Rise and fall and rebirth. (Post-series, alternate canon)
Categories: Post-Series Characters:
Lincoln Burrows, Michael Scofield, Sara Tancredi
Drama, PWP/Smut, RomancePairing:
Lincoln, Michael and SaraWarnings:
June 18, 2017 Updated:
June 18, 2017
I asked for prompts and Foxriverinmate offered the following: a dropped book, a feeling of peace, a friendship and a season, any pairing involving Michael; gen, het, slash or even crackfic. I... didn’t use most of those elements, only the ‘season’ part and maybe the feeling of peace. Sorry, I suck at following prompts ;) Many thanks to Foxriverinmate for the beta.
Chapter 1 by Clair_de_Lune
It starts like a firework. Escalating heat and blazing, blind passion suddenly going high, flaring and exploding, not a single thought spared for the aftermath from any of them. Sara’s skin is scorching and moist, her inner thighs even more so, her slickness an engraved invitation. Michael and Lincoln work her and work one another until all three of them are gasping and grunting, shaking with pleasure and not caring anymore who’s doing what to whom. They’re an entanglement of limbs across the bed, bodies grinding and moving together, breaths and mashed words stifled into each other’s mouth or neck. The night air is sticky and heavy with the smell of sweat, come, and jasmine, and Sara doesn’t think she can ever forget that specific scent.
They lick the perspiration running down her spine, the salty dampness surging from her body, and they kiss to share her, share the tastes and sensations, share... just to share.
She shimmies between the two men -- her mind and heart scream ‘brothers’, her guts and cunt couldn’t care less -- moans and throws her head back against Michael’s shoulder. She comes by Michael’s cock and Lincoln’s mouth, or maybe vice-versa, already wanting more the second she melts into the mattress. Even as she lies sated and lax, she feels fire coursing through her veins again when Lincoln tosses his brother onto his back and takes him like the due that it -- Michael -- is.
The burn is slower; lazier; now, it leaves room to think about what they’ve done and keep doing. Not that Lincoln is supposed to be the thinker in their odd little three-way, but y’know, his brother, his brother’s wife: it’s quite a given they shouldn’t do what they do... Yet, there’s barely a night they don’t spend together, and each of those nights is warm and comforting after everything they had to face and live through.
It shouldn’t be warm and comforting to sleep with his brother and his sister-in-law. But when they close in on him, when they surround him and kiss, lick, take him, it feels as calming and peaceful as those far-away autumnal afternoons, when muggy heat had subsided into pleasant warmth, and dry leaves were cracking beneath his footsteps, and drinks were cool but did not need to be freezing-cold anymore, and...
Sara cradles him between her thighs and arms, and holds him against her breasts; she laughs low and amused when he goggles and startles as Michael slides into him from behind. He closes his eyes and relaxes because, fuck, but Sara can play with her internal muscles in an interesting way and Michael does know how to use his cock.
Lincoln’s not so used to being the one taken care of, but he could learn to live with the feeling.
Michael doesn’t know when it’s started to grey out and numb every move, look and word they exchange. Maybe when he saw Lincoln’s arm wrapped tight and possessive around Sara’s waist while he was lying alone on the other side of the bed. Accidental but unpleasant. Maybe when Sara walked in on them kissing and they jolted as if they’d been doing something forbidden by their own peculiar law. It hurt her, not the kiss, but their hesitation about her reaction. Or maybe each time Michael or Sara whispers into each other’s ear and Lincoln thinks he shouldn’t resent them, and yet does.
Soon enough everything between them is as frosty and white as the snow that never falls around here. As icy and lifeless as the fingers Sara is wrapping around the nape of his neck with the hope of rekindling... something, and only managing to seep more chill into his soul.
Sometimes, he hears Sara or Lincoln pleasuring themselves, alone in the cold intimacy of the bedroom or the bathroom; only for healthy purposes, only to evacuate the tension. The sounds that escape them are more of the pained kind than of the satisfied one. It twitches his heart a bit more every time.
They were fools to believe it could work.
Lincoln lights up a fire in the fireplace. This is what they need to keep warm, now.
Later, Lincoln will grin and say that, of course, it was because of something poking, and Michael will roll his eyes at his brother’s less than subtle innuendo. Sara will not care to indulge any of them with a reaction.
As a matter of fact, it’s dark green and rich grass poking from between Sara’s slim and elegant toes as she’s standing barefoot in the garden that breathes life again into something they thought they had lost.
Lincoln can’t help it. He reaches down and brushes a callused palm over her ankle and down her foot. It’s not that he thinks it’s funny, amusing or whatever, that playful grass. It’s the familiarity, how casual and mundane, how normal it is that gets to him. He strokes Sara’s skin almost absentmindedly, searches for Michael’s eyes, and whispers under his breath, as if the thought occurred to him for the very first time, “I love you, both of you.” And then, less poetic, “Fuck everything else.”
It surges inside him, love and need rising like sap, new and strong, swelling, filling, invigorating. Sara lets herself be tackled down, her pink flowery dress pushed up to her waist, her legs parted wide. She laughs at his eagerness and stutters about taking it slow and careful this time, not making the same mistakes twice -- but she whimpers when all she gets are sweet kisses and soft caresses, when Michael’s hands slide down her arms and up Linc’s shoulders with caution rather than groping and fondling, when Michael presses his mouth tenderly to his brother’s instead of devouring him the way he used to.
They linger. Flustered, breathless, backs arching and hips rolling. They loiter. They talk. They indulgently wallow in their impatience to take things further. With no small amount of fascination, they watch resilient buds puff up, open, sow and grow.
Initially written in March 2012.
Disclaimer: Prison Break and all related elements, characters and indicia are copyright Paul Scheuring, 20th Century Fox Television, Adelstein-Parouse Productions, and Original Television. All rights reserved. All Prison Break images are copyright 20th Century Fox Television and are reproduced here solely for the purposes of promotion and publicity of this licenced property. This is a fan website in no way affiliated with Paul Scheuring, 20th Century Fox Television, Adelstein-Parouse Productions, Original Television or any of the above copyright and trademark holders of Prison Break. This site is non-profit.