Prison Break - Won-Lost Bet
Title: Won-Lost Bet
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael/Sara/Lincoln
Categories: Het, Slash
Rating: R
Warning: Incest
Word Count: ~ 985
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: Since he could do nothing about it, he might as well enjoy the game. He had agreed to play after all, hadn’t he? (Post-series, non-epilogue compliant)
Author’s Note: Written for kissbingo ( my card). Set in the Secretive ‘universe’.
Prompt for kissbingo: Experimental: Blindfold
Many thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
“Hey, wait...” was the last thing Lincoln said before Sara’s dark blue silk scarf was wrapped around his head and carefully tied at the back of his skull; blindfolding him effectively, loose ends stuck between his neck and the pillows. No cheating, no pretense, he actually couldn’t see a thing. He went down without a fight; he leaned back into the huge pile of cushions and relaxed, hardly heaving a resigned sigh. Since he could - nor wanted - do nothing about it, he might as well enjoy the game. He had agreed to play after all, hadn’t he? Even though he hadn’t seriously thought Sara and Michael would take him up on it.
Turned out he was wrong on that one.
“Sara,” he said when she kissed him. It was nice and soft, almost cute, just her lips pressing against his.
See? He could tell who was kissing him. The fact that he mistook Michael and her once last night meant nothing at all, especially considering the confusion happened in a rather fuzzy, heated, mind-blowing - he would have said ‘erupting’ if he had wanted to be crude - moment. It was easy. Sara. Sara’s lips were thinner than Michael’s and her skin smoother; her kisses were every bit as greedy, though. At first, Lincoln wouldn’t have suspected that greediness, with the two of them being so sweet and lovely. He had found out quickly enough that they could be demanding, ravishing him and ravishing each other. On the other hand, not the kind of thing he would complain about.
Sara’s mouth slid down his chin, and Michael replaced her. The little bastard bit Lincoln’s lips quite hard, making them tingle - making him tingle somewhat lower too - and soothed the delicious throb with a drag of tongue.
Or was the drag of tongue Sara’s work? It sure tasted like her. They both tasted the same, this morning, mint toothpaste and fresh orange juice. They smelled the same too, plain soap, musky scents of arousal, and morning-sun-kissed skin. He was mistaking them again because they had planned it that way.
They were cheating, playing with him and playing him. Taking turns kissing him without giving him the time to realize they’d swapped places, possibly both kissing him at the same time. That certainly would explain how they could lick and bite, brush and press hard, be everywhere all at once. He whispered in a fevered guess “Michael... Michael... Sara...” and, at some point between a tongue around his nipples and teeth nibbling his stomach, he decided it was time to forget the game. He wondered if they ever intended it as a game, anyway. They were intent, unremitting, elusive. He tried to grab them and hold them in place, but they shushed him, slapped his hands down, pushed them to his flanks and held them here. It was a kind of helplessness he could live with.
Unmistakable, wet kissing sounds a few inches away from his face. He grumbled in protest. Wasn’t he supposed to be the focus of their ministrations and teasing? Michael’s tongue - stubbled cheek against his face indicated it was Michael - slid between his teeth and fluttered into his mouth. He heard Sara’s faint whimper of approval, felt her slick-spit lips press onto Michael’s and his. It was messy and shameless, but then, wasn’t their whole relationship deliciously messy and shameless?
It was Sara’s lips that glided down his neck and chest, her teeth nibbling at his abs, her mouth aiming for the awakening erection between his thighs. It had to be Sara’s. She liked to take him like that, and Michael liked to watch. Long silky hair spilled all over his stomach, plump silky lips sweeping all over his face. His eyelids struggled beneath the soft material of the scarf, but all he could see were a smooth darkness and a sliver of light filtering through the threads.
They were hovering. They were making him wait. It was a rather new position for him. Usually, Michael was the one who was teased, Sara the one who was tenderly - sometimes not so tenderly, although always carefully - roughed up. He thrust his hips ever so slightly, mindful not to bump against Sara’s face, and he parted his lips in an obvious invitation.
“What the fuck you two are waiting for?”
They grinned; he couldn’t see them but damn, he knew they grinned. They stopped waiting. They kissed and licked and sucked and maybe - surely - switched places again and again. At some point, he wasn’t able anymore to tell the difference, too lost in lust, bliss, warmth and indulgent kisses. Unable to tell into whose mouth he came so hard that his vision whitened and reddened underneath the scarf, and whose mouth mercifully muffled his grunts of pleasure. It didn’t matter. They chuckled and whispered about ‘team work’ into his ear, and they were right - how could he not agree?
After, as he lay limp and sated, two pairs of hands gently removed the blindfold and two faces leaned down on him, cheeks flushed and lips curled up in satisfaction.
“You’ve lost,” Sara pointed out. She brushed a soft yet victorious kiss over his eyelids.
Michael had kept the scarf with him; he was twiddling it, wrapping it around his own wrists and pensively tugging on its ends. Lincoln followed the actions for a few seconds, the show of Michael’s hands, of the smooth fabric sliding across his skin, and of his thoughtful expression as well as the sight of Sara lying on her side, propped up on her elbow and a hint of breasts showing, full and silky, in the opening of her flimsy shirt.
He had lost the guessing game indeed.
Some lost games felt so much like victories that they were like Michael and Sara’s kisses; impossible to tell apart.
“Best kind of lost bet,” he said, stealing one end of the scarf from Michael’s hands.
-End-
--Comments are always welcome :)
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael/Sara/Lincoln
Categories: Het, Slash
Rating: R
Warning: Incest
Word Count: ~ 985
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: Since he could do nothing about it, he might as well enjoy the game. He had agreed to play after all, hadn’t he? (Post-series, non-epilogue compliant)
Author’s Note: Written for kissbingo ( my card). Set in the Secretive ‘universe’.
Prompt for kissbingo: Experimental: Blindfold
Many thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
“Hey, wait...” was the last thing Lincoln said before Sara’s dark blue silk scarf was wrapped around his head and carefully tied at the back of his skull; blindfolding him effectively, loose ends stuck between his neck and the pillows. No cheating, no pretense, he actually couldn’t see a thing. He went down without a fight; he leaned back into the huge pile of cushions and relaxed, hardly heaving a resigned sigh. Since he could - nor wanted - do nothing about it, he might as well enjoy the game. He had agreed to play after all, hadn’t he? Even though he hadn’t seriously thought Sara and Michael would take him up on it.
Turned out he was wrong on that one.
“Sara,” he said when she kissed him. It was nice and soft, almost cute, just her lips pressing against his.
See? He could tell who was kissing him. The fact that he mistook Michael and her once last night meant nothing at all, especially considering the confusion happened in a rather fuzzy, heated, mind-blowing - he would have said ‘erupting’ if he had wanted to be crude - moment. It was easy. Sara. Sara’s lips were thinner than Michael’s and her skin smoother; her kisses were every bit as greedy, though. At first, Lincoln wouldn’t have suspected that greediness, with the two of them being so sweet and lovely. He had found out quickly enough that they could be demanding, ravishing him and ravishing each other. On the other hand, not the kind of thing he would complain about.
Sara’s mouth slid down his chin, and Michael replaced her. The little bastard bit Lincoln’s lips quite hard, making them tingle - making him tingle somewhat lower too - and soothed the delicious throb with a drag of tongue.
Or was the drag of tongue Sara’s work? It sure tasted like her. They both tasted the same, this morning, mint toothpaste and fresh orange juice. They smelled the same too, plain soap, musky scents of arousal, and morning-sun-kissed skin. He was mistaking them again because they had planned it that way.
They were cheating, playing with him and playing him. Taking turns kissing him without giving him the time to realize they’d swapped places, possibly both kissing him at the same time. That certainly would explain how they could lick and bite, brush and press hard, be everywhere all at once. He whispered in a fevered guess “Michael... Michael... Sara...” and, at some point between a tongue around his nipples and teeth nibbling his stomach, he decided it was time to forget the game. He wondered if they ever intended it as a game, anyway. They were intent, unremitting, elusive. He tried to grab them and hold them in place, but they shushed him, slapped his hands down, pushed them to his flanks and held them here. It was a kind of helplessness he could live with.
Unmistakable, wet kissing sounds a few inches away from his face. He grumbled in protest. Wasn’t he supposed to be the focus of their ministrations and teasing? Michael’s tongue - stubbled cheek against his face indicated it was Michael - slid between his teeth and fluttered into his mouth. He heard Sara’s faint whimper of approval, felt her slick-spit lips press onto Michael’s and his. It was messy and shameless, but then, wasn’t their whole relationship deliciously messy and shameless?
It was Sara’s lips that glided down his neck and chest, her teeth nibbling at his abs, her mouth aiming for the awakening erection between his thighs. It had to be Sara’s. She liked to take him like that, and Michael liked to watch. Long silky hair spilled all over his stomach, plump silky lips sweeping all over his face. His eyelids struggled beneath the soft material of the scarf, but all he could see were a smooth darkness and a sliver of light filtering through the threads.
They were hovering. They were making him wait. It was a rather new position for him. Usually, Michael was the one who was teased, Sara the one who was tenderly - sometimes not so tenderly, although always carefully - roughed up. He thrust his hips ever so slightly, mindful not to bump against Sara’s face, and he parted his lips in an obvious invitation.
“What the fuck you two are waiting for?”
They grinned; he couldn’t see them but damn, he knew they grinned. They stopped waiting. They kissed and licked and sucked and maybe - surely - switched places again and again. At some point, he wasn’t able anymore to tell the difference, too lost in lust, bliss, warmth and indulgent kisses. Unable to tell into whose mouth he came so hard that his vision whitened and reddened underneath the scarf, and whose mouth mercifully muffled his grunts of pleasure. It didn’t matter. They chuckled and whispered about ‘team work’ into his ear, and they were right - how could he not agree?
After, as he lay limp and sated, two pairs of hands gently removed the blindfold and two faces leaned down on him, cheeks flushed and lips curled up in satisfaction.
“You’ve lost,” Sara pointed out. She brushed a soft yet victorious kiss over his eyelids.
Michael had kept the scarf with him; he was twiddling it, wrapping it around his own wrists and pensively tugging on its ends. Lincoln followed the actions for a few seconds, the show of Michael’s hands, of the smooth fabric sliding across his skin, and of his thoughtful expression as well as the sight of Sara lying on her side, propped up on her elbow and a hint of breasts showing, full and silky, in the opening of her flimsy shirt.
He had lost the guessing game indeed.
Some lost games felt so much like victories that they were like Michael and Sara’s kisses; impossible to tell apart.
“Best kind of lost bet,” he said, stealing one end of the scarf from Michael’s hands.
-End-
--Comments are always welcome :)