He isn't looking for any fucking excuses.
It was only once, and he isn't looking for any fucking excuses.
He kissed Michael.
He kissed his brother.
And Michael kissed him back.
Michael did a bit more than kissing him back, but Lincoln doesn’t want to think about it.
Michael was slumped in the old couch of Linc’s crappy apartment, his clothes rumpled and messy, his legs spread wide and his crotch on display -- and he was so obviously hard -- his lips still red and plump from kissing that pretty brunette who had smiled at Lincoln, but kissed and fondled Michael all evening.
The way he looked, no wonder the pretty brunette kissed and fondled him all evening. Not something Lincoln should have felt and understood so deeply and viscerally, though.
After his guests were gone -- after he pushed them out -- he sat on the couch near Michael and looked into his baby brother’s eyes. Too shiny and blown pupils, and shit because Michael should have known better.
“It’s making me horny,” he blurted out.
“What’s making you horny?”
“Whatever she gave me.”
Well then. Maybe he should have done what any red-blooded guy would have done in his situation, and fuck her in the bathroom; or the kitchen; or even in Lincoln’s bedroom if it would have saved Lincoln the display of clothes in disarray and way too obvious boner.
Michael ran the tip of his tongue over his still red and plump lips, and it isn't a fucking excuse, but Lincoln felt something surge into him and push him forward, make him press his mouth on Michael’s and kiss him.
Kiss him for real, deep and nasty and so, so good. He’s quite sure the pretty brunette didn’t manage to get that kind of kiss: Michael melted into Linc’s embrace, eyes closed and body lax, and Michael usually doesn’t melt for anyone.
He could pretend that Michael needed this. Linc’s always tried to provide Michael with what he needed, right? But he isn't looking for any fucking excuses here. He kissed him because he could, because of the pretty brunette, because he wanted to.
Because he -- not Michael -- needed to, even though he still doesn't get where the need came from.
Michael moaned low in his throat, wrapped his hands around Lincoln’s neck and mumbled something about ‘love’ that Lincoln definitely didn’t want to understand. This wasn’t and couldn't be about love. It was saner and safer to blame it on crazy, sickening, unnatural lust.
“Linc...” Michael’s voice was rough and breathless when Lincoln broke the kiss, desperate too, and the hands wrapped around Lincoln’s head and neck pulled and tugged. “Please, do it again. I’ve wanted this for--”
Lincoln resumed the kiss if only for not having to hear what he was about to say.
Maybe it wouldn’t have been that bad if it was just a kiss? Not that it wasn’t bad, but... Whatever. Michael shifted on the couch and plastered himself against Lincoln, humping his thigh with slow and uneven moves, coming faster and louder than should be acceptable for any twenty-something guy, even that flustered and aroused.
Shit. Shit. Seriously, shit. Lincoln was supposed to be the insane one, the one doing crazy shit. Not Michael. Michael wasn’t supposed to beg for kisses and get himself off on his brother’s leg; Michael wasn’t supposed to give him a meant-to-be-seductive come-hither (a bit too successful, the come-hither); Michael wasn’t fucking supposed to slide his hand down and cup Lincoln through his jeans and whisper, “Let me. Please, let me...”
For a couple of seconds, he leaned into the caress, his hips rolling up on their own volition. Michael’s touch was warm, just strong and soft enough at the same time, and so gentle and loving.
It shouldn’t have been that gentle and loving if this was about crazy, sickening, unnatural lust, should it?
“Stop, Michael.” A hint of panic found its way into his chest, his tone. “Stop it!”
He untangled himself from Michael’s hold and made a beeline for the bathroom, locked himself in and tried not to throw up when bringing up the feeling of his brother’s mouth and hands as he jerked off.
Roughly. Too roughly. Self-inflicted punishment.
Michael was asleep when Linc came back to the living room. He threw a blanket on him and resisted the urge to sit and sleep in the armchair by the couch. Hopefully, tomorrow morning, Michael would be left with a headache, sticky underwear, and no memories of what had happened.
Lincoln sure hoped so ‘cause he wasn’t looking for an easy way out, but he wasn’t eager to explain that one.
Written for Rounds of Kink New Year’s 2014 mini-round. Kinks and prompt: Aphrodisiacs, Messiness and markers of arousal / Flustered