and splayed thighs now that he’s not kneeling above her anymore. She can hear him moving around, but has no way of guessing what he’s up to. She bows her back and pushes her breasts forward. Exposed for exposed, she may as well take it as far as possible. The grunt he exhales proves her right.
“They could very well be watching, you know.”
“Mm?”
“Linc and Sofia. You can’t see a thing. They could be sitting here and watching, and you wouldn’t know,” he teases.
Then he’s back kneeling between her legs, bending down and sucking into his mouth one of the nipples he was playing with a few seconds before. His lips and tongue are unusually cold, the sensation painful and pleasant at the same time. She understands where the chills come from a few seconds later when he kisses her on the mouth and tastes like ice-cream. Vanilla. She laughs, shaking with it, her over stimulated nipples brushing against his shirt.
“Knowing Lincoln, he’d already have gone down and dirty,” she points outs.
He’s playing, taunting - she knows he is - but she can’t help a hitch in her breathing when she feels him shifting as if to cast a glance over his shoulder and check on other people in the room with them. Impulsively, she turns her head too and can’t see anything, of course.
“Vanilla is not that bad, huh?” he gloats.
A small spoonful of ice-cream falls not so accidentally on her breast bone. The cold makes her muscles coil and her skin prickle with shivers; the contrasting warmth of his tongue has her moaning and lifting, wantonly pushing herself into his face. He licks her clean, chasing the melted and sticky delicacy up to the hollow of her throat. It occurs to her that he is lying on her now, heavy and all over her. He’s done with the teasing touches and kisses. She feels him fumbling with his belt and opening his pants, pausing a second to think and ask, “Do you want me to undress?”
It surprises her, but she shakes her head. No. She yearns for it, for him, like that. She revels in the rough contact of his clothes on her bare skin. She loves more than she should how indecent it feels being entirely naked under him. Obediently, he frees himself just enough and presses against her.
“Just let me...” she says. He can’t prevent her any longer from touching him. He probably doesn’t feel like it anyway. She lowers her arms and pushes her hands into his pants and under his boxers. She grabs his buttocks harshly, her fingers massaging the succulent muscles and her nails digging in and breaking the skin. So good. So fucking more satisfying than tearing up the innocent pillow cases she has been holding onto.
He growls and thrusts into her. She meets him halfway, eagerly canting her hips.
“Do you think Sofia...” he starts. There is a smile, a remaining tease in his voice.
“Shut up and fuck me,” she orders sternly. By the way he freezes for a second above her, she can tell that it surprised him, maybe shocked him, both her language and the order itself. Good. It’s a nice fantasy; they’re nice fantasies, Sofia and Lincoln and blindfold and not so vanilla ice-cream. But the reality of him concrete and solid on her and between her legs, hard and pulsing inside of her, is without equal. “Harder,” she demands.
She clutches his ass again to egg him on, then slides her hands up, sneaking them under his shirt. Touching, petting, stroking skin; finally. She snakes her arms around his mid-section and her legs around his hips. She squeezes and wraps herself around him, until he’s gasping, panting, pushing her thighs higher around his waist and driving deeper into her.
He doesn’t kiss her on the mouth when she comes; he aims for her neck instead. He craves hearing her too much. It’s okay. She’s just the same.
* * *
He’s removing his clothes. They’re falling on the floor in quick succession, the ruffling sounds informing her of his progress. She shifts nervously on the bed. She wants him back. Now. She knows he’s got up only for a few seconds, but it’s almost unbearable.
She sighs in relief when he settles back in bed with her. He plasters himself against her and grumbles - a fake complaint - that her kinky ways have deprived him of her skin too much too long, tonight.
“You never let me ask my question,” he rasps in her ear. “Do you think Sofia would be okay with Linc and me watching you two girls together?”
He’s joking. Probably. It doesn’t really matter because Sara chuckles and just says, “Men,” which is both an accusation and a waiver for any offense he may commit.
Her eyes are open beneath the soft silk of the scarf, but all she can see is golden black. Michael has tried to unknot it, but she’s refused. She likes it. Even now, even sated, it lets her focus on the rise and fall of his chest against her back, on his scent, on the smooth skin of his stomach against her lower back. He kisses her neck, cups a breast and lightly brushes its abused nipple, and settles his other hand in the slick V of her thighs. He licked her here, after both of them had come, indulging in their mingled flavor and kissing her deep to share it. The taste is still on her tongue and she shivers at the sensory overload she experiences.
She draws his arms tighter around her and drowns in his warmth.
-Fin-
--Feedback is always welcome.
Sequel: Shades of Vanilla II
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Michael/Sara
Category: Het
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2035
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: She’s just starting to admit to herself that maybe she shouldn’t have cackled and called him vanilla when he’d blushed at her answer. It had been reckless of her. (Post-series, non-epilogue-compliant.)
Author’s Note: Written for
kink_bingo ( my card). Many thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
Kink/prompt: This is for ‘sensation play’ (and probably a few other kinks).
I've realized that - except when adding Lincoln to the mix and hence making it a threesome - I rarely write NC-17 Michael/Sara. I guess this makes up for lost time...
“Oh, God!”
The exclamation escapes Sara despite her resolve - a small defeat she doesn’t entirely regret. She arches up under Michael’s delicate caress and presses her lips together not to beg, plead or cry louder.
He’s been kissing and feather-like-touching her for long minutes, but she’s resilient. She’s just starting to admit to herself that maybe she shouldn’t have cackled and called him vanilla when he’d blushed at her answer. It had been reckless of her. She knows he isn’t; she also knows he loves nothing more than a challenge, and there was no way he wouldn’t take her remark as one.
But really, the name calling was his fault. Small smirk, velvety voice and gleaming eyes, he asked her about her favorite fantasy. Not if she had any, not if she was willing to share it with him, just about her favorite fantasy. She bit her lip, caught the absolute benevolence and the equally absolute lust on his face, and spilled the beans. Every now and then, she volunteered, she fancied watching Lincoln and Sofia together - as in together; she wouldn’t mind Lincoln and Sofia watching them either; on a few occasions, she may have pictured things going somewhat further than merely watching. She thinks it’s at this point that Michael reached the deeper, lovelier shade of red.
The vanilla incident is the reason she’s ended up in bed, naked and blindfolded, Michael looming over her and still fully clothed, as far as she can tell. He's driven on proving her wrong. He bends down, licks the underside of a breast before blowing softly on her skin, while his long fingers linger low on her stomach. All right. Thinking about it, maybe teasing him has been a damn fine idea.
“Is this your favorite fantasy?” she asks with a grin. “Blindfold me and have me at your mercy?”
“It’s one among many others involving you.”
The blindfold enhances her other senses. The blend of leer and emotion in his voice reverberates with an unusual strength. The spicy and faintly musky scent rising from off his skin invades her nose and mouth. It’s nothing compared to the way her skin feels, though - burning, oversensitive, too tight to contain her. She can sense every minute difference in the fabrics touching her. The cotton sheets under her back are a bit rumpled and moist with her perspiration, but still soft and pleasant. Even softer is the long silk scarf that blinds her eyes, its loose ends tickling her neck and shoulders. The inside of her knees rests against Michael’s rough jeans and, every time he leans in to kiss her, the linen of his shirt scratches her stomach and breasts; it’s going to make her go wild sooner rather than later.
He’s kneeling between her spread legs, just a couple of inches too far to let her rub against him the parts of her anatomy she desperately needs him to touch. It’s typical of the way he’s caressing her tonight. His fingers and tongue work her with chirurgical precision: they pinch and fondle, lick and swirl, aiming with care and deliberate paucity. He’s frustrating her on purpose, each small touch making her hope for more, writhe and pant for more. Right now, in addition to vanilla, she’d call him a few others names if what he was doing to her didn’t feel so sinfully delicious.
He won’t allow full body contact. He won’t let her touch him either. Each time her hands flail around and try to get to him, he stops whatever he’s doing, grips her wrists softly but firmly and pins them above her head. He holds them for a few seconds, uttering small disapproving and amused tsk tsk sounds. She scratches around helplessly, failing to find a purchase on the flat wooden bedpost and eventually grabbing the pillow to hold onto it. She almost wishes he had tied her up on top of everything else; at least, it would make things easier, not having to control her own instinctive gestures. Then, the implication of being tied up registers, gets to her and she moans.
He plays with another scarf, a woolen one: rubs it against her cheek so that she knows what’s about to happen, wraps it around her wrists and playfully pulls on its end - still no tying up - and tickles her armpit. She glares because tickling here is out of line. Or, well, she would be glaring if she wasn’t blindfolded.
God only knows why he has a woolen scarf in his closet in that always warm climate - probably a leftover from another life - but it’s not really the question of the moment. He lazily trails it between her breasts and down her stomach, ghosts over her hip with it and slides lower. The piece of clothing feels abrasive in the best possible way on her heated skin. She squirms under the long fringes that tantalize her and linger in its wake, like an afterthought, as if it moved forward with regret.
Lower, lower, and he reaches the inside of her thighs. She’s dripping wet. Even if she wasn’t aware of it, he’s saucy and smug enough to point out it to her. She opens her legs wider. She can feel him so close; her heart beats wildly in her chest, her hopes that he strokes her here suddenly rising. She bucks invitingly, but he bypasses her crotch and slides the fucking scarf up, once again across her belly.
She could cry; she certainly whimpers. Her second “Oh, God,” of the night is followed with a dirty “Clit tease!” and a breathless “Please, Michael...” Because it’s part of the game, and because she doesn’t care anymore how desperate she sounds, she throws in a second please just for good measure.
She’s not sure if it’s intended to be a reward for her pleas or a punishment for her interjection, but the scarf circles her breasts, slowly, leisurely. It follows their round curves clockwise, one and then the other, several times until eventually, it catches her nipples. She gasps. Gasps more as he drags the coarse scarf back and forth between the two hard nubs, whirling it in a steady motion. He’s rougher than he habitually is with her, but so carefully and tenderly that her throat constricts.
“Don’t move,” he instructs.
His tone suffers no contestation and she complies. The mattress dips as he retreats. She bites her lips. She feels even more spread, even more exposed, with her raised arms and splayed thighs now that he’s not kneeling above her anymore. She can hear him moving around, but has no way of guessing what he’s up to. She bows her back and pushes her breasts forward. Exposed for exposed, she may as well take it as far as possible. The grunt he exhales proves her right.
“They could very well be watching, you know.”
“Mm?”
“Linc and Sofia. You can’t see a thing. They could be sitting here and watching, and you wouldn’t know,” he teases.
Then he’s back kneeling between her legs, bending down and sucking into his mouth one of the nipples he was playing with a few seconds before. His lips and tongue are unusually cold, the sensation painful and pleasant at the same time. She understands where the chills come from a few seconds later when he kisses her on the mouth and tastes like ice-cream. Vanilla. She laughs, shaking with it, her over stimulated nipples brushing against his shirt.
“Knowing Lincoln, he’d already have gone down and dirty,” she points outs.
He’s playing, taunting - she knows he is - but she can’t help a hitch in her breathing when she feels him shifting as if to cast a glance over his shoulder and check on other people in the room with them. Impulsively, she turns her head too and can’t see anything, of course.
“Vanilla is not that bad, huh?” he gloats.
A small spoonful of ice-cream falls not so accidentally on her breast bone. The cold makes her muscles coil and her skin prickle with shivers; the contrasting warmth of his tongue has her moaning and lifting, wantonly pushing herself into his face. He licks her clean, chasing the melted and sticky delicacy up to the hollow of her throat. It occurs to her that he is lying on her now, heavy and all over her. He’s done with the teasing touches and kisses. She feels him fumbling with his belt and opening his pants, pausing a second to think and ask, “Do you want me to undress?”
It surprises her, but she shakes her head. No. She yearns for it, for him, like that. She revels in the rough contact of his clothes on her bare skin. She loves more than she should how indecent it feels being entirely naked under him. Obediently, he frees himself just enough and presses against her.
“Just let me...” she says. He can’t prevent her any longer from touching him. He probably doesn’t feel like it anyway. She lowers her arms and pushes her hands into his pants and under his boxers. She grabs his buttocks harshly, her fingers massaging the succulent muscles and her nails digging in and breaking the skin. So good. So fucking more satisfying than tearing up the innocent pillow cases she has been holding onto.
He growls and thrusts into her. She meets him halfway, eagerly canting her hips.
“Do you think Sofia...” he starts. There is a smile, a remaining tease in his voice.
“Shut up and fuck me,” she orders sternly. By the way he freezes for a second above her, she can tell that it surprised him, maybe shocked him, both her language and the order itself. Good. It’s a nice fantasy; they’re nice fantasies, Sofia and Lincoln and blindfold and not so vanilla ice-cream. But the reality of him concrete and solid on her and between her legs, hard and pulsing inside of her, is without equal. “Harder,” she demands.
She clutches his ass again to egg him on, then slides her hands up, sneaking them under his shirt. Touching, petting, stroking skin; finally. She snakes her arms around his mid-section and her legs around his hips. She squeezes and wraps herself around him, until he’s gasping, panting, pushing her thighs higher around his waist and driving deeper into her.
He doesn’t kiss her on the mouth when she comes; he aims for her neck instead. He craves hearing her too much. It’s okay. She’s just the same.
* * *
He’s removing his clothes. They’re falling on the floor in quick succession, the ruffling sounds informing her of his progress. She shifts nervously on the bed. She wants him back. Now. She knows he’s got up only for a few seconds, but it’s almost unbearable.
She sighs in relief when he settles back in bed with her. He plasters himself against her and grumbles - a fake complaint - that her kinky ways have deprived him of her skin too much too long, tonight.
“You never let me ask my question,” he rasps in her ear. “Do you think Sofia would be okay with Linc and me watching you two girls together?”
He’s joking. Probably. It doesn’t really matter because Sara chuckles and just says, “Men,” which is both an accusation and a waiver for any offense he may commit.
Her eyes are open beneath the soft silk of the scarf, but all she can see is golden black. Michael has tried to unknot it, but she’s refused. She likes it. Even now, even sated, it lets her focus on the rise and fall of his chest against her back, on his scent, on the smooth skin of his stomach against her lower back. He kisses her neck, cups a breast and lightly brushes its abused nipple, and settles his other hand in the slick V of her thighs. He licked her here, after both of them had come, indulging in their mingled flavor and kissing her deep to share it. The taste is still on her tongue and she shivers at the sensory overload she experiences.
She draws his arms tighter around her and drowns in his warmth.
-Fin-
--Feedback is always welcome.
Sequel: Shades of Vanilla II