Prison Break - Extent of the Tattoo
Title: Extent of the Tattoo
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Michael/Lincoln (implied Michael/Sara)
Category: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Incest
Word Count: ~ 1670
Summary: In Tooele, Utah, with T-Bag in the truck of the car after he quipped yet another dirty allusion about Michael hiding pieces of info in his tattoo, Lincoln glances sideways at his brother and asks, “How low does this thing go, anyway?” (Set during the second season.)
Author’s Note: Written for rounds_of_kink, prompt by metallikirk.
Kinks and prompts for rounds_of_kink by metallikirk: Tattoos, Oral Sex, Shower Sex, Marking, Possessive Sex, and the sentence “Bow down to your new God”. I didn’t use the sentence itself, but hopefully, the idea is here nonetheless.
Many thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
In Tooele, Utah, with T-Bag in the truck of the car after he quipped yet another dirty allusion about Michael hiding pieces of info in his tattoo, Lincoln glances sideways at his brother and asks, “How low does this thing go, anyway?”
He’s all innuendo and rumbling voice, and Michael does a double take because it’s really, really not the right moment to go there. Not that they’ve had a moment to go there during the last few days. Not that it doesn’t kick the heat up a notch in the sizzling air of the car.
“Seriously?” he scoffs.
Lincoln smirks and starts up the engine.
* *
He gets an answer to his question in Chicago, a couple of weeks later. There’s a big comfortable bathroom in their hotel room, with a tub large enough for the two of them and a steady stream of warm water cascading onto their shoulders. Michael’s eyes are clouded with guilt because of Sara, but not so much that he’d be tempted to deny Lincoln anything. It’s fast and urgent, it has to be; Sara left the hotel room maybe fifteen minutes ago, she won’t be gone very long, and she can’t find them like this.
Lincoln turns him around to face the wall and takes a good look at his back, at the intricate swirls and patterns of ink covering his upper body. They stop an inch below the line of his hips, creamy skin of his buttocks left untouched. Linc breathes in deeply. The tattoos were done for him; a testimony of crazy love and devotion. The smooth skin of Michael’s lower body seems paler in comparison, and has always been Lincoln’s no matter what. He slides his hands all the way down from Michael’s neck to his thighs, re-asserting his rights over his brother’s body.
Michael tries to turn around and he grips his hips to prevent him from doing so. Not yet. First, he kisses and licks the angel slaying the demon. Michael gasps, whispers to him to hurry up, to just please, please..., but Lincoln merely bends lower and scraps his teeth over the angel’s wings.
“Asshole,” Michael growls.
He’s whirled around for this, as swiftly as the slippery tub will allow it, and pushed into the tiled wall. Lincoln kisses him, bites his lips the same way he bit his back seconds ago. When they part, Michael watches him with half-lidded eyes, blue and shiny, droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes and his upper lip, running down his skin. His mouth is red, so red from kisses and heat, and from worrying his lips between his teeth to hold back pleas and moans.
“It’s a miracle you made it through Fox River’s showers”, Lincoln says. Retrospective fear, possessiveness and lust all at once seep into his voice.
Michael opens his mouth to throw another insult or maybe a protest, but Lincoln goes on his knees and that shuts him up. It always shuts him up, Lincoln at his feet, looking up at him, lips parted and breath hot against his stomach. Lincoln would swear he can see his cock hardening and swelling more in the span of a few seconds. He would be smirking if he didn’t feel a jolt in his lower belly, an itch in his fingers, the need to taste Michael pushing him forward. The craving, how strong it is, always surprises him. Only Michael can get him on his knees like that, willing and eager to take anything he has to offer, on the verge of whorish. Or maybe it’s devoted. He ponders whether there’s that much of a difference between whorish and devoted. He doesn’t see it, right now.
He wonders when his brother turned the tables on him in such a way. In two minutes, he’s gone from having the upper hand to longing to suck on the cock Michael’s desperately rubbing against his cheek. It’s hardly the first time it’s happened; Michael has always had a knack at making his own neediness so enthralling that Lincoln couldn't resist it. Add to this the fuel of the plan and the tattoos, the craziness of the situation, and Lincoln is pretty much screwed.
He licks a stripe on the underside of Michael’s cock, the saliva accumulated in his mouth leaving a messy trail on the velvety skin. Michael grunts, scrambles, almost loses his footing, and has to rely on Lincoln to steady him. Lincoln’s hands to steady him and Lincoln’s mouth to pleasure him. Linc takes him in and lets him thrust into his mouth; almost gags on him and revels in the feeling.
“God, Linc... I want you to fuck me...”
Michael is babbling, feverish in his need. Lincoln tries to close his ears to the request, his eyes to the sight of Michael’s twitching between his hands, his brain to the image of Michael on his back for him. Not the time. Better use as best as possible the little time they have.
“Please, tell me you’ll fuck me later. Linc? Tell me.”
Lincoln’s fingers slide from Michael’s hip to his ass, sneak and seek, find the entrance to his body and push in. The dirty babbling keeps going on, but at least, thank God, it becomes unintelligible, mushed syllables and panted words mixing with low moans.
Michael’s hand comes to rest limply on Lincoln’s shorn head. It looks too much like a blessing, especially when Lincoln is kneeling and worshipping divinely salty, silky-hard flesh. It’s a blasphemy for sure, but it’s just another one in a long string that will eventually tug him down into Hell. He can only hope - pray - that Michael won’t fall with him.
He hollows out his cheeks to suck harder. His own erection hangs heavy between his legs, but he doesn’t pay attention to it. He’s almost surprised when he feels himself coming and hardly has the time to palm his cock. Blood is pounding between his temples, and his untimely orgasm certainly doesn’t weaken his need or determination to get Michael off.
He curls a semen-slicked hand around Michael’s hip. He likes the image, the gooey substance on the half blue half white skin, but the running water quickly washes it off. He will have to resort to other methods to leave a lasting trace of his passage. Two fingers on tattooed skin, two others and his thumb digging into the unblemished flesh below the ink. He squeezes. Now, he’s going to leave marks and bruises, maybe marks and bruises Sara will see if Michael and her... The notion she could find out makes Lincoln oddly satisfied and sick to his stomach at the same time.
He pulls back ever so slightly when Michael comes; he wants to taste him, bitter and salty, on his tongue.
* *
Their bathroom on the cargo ship en route to Panama is not nearly as large and comfortable, but still large enough for the two of them to fit in the shower together. Against the shell of Michael’s ear, Lincoln whispers again that he’s sorry, and he means it; that they will find a way to help Sara when they get to Panama, and he would want to believe it. Once again, he kisses the angel killing the demon on Michael’s back, and strokes the mirroring image on his front.
He kneels behind Michael, parts his buttocks and licks. Greedy and hard and luscious. A gurgling sound fills the cabin, not coming from the water but from Michael’s throat, and Lincoln does it again, and again, until Michel’s thighs quiver beneath his hands.
“This is not what I meant when I said I wanted you to fuck me,” Michael manages to say. “But okay...”
Lincoln spreads him wider and tongues deeper into him, feasting on the tangy taste and the raw grunts wrenched out of Michael’s throat. The water running down Michael’s back and ass falls into his eyes and blinds him. It’s funny how they’ve done this in a shower twice within a few days. As though water could clean and absolve them of what they’re doing - even Lincoln who’s not big on symbolism can get this. Whatever. He doesn’t wonder anymore: this is devotion and worshipping, and if he does end up dragged down to Hell for it, at least it will be for a worthy reason.
They don’t bother drying up before they stumble outside the bathroom and fall across one of the beds. Michael readily rolls onto his stomach, ass up in the air, offered to Lincoln’s dedicated ministrations.
Lincoln slaps the right buttock. It induces a surprised, almost shocked glance from Michael, and a delicious reddening of his skin. Lincoln grins as he leans down to bite hard into the supple muscle. He rolls it between his teeth, intent on leaving a mark that will become, if only temporarily, as dark as the ink on Michael’s torso.
“Not like that,” he says. He moves and lies back, maneuvers Michael until he’s straddling him. Michael gets the hint. He steadies himself and, with a painful slowness, he lowers himself onto Lincoln’s erection; eases him into his body, opening just enough, just for him. Head thrown back, mouth agape, and all statue-like, idol-like with those damn tattoos and fair skin.
Lincoln wraps his hands around Michael’s forearms to tug him down for a kiss. “As long as you want,” he blurts out into his mouth.
Michael blinks in confusion. “What?”
“As long as you want. As many times as you want.” You don’t fuck idols, right? You let them have their way with you, and you relish it. “I won’t come until you tell me to. Allow me to.”
A smile curls the corners of Michael’s mouth. “Now, that sounds like a challenge...”
Lincoln helps Michael straighten up and trails his fingers right where the tattoos fade and merge into virgin skin. Idol-like or not, Michael shivers beneath the caress.
* *
Lincoln does know. How low the tattoo goes; how deep the devotion runs.
-Fin-
--Feedback is always welcome :)
Author: clair-de-lune
Fandom: Prison Break
Pairing: Michael/Lincoln (implied Michael/Sara)
Category: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Incest
Word Count: ~ 1670
Summary: In Tooele, Utah, with T-Bag in the truck of the car after he quipped yet another dirty allusion about Michael hiding pieces of info in his tattoo, Lincoln glances sideways at his brother and asks, “How low does this thing go, anyway?” (Set during the second season.)
Author’s Note: Written for rounds_of_kink, prompt by metallikirk.
Kinks and prompts for rounds_of_kink by metallikirk: Tattoos, Oral Sex, Shower Sex, Marking, Possessive Sex, and the sentence “Bow down to your new God”. I didn’t use the sentence itself, but hopefully, the idea is here nonetheless.
Many thanks to foxriverinmate for the beta.
In Tooele, Utah, with T-Bag in the truck of the car after he quipped yet another dirty allusion about Michael hiding pieces of info in his tattoo, Lincoln glances sideways at his brother and asks, “How low does this thing go, anyway?”
He’s all innuendo and rumbling voice, and Michael does a double take because it’s really, really not the right moment to go there. Not that they’ve had a moment to go there during the last few days. Not that it doesn’t kick the heat up a notch in the sizzling air of the car.
“Seriously?” he scoffs.
Lincoln smirks and starts up the engine.
* *
He gets an answer to his question in Chicago, a couple of weeks later. There’s a big comfortable bathroom in their hotel room, with a tub large enough for the two of them and a steady stream of warm water cascading onto their shoulders. Michael’s eyes are clouded with guilt because of Sara, but not so much that he’d be tempted to deny Lincoln anything. It’s fast and urgent, it has to be; Sara left the hotel room maybe fifteen minutes ago, she won’t be gone very long, and she can’t find them like this.
Lincoln turns him around to face the wall and takes a good look at his back, at the intricate swirls and patterns of ink covering his upper body. They stop an inch below the line of his hips, creamy skin of his buttocks left untouched. Linc breathes in deeply. The tattoos were done for him; a testimony of crazy love and devotion. The smooth skin of Michael’s lower body seems paler in comparison, and has always been Lincoln’s no matter what. He slides his hands all the way down from Michael’s neck to his thighs, re-asserting his rights over his brother’s body.
Michael tries to turn around and he grips his hips to prevent him from doing so. Not yet. First, he kisses and licks the angel slaying the demon. Michael gasps, whispers to him to hurry up, to just please, please..., but Lincoln merely bends lower and scraps his teeth over the angel’s wings.
“Asshole,” Michael growls.
He’s whirled around for this, as swiftly as the slippery tub will allow it, and pushed into the tiled wall. Lincoln kisses him, bites his lips the same way he bit his back seconds ago. When they part, Michael watches him with half-lidded eyes, blue and shiny, droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes and his upper lip, running down his skin. His mouth is red, so red from kisses and heat, and from worrying his lips between his teeth to hold back pleas and moans.
“It’s a miracle you made it through Fox River’s showers”, Lincoln says. Retrospective fear, possessiveness and lust all at once seep into his voice.
Michael opens his mouth to throw another insult or maybe a protest, but Lincoln goes on his knees and that shuts him up. It always shuts him up, Lincoln at his feet, looking up at him, lips parted and breath hot against his stomach. Lincoln would swear he can see his cock hardening and swelling more in the span of a few seconds. He would be smirking if he didn’t feel a jolt in his lower belly, an itch in his fingers, the need to taste Michael pushing him forward. The craving, how strong it is, always surprises him. Only Michael can get him on his knees like that, willing and eager to take anything he has to offer, on the verge of whorish. Or maybe it’s devoted. He ponders whether there’s that much of a difference between whorish and devoted. He doesn’t see it, right now.
He wonders when his brother turned the tables on him in such a way. In two minutes, he’s gone from having the upper hand to longing to suck on the cock Michael’s desperately rubbing against his cheek. It’s hardly the first time it’s happened; Michael has always had a knack at making his own neediness so enthralling that Lincoln couldn't resist it. Add to this the fuel of the plan and the tattoos, the craziness of the situation, and Lincoln is pretty much screwed.
He licks a stripe on the underside of Michael’s cock, the saliva accumulated in his mouth leaving a messy trail on the velvety skin. Michael grunts, scrambles, almost loses his footing, and has to rely on Lincoln to steady him. Lincoln’s hands to steady him and Lincoln’s mouth to pleasure him. Linc takes him in and lets him thrust into his mouth; almost gags on him and revels in the feeling.
“God, Linc... I want you to fuck me...”
Michael is babbling, feverish in his need. Lincoln tries to close his ears to the request, his eyes to the sight of Michael’s twitching between his hands, his brain to the image of Michael on his back for him. Not the time. Better use as best as possible the little time they have.
“Please, tell me you’ll fuck me later. Linc? Tell me.”
Lincoln’s fingers slide from Michael’s hip to his ass, sneak and seek, find the entrance to his body and push in. The dirty babbling keeps going on, but at least, thank God, it becomes unintelligible, mushed syllables and panted words mixing with low moans.
Michael’s hand comes to rest limply on Lincoln’s shorn head. It looks too much like a blessing, especially when Lincoln is kneeling and worshipping divinely salty, silky-hard flesh. It’s a blasphemy for sure, but it’s just another one in a long string that will eventually tug him down into Hell. He can only hope - pray - that Michael won’t fall with him.
He hollows out his cheeks to suck harder. His own erection hangs heavy between his legs, but he doesn’t pay attention to it. He’s almost surprised when he feels himself coming and hardly has the time to palm his cock. Blood is pounding between his temples, and his untimely orgasm certainly doesn’t weaken his need or determination to get Michael off.
He curls a semen-slicked hand around Michael’s hip. He likes the image, the gooey substance on the half blue half white skin, but the running water quickly washes it off. He will have to resort to other methods to leave a lasting trace of his passage. Two fingers on tattooed skin, two others and his thumb digging into the unblemished flesh below the ink. He squeezes. Now, he’s going to leave marks and bruises, maybe marks and bruises Sara will see if Michael and her... The notion she could find out makes Lincoln oddly satisfied and sick to his stomach at the same time.
He pulls back ever so slightly when Michael comes; he wants to taste him, bitter and salty, on his tongue.
* *
Their bathroom on the cargo ship en route to Panama is not nearly as large and comfortable, but still large enough for the two of them to fit in the shower together. Against the shell of Michael’s ear, Lincoln whispers again that he’s sorry, and he means it; that they will find a way to help Sara when they get to Panama, and he would want to believe it. Once again, he kisses the angel killing the demon on Michael’s back, and strokes the mirroring image on his front.
He kneels behind Michael, parts his buttocks and licks. Greedy and hard and luscious. A gurgling sound fills the cabin, not coming from the water but from Michael’s throat, and Lincoln does it again, and again, until Michel’s thighs quiver beneath his hands.
“This is not what I meant when I said I wanted you to fuck me,” Michael manages to say. “But okay...”
Lincoln spreads him wider and tongues deeper into him, feasting on the tangy taste and the raw grunts wrenched out of Michael’s throat. The water running down Michael’s back and ass falls into his eyes and blinds him. It’s funny how they’ve done this in a shower twice within a few days. As though water could clean and absolve them of what they’re doing - even Lincoln who’s not big on symbolism can get this. Whatever. He doesn’t wonder anymore: this is devotion and worshipping, and if he does end up dragged down to Hell for it, at least it will be for a worthy reason.
They don’t bother drying up before they stumble outside the bathroom and fall across one of the beds. Michael readily rolls onto his stomach, ass up in the air, offered to Lincoln’s dedicated ministrations.
Lincoln slaps the right buttock. It induces a surprised, almost shocked glance from Michael, and a delicious reddening of his skin. Lincoln grins as he leans down to bite hard into the supple muscle. He rolls it between his teeth, intent on leaving a mark that will become, if only temporarily, as dark as the ink on Michael’s torso.
“Not like that,” he says. He moves and lies back, maneuvers Michael until he’s straddling him. Michael gets the hint. He steadies himself and, with a painful slowness, he lowers himself onto Lincoln’s erection; eases him into his body, opening just enough, just for him. Head thrown back, mouth agape, and all statue-like, idol-like with those damn tattoos and fair skin.
Lincoln wraps his hands around Michael’s forearms to tug him down for a kiss. “As long as you want,” he blurts out into his mouth.
Michael blinks in confusion. “What?”
“As long as you want. As many times as you want.” You don’t fuck idols, right? You let them have their way with you, and you relish it. “I won’t come until you tell me to. Allow me to.”
A smile curls the corners of Michael’s mouth. “Now, that sounds like a challenge...”
Lincoln helps Michael straighten up and trails his fingers right where the tattoos fade and merge into virgin skin. Idol-like or not, Michael shivers beneath the caress.
* *
Lincoln does know. How low the tattoo goes; how deep the devotion runs.
-Fin-
--Feedback is always welcome :)