Prison Break - Nothing Typical
Title: Nothing Typical
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Lincoln/Sara (implied Michael/Sara)
Category: Het
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~ 2820
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: Let’s get this straight: she’s Michael’s, and it’s a typical, classic, not original thing-leading-to-another-thing kind of situation.
Author’s Note: Written for kissbingo ( my card).
Many thanks to badboy_fangirl for the beta.
Prompt for kissbingo: Face: nose
She’s Michael’s.
Let’s get this straight: she’s Michael’s, and it’s a typical, classic, not original thing-leading-to-another-thing kind of situation.
- - - - -
Sara collapses after they’ve found out that the Company has Michael. Lincoln isn’t very far from following her; too much has been going on during the last few months and all that crap is taking its toll. But he’s better at handling other people’s emotional outbursts than one would think - teenage kid and partly raising Michael who could put you through the hell of an emotional roller-coaster - so when she falls apart, he gathers her in his arms and holds her, cradles and rocks her gently. He does all he should do the way he should do it, good buddy and future brother-in-law that he is.
It occurs to him just a bit too late that his kid and his brother are... his kid and his brother - in other words, male and family; that the way he’s handled feminine emotional outbursts for most of his life has been radically different for obvious reasons and usually lead to more problems rather than less; that Sara is clinging to him, her nose in his collar, her nails biting into his skin, her hair tickling his face, and her lithe body...
He’s not going there.
She’s Michael’s.
He throws his head back to disengage a bit from the embrace, takes in a calming breath and pats her hair in an almost brotherly fashion. He kisses her nose, and it makes her smile through her gasps and sobs. The kiss itself makes her smile; the weirdly affectionate and protective attitude too. He doesn’t see it right away, but it’s his downfall, that shaky yet valiant smile because he does it again in hope she’ll smile again: pats her hair, kisses her nose. The second kiss on the tip of her nose is deliberately loud, a smacking sound echoing in the empty warehouse, and she does smile at him. Mission accomplished.
He should stop here. They should stop here. Instead, because it feels so nice and soothing, he skips over the corner of her lips as if on autopilot. Easy to let it happen because you know, her lips are just a tad lower than her nose, just where they should be, just here. It’s still comforting, playful and almost brotherly. No big deal.
She exhales and relaxes against him. Tension doesn’t leave her altogether, but subsides and it makes her more pliant in his hold. Bolder, too: no matter how much she’s Michael’s, she presses back against the corner of his lips, the touch sure and inviting. Once, twice, and then full on his mouth, her eyes half closed, her kisses gentle pecks becoming something less gentle and more... just more. He chalks it up to adrenaline still running fast in her. She feels nice, even though he can still taste the nervous sweat that broke onto her skin and the salt of her tears. He freezes but doesn’t back off, doesn’t say or do anything. It’s a victory in itself, not saying or doing anything, given he feels as if someone has cracked a match and he doesn’t even know where to begin to stifle the spark. Spark sparkles and ignites, of course, because Sara feeds it with minute touches, and if he’s better than one would think at handling emotional outbursts, he’s shit at handling that kind of sparkling - always has been.
That’s the point where it becomes a typical, classic, not original thing-leading-to-another-thing kind of situation: firm full lips on his own, soft hands tight around his neck right under his ears and, before he knows it, breasts and stomach grinding against him in a much too pleasant manner through their respective layers of clothing. She tries to say something and end ups panting against his mouth, searching for her breath and failing. He kisses and grips and rubs back. Urgent and probably clutching too hard, but he doesn’t hear a complaint. It’s absolutely not almost brotherly anymore; almost brotherly was deserted about two gasps and three sweeps of tongue ago. Messy kiss, this one, with lips attempting to find each other’s and teeth catching tongues when the kisses on the side of her nose were so cute, and the first one on the corner of her mouth so affectionate. Now, it has versed into something else entirely: a bit desperate and a bit sad, kind of warming and filled with so much yearning that his pang of guilt - she’s Michael’s - is swept away by a thrill of need-lust-now.
He did collapse actually. He’s been a fool for not acknowledging it sooner. She found comfort in him, and he found comfort in offering her comfort, but the fallout is the same. They hold onto each other, Michael’s absence bringing them closer than they should be, just as Michael’s presence, Michael’s affection and Michael’s obsessions - not to mention Michael’s occasional assholiness, lately - have initiated the process. Linc would laugh at all three of them and at the paradox, but there’s nothing funny here.
She opens her mouth to let him in, open his shirt to touch him, opens her eyes to look at him. It’s indecent to stare at her like that while kissing her, seeing feelings and needs that shouldn’t be for him.
She’s Michael’s. She’s Michael’s, and even though right now Michael is making them miserable, it doesn’t matter, doesn’t change anything that it’s not his fault. It’s still ten different kind of wrong, but then in his current state of mind, ‘wrong’ makes it all more enticing to Lincoln - if you sink, at least sink good and deep.
Sara says, “We can’t,” but staggers across the threshold of the tiny room he’s been using as a bedroom and pulls him with her. He replies, “I know,” but all he does is ensure that the door is locked after them, keeping the world outside for a while.
He turns her around, her back to his chest, his arms around her waist. He can’t keep this up if she’s looking him in the eye. His hands slide under her shirt, up her stomach and ribcage, move up again and cup her breasts. Tenderly, delicately. They’re soft, heavy and warm in his palms. He brushes his thumbs over her nipples through the plain cotton of her bra, and she moans softly, a low and needy sound, an encouraging sound, egging him on. Egging him on too, her hips pushing back and her bottom rubbing against him. He can feel her smile, her satisfaction at the hardness she catches there. He kisses her neck, a wet suction on her pulse, and she closes her hands above his, pressing his fingers harder around her breasts.
He wishes he could be harsh, make it hard and fast and dirty, like scratching an offensive itch. He knows he won’t. First because she needs comfort, they both need it, and hard, fast and dirty would defeat the purpose. If he’s going to do this, the least he can do is to fulfill the purpose and meet their needs. Second because he can’t treat her, take her, like that; Michael would be upset if he did, even more so than by the fact that they’re cheating on him.
So he lays her down on the narrow bed - she mercifully tips her head back and he can’t see those fucking brown eyes - and undresses her, wary not to rip one single button off her shirt, catch her hair in its collar or tug too roughly on her pants. He won’t damage her more, not if he can help it. She shifts and arches up to help, sighs in relief at the feel of his hands lingering on her bare skin. He trails down her flanks, his fingers redrawing her back, his thumbs digging slightly in the supple muscles of her hips and upper thighs. He leans down and tastes the skin of the crease where her hip morphs into her lower stomach; salty and silky, and her hand flies to the back of his head. He lingers here.
She stares when he gets up, steps back and starts shedding his own clothes. It’s okay. Her eyes boring into his while he kisses and strokes her are one thing; her gazing and watching while he undresses for her are another, one he can stand and even enjoy. Enjoy a lot, actually. As he goes on and uncovers more skin, more of him, she licks her lips, the gesture so instinctive and candid that he can’t help it; he slows down and grins when she impatiently leans up on her elbow and furrows her brow. She’s flushed, shades of pinks and reds, the most colorful he’s seen her in days; not amused with him making her wait.
She rolls onto her stomach and throws him a sideway glance to gauge his reaction. Provocation, apprehension and dare mingle on her face, and it hits him hard. The scars on her back. He had a glimpse of them in Vegas, when she strolled around in that black dress and then later wearing nothing more than a bikini and a flimsy shirt. He didn’t stare back then, didn’t pay more attention than he should have and was allowed too.
Now, he does stare and examine them, those small rolls of flesh that break the smoothness of her skin. Scars she wears because of him, because of Michael. They’re one of the many reasons that make him feel like curling a hand around Gretchen’s throat and squeezing until the bitch turns blue and chokes. Without over thinking it, he leans down and kisses one of the wounds, the tip of his tongue tracing it from one end to the other. She holds in her breath but smiles a little at him, and he tries hard not to wonder whether Michael kissed and touched her the same way. Useless. Of course his sap of a brother kissed and touched her the same way.
“Do they still hurt?” he asks.
She murmurs “It’s okay,” in this non-committal tone meaning that they still hurt like a bitch, if not physically at least mentally, but that she won’t allow it to take her down. This is going to be a hell of a relationship, Michael and her, he thinks sarcastically, both of them taking everything on them and refusing to lay the burden on other people.
She shifts under him, her butt rubs provocatively against his chest; talking basic language to catch his attention and bring him back into the moment. It works, of course, how could it not? He straightens up to enjoy the sight. She’s all delicate curves and tangled hair spilled over her shoulders, the wing-like form of her shoulder blades, the dip of her back and the swell of her ass inducing lust as much as a weird fondness. He doesn’t tell her that, hardly admits it to himself, knows that none of them can afford such openness. Safer to leer and point out that the back is definitely as tasty as the front, which is entirely true, by the way, no lie here. She grumbles something sounding a lot like “jerk”, something that gets lost in her moan when he bends down and playfully bites her buttock. He stretches out on the bed, half on her and half off her, and asks, “How?” into her ear. She’s smooth and warm against him.
She doesn’t think twice. She pushes him off her, slides down the bed and onto her knees, her upper body resting on the thin mattress. He wonders if she shares his eye contact issue; it would made sense, after all. He also wonders if she has any idea how trustful and self-indulgent she looks, displaying herself like that, with her back bowed toward him, her forehead on the pillow and her fists gripping the blanket in anticipation.
He grabs a condom in the back pocket of the jeans he just discarded, prays that the thing is still good to use and rolls it down carefully. He’s going to screw up, that’s a given now, but he’s going to do it as decently as possible and try to keep the collateral damages to a minimum.
It takes some shifting and adjusting before he finds himself nestled into her, wrapped all around her, but the fussing around and the small grunts of frustration and pleasant pain are so worth it. He stops moving for a couple of seconds to feel her, tight and clenching around him. She’s half kneeling and half sitting in his lap, molded into him from shoulders to thighs, her legs bent and pressing into his, his chin in the silky crook of her neck. If he leans down just a little more - he tries, the move pushes him deeper into her and she clenches and whimpers with an urgency that makes him thrust again on pure instinct - he can press the side of his face against her cheek.
She kisses his forearm and demands, “Move.”
He complies, and it’s bad how good if feels; it means that somewhere along the way, things are going to be a fucking mess. He should have eaten her out and had her suck him off or maybe nailed her against a wall or... Anything but this odd entanglement they’ve got themselves into and that feels too intimate. But it ought to be that way, right? After all, primitive method to try and soften a primitive pain.
‘Cause that’s the only explanation, softening the pain. He’s not doing this to punish Michael for being sick, or really just for being Michael; that would be stupid. Nor is he doing it to enjoy a bit of the life he got back thanks to Michael; that would be selfish. Not lame pity, untimely lust and weird affection for Sara either - although he’s not so sure about the lust and affection part; it would be a shitty thing to do. So it leaves him with softening the pain and, really, from this standpoint, it’s not that bad, is it?
Sara pushes back into him, already further gone than he is and needy enough to have stopped caring about why and what will happen later. In response, he thrusts hard into her and can hear the metallic bed legs slide on the floor. The small movement and the sound are strangely satisfying, almost as much as Sara clamping and tightening around him, trying to drive him deeper into her.
He bears down on her, pins her against the mattress covered with a scratchy blanket, plasters himself against her back, and breathes into her neck. She’s shaking and moaning into the pillow, getting louder by the second, her arms extended above her head, her fingers gripping the blanket so hard that her knuckles are whitening. She’s losing it and dragging him along with her. He rises up higher on his knees, broadens the back-and-forth rolls of hips - slow and deep and impossibly good - and whispers, “Come on, Sara...” into her ear. Her first, both because he’s a nice guy and wants to please her, and because the feeling of her on his cock, her sweat-slick skin against his, her whimpers... too good to not be appreciated a bit longer.
One of his hands slides down her stomach and dips into between her tights, fingers circling and rubbing the wet and swollen flesh. Right like this. He’s not sure whether he thinks it or she says it, but she rears up beneath him and whines, long and sharp, and he holds out a few more seconds just because.
He stills deep inside of her and bites into her shoulder when he comes - bites hard enough to leave a bruise that will last several days and become red and blue and yellow.
- - - - -
They don’t talk. Don’t try to brush off or excuse what happened. No way they can, not sure they want to anyway. Lincoln helps Sara onto her feet and suggests she claim the shower first. She shrugs and nods at him to follow her. They lather up, scrub and rinse together, a bit crammed in one of the not-dirty booths - some of the guys can’t get the concept of cleaning after themselves, Sara pointed out with her nose scrunched in resignation - and if Sara’s breasts or ass still stir up something in Lincoln, he shuts it down and keeps quiet.
When they’ve toweled and safely dressed again, they sit on the red couch in the open space and pore over plans and possibilities. Sara leans in and blows a loud kiss on the tip of his nose. She manages to make it insulting, sweet and reassuring all at once.
He looks into the brown eyes he’s been avoiding for an hour and shakes his head. Actually, there may be nothing typical or classic about this at all.
-End-
--Feddback is always appreciated :)
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Lincoln/Sara (implied Michael/Sara)
Category: Het
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~ 2820
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: Let’s get this straight: she’s Michael’s, and it’s a typical, classic, not original thing-leading-to-another-thing kind of situation.
Author’s Note: Written for kissbingo ( my card).
Many thanks to badboy_fangirl for the beta.
Prompt for kissbingo: Face: nose
She’s Michael’s.
Let’s get this straight: she’s Michael’s, and it’s a typical, classic, not original thing-leading-to-another-thing kind of situation.
- - - - -
Sara collapses after they’ve found out that the Company has Michael. Lincoln isn’t very far from following her; too much has been going on during the last few months and all that crap is taking its toll. But he’s better at handling other people’s emotional outbursts than one would think - teenage kid and partly raising Michael who could put you through the hell of an emotional roller-coaster - so when she falls apart, he gathers her in his arms and holds her, cradles and rocks her gently. He does all he should do the way he should do it, good buddy and future brother-in-law that he is.
It occurs to him just a bit too late that his kid and his brother are... his kid and his brother - in other words, male and family; that the way he’s handled feminine emotional outbursts for most of his life has been radically different for obvious reasons and usually lead to more problems rather than less; that Sara is clinging to him, her nose in his collar, her nails biting into his skin, her hair tickling his face, and her lithe body...
He’s not going there.
She’s Michael’s.
He throws his head back to disengage a bit from the embrace, takes in a calming breath and pats her hair in an almost brotherly fashion. He kisses her nose, and it makes her smile through her gasps and sobs. The kiss itself makes her smile; the weirdly affectionate and protective attitude too. He doesn’t see it right away, but it’s his downfall, that shaky yet valiant smile because he does it again in hope she’ll smile again: pats her hair, kisses her nose. The second kiss on the tip of her nose is deliberately loud, a smacking sound echoing in the empty warehouse, and she does smile at him. Mission accomplished.
He should stop here. They should stop here. Instead, because it feels so nice and soothing, he skips over the corner of her lips as if on autopilot. Easy to let it happen because you know, her lips are just a tad lower than her nose, just where they should be, just here. It’s still comforting, playful and almost brotherly. No big deal.
She exhales and relaxes against him. Tension doesn’t leave her altogether, but subsides and it makes her more pliant in his hold. Bolder, too: no matter how much she’s Michael’s, she presses back against the corner of his lips, the touch sure and inviting. Once, twice, and then full on his mouth, her eyes half closed, her kisses gentle pecks becoming something less gentle and more... just more. He chalks it up to adrenaline still running fast in her. She feels nice, even though he can still taste the nervous sweat that broke onto her skin and the salt of her tears. He freezes but doesn’t back off, doesn’t say or do anything. It’s a victory in itself, not saying or doing anything, given he feels as if someone has cracked a match and he doesn’t even know where to begin to stifle the spark. Spark sparkles and ignites, of course, because Sara feeds it with minute touches, and if he’s better than one would think at handling emotional outbursts, he’s shit at handling that kind of sparkling - always has been.
That’s the point where it becomes a typical, classic, not original thing-leading-to-another-thing kind of situation: firm full lips on his own, soft hands tight around his neck right under his ears and, before he knows it, breasts and stomach grinding against him in a much too pleasant manner through their respective layers of clothing. She tries to say something and end ups panting against his mouth, searching for her breath and failing. He kisses and grips and rubs back. Urgent and probably clutching too hard, but he doesn’t hear a complaint. It’s absolutely not almost brotherly anymore; almost brotherly was deserted about two gasps and three sweeps of tongue ago. Messy kiss, this one, with lips attempting to find each other’s and teeth catching tongues when the kisses on the side of her nose were so cute, and the first one on the corner of her mouth so affectionate. Now, it has versed into something else entirely: a bit desperate and a bit sad, kind of warming and filled with so much yearning that his pang of guilt - she’s Michael’s - is swept away by a thrill of need-lust-now.
He did collapse actually. He’s been a fool for not acknowledging it sooner. She found comfort in him, and he found comfort in offering her comfort, but the fallout is the same. They hold onto each other, Michael’s absence bringing them closer than they should be, just as Michael’s presence, Michael’s affection and Michael’s obsessions - not to mention Michael’s occasional assholiness, lately - have initiated the process. Linc would laugh at all three of them and at the paradox, but there’s nothing funny here.
She opens her mouth to let him in, open his shirt to touch him, opens her eyes to look at him. It’s indecent to stare at her like that while kissing her, seeing feelings and needs that shouldn’t be for him.
She’s Michael’s. She’s Michael’s, and even though right now Michael is making them miserable, it doesn’t matter, doesn’t change anything that it’s not his fault. It’s still ten different kind of wrong, but then in his current state of mind, ‘wrong’ makes it all more enticing to Lincoln - if you sink, at least sink good and deep.
Sara says, “We can’t,” but staggers across the threshold of the tiny room he’s been using as a bedroom and pulls him with her. He replies, “I know,” but all he does is ensure that the door is locked after them, keeping the world outside for a while.
He turns her around, her back to his chest, his arms around her waist. He can’t keep this up if she’s looking him in the eye. His hands slide under her shirt, up her stomach and ribcage, move up again and cup her breasts. Tenderly, delicately. They’re soft, heavy and warm in his palms. He brushes his thumbs over her nipples through the plain cotton of her bra, and she moans softly, a low and needy sound, an encouraging sound, egging him on. Egging him on too, her hips pushing back and her bottom rubbing against him. He can feel her smile, her satisfaction at the hardness she catches there. He kisses her neck, a wet suction on her pulse, and she closes her hands above his, pressing his fingers harder around her breasts.
He wishes he could be harsh, make it hard and fast and dirty, like scratching an offensive itch. He knows he won’t. First because she needs comfort, they both need it, and hard, fast and dirty would defeat the purpose. If he’s going to do this, the least he can do is to fulfill the purpose and meet their needs. Second because he can’t treat her, take her, like that; Michael would be upset if he did, even more so than by the fact that they’re cheating on him.
So he lays her down on the narrow bed - she mercifully tips her head back and he can’t see those fucking brown eyes - and undresses her, wary not to rip one single button off her shirt, catch her hair in its collar or tug too roughly on her pants. He won’t damage her more, not if he can help it. She shifts and arches up to help, sighs in relief at the feel of his hands lingering on her bare skin. He trails down her flanks, his fingers redrawing her back, his thumbs digging slightly in the supple muscles of her hips and upper thighs. He leans down and tastes the skin of the crease where her hip morphs into her lower stomach; salty and silky, and her hand flies to the back of his head. He lingers here.
She stares when he gets up, steps back and starts shedding his own clothes. It’s okay. Her eyes boring into his while he kisses and strokes her are one thing; her gazing and watching while he undresses for her are another, one he can stand and even enjoy. Enjoy a lot, actually. As he goes on and uncovers more skin, more of him, she licks her lips, the gesture so instinctive and candid that he can’t help it; he slows down and grins when she impatiently leans up on her elbow and furrows her brow. She’s flushed, shades of pinks and reds, the most colorful he’s seen her in days; not amused with him making her wait.
She rolls onto her stomach and throws him a sideway glance to gauge his reaction. Provocation, apprehension and dare mingle on her face, and it hits him hard. The scars on her back. He had a glimpse of them in Vegas, when she strolled around in that black dress and then later wearing nothing more than a bikini and a flimsy shirt. He didn’t stare back then, didn’t pay more attention than he should have and was allowed too.
Now, he does stare and examine them, those small rolls of flesh that break the smoothness of her skin. Scars she wears because of him, because of Michael. They’re one of the many reasons that make him feel like curling a hand around Gretchen’s throat and squeezing until the bitch turns blue and chokes. Without over thinking it, he leans down and kisses one of the wounds, the tip of his tongue tracing it from one end to the other. She holds in her breath but smiles a little at him, and he tries hard not to wonder whether Michael kissed and touched her the same way. Useless. Of course his sap of a brother kissed and touched her the same way.
“Do they still hurt?” he asks.
She murmurs “It’s okay,” in this non-committal tone meaning that they still hurt like a bitch, if not physically at least mentally, but that she won’t allow it to take her down. This is going to be a hell of a relationship, Michael and her, he thinks sarcastically, both of them taking everything on them and refusing to lay the burden on other people.
She shifts under him, her butt rubs provocatively against his chest; talking basic language to catch his attention and bring him back into the moment. It works, of course, how could it not? He straightens up to enjoy the sight. She’s all delicate curves and tangled hair spilled over her shoulders, the wing-like form of her shoulder blades, the dip of her back and the swell of her ass inducing lust as much as a weird fondness. He doesn’t tell her that, hardly admits it to himself, knows that none of them can afford such openness. Safer to leer and point out that the back is definitely as tasty as the front, which is entirely true, by the way, no lie here. She grumbles something sounding a lot like “jerk”, something that gets lost in her moan when he bends down and playfully bites her buttock. He stretches out on the bed, half on her and half off her, and asks, “How?” into her ear. She’s smooth and warm against him.
She doesn’t think twice. She pushes him off her, slides down the bed and onto her knees, her upper body resting on the thin mattress. He wonders if she shares his eye contact issue; it would made sense, after all. He also wonders if she has any idea how trustful and self-indulgent she looks, displaying herself like that, with her back bowed toward him, her forehead on the pillow and her fists gripping the blanket in anticipation.
He grabs a condom in the back pocket of the jeans he just discarded, prays that the thing is still good to use and rolls it down carefully. He’s going to screw up, that’s a given now, but he’s going to do it as decently as possible and try to keep the collateral damages to a minimum.
It takes some shifting and adjusting before he finds himself nestled into her, wrapped all around her, but the fussing around and the small grunts of frustration and pleasant pain are so worth it. He stops moving for a couple of seconds to feel her, tight and clenching around him. She’s half kneeling and half sitting in his lap, molded into him from shoulders to thighs, her legs bent and pressing into his, his chin in the silky crook of her neck. If he leans down just a little more - he tries, the move pushes him deeper into her and she clenches and whimpers with an urgency that makes him thrust again on pure instinct - he can press the side of his face against her cheek.
She kisses his forearm and demands, “Move.”
He complies, and it’s bad how good if feels; it means that somewhere along the way, things are going to be a fucking mess. He should have eaten her out and had her suck him off or maybe nailed her against a wall or... Anything but this odd entanglement they’ve got themselves into and that feels too intimate. But it ought to be that way, right? After all, primitive method to try and soften a primitive pain.
‘Cause that’s the only explanation, softening the pain. He’s not doing this to punish Michael for being sick, or really just for being Michael; that would be stupid. Nor is he doing it to enjoy a bit of the life he got back thanks to Michael; that would be selfish. Not lame pity, untimely lust and weird affection for Sara either - although he’s not so sure about the lust and affection part; it would be a shitty thing to do. So it leaves him with softening the pain and, really, from this standpoint, it’s not that bad, is it?
Sara pushes back into him, already further gone than he is and needy enough to have stopped caring about why and what will happen later. In response, he thrusts hard into her and can hear the metallic bed legs slide on the floor. The small movement and the sound are strangely satisfying, almost as much as Sara clamping and tightening around him, trying to drive him deeper into her.
He bears down on her, pins her against the mattress covered with a scratchy blanket, plasters himself against her back, and breathes into her neck. She’s shaking and moaning into the pillow, getting louder by the second, her arms extended above her head, her fingers gripping the blanket so hard that her knuckles are whitening. She’s losing it and dragging him along with her. He rises up higher on his knees, broadens the back-and-forth rolls of hips - slow and deep and impossibly good - and whispers, “Come on, Sara...” into her ear. Her first, both because he’s a nice guy and wants to please her, and because the feeling of her on his cock, her sweat-slick skin against his, her whimpers... too good to not be appreciated a bit longer.
One of his hands slides down her stomach and dips into between her tights, fingers circling and rubbing the wet and swollen flesh. Right like this. He’s not sure whether he thinks it or she says it, but she rears up beneath him and whines, long and sharp, and he holds out a few more seconds just because.
He stills deep inside of her and bites into her shoulder when he comes - bites hard enough to leave a bruise that will last several days and become red and blue and yellow.
- - - - -
They don’t talk. Don’t try to brush off or excuse what happened. No way they can, not sure they want to anyway. Lincoln helps Sara onto her feet and suggests she claim the shower first. She shrugs and nods at him to follow her. They lather up, scrub and rinse together, a bit crammed in one of the not-dirty booths - some of the guys can’t get the concept of cleaning after themselves, Sara pointed out with her nose scrunched in resignation - and if Sara’s breasts or ass still stir up something in Lincoln, he shuts it down and keeps quiet.
When they’ve toweled and safely dressed again, they sit on the red couch in the open space and pore over plans and possibilities. Sara leans in and blows a loud kiss on the tip of his nose. She manages to make it insulting, sweet and reassuring all at once.
He looks into the brown eyes he’s been avoiding for an hour and shakes his head. Actually, there may be nothing typical or classic about this at all.
-End-
--Feddback is always appreciated :)