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Story Notes:
Initially written in 2011. In a comment on a fic, someone suggested a Lincoln/Sara/Kellerman PWP. It’s here. More or less. The suggestion said “no Michael/Sara” -- there is some -- and I think it implied slashy Lincoln/Sara/Kellerman -- there is none.
You know when you know you’re dreaming? Right. Sara knows it’s a dream. A nightmare, although that take on the situation may be debatable in the end. It’s the second time in a row said nightmare happens, however, the first one was not as detailed. It’s improving; getting worse; whatever.

So here’s what happens.

She stands between Lincoln and Kellerman because they’re arguing about who cares what, and she doesn’t want things to degenerate. She wonders why she wouldn’t want things to degenerate. It’s not as though she wouldn’t enjoy seeing Lincoln kick Kellerman’s ass. The only reservation she could have about some Lincoln-smashing-time is the fact that she wouldn’t do the ass kicking herself -- she can kick serious ass, reality, dreams, and in-between.

Someone brushes her hair out of her face.

Truth be told, it’s not entirely unpleasant standing there, this close from being squeezed between them while they keep moving towards each other. They argue, point fingers, shout, and maybe spray-spit a bit. Testosterone impregnates the air all around them, and the space between them -- where she stands, remember? Hard bodies, large and sweaty chests, square and stubbled jaws, squinting eyes. Not that Michael doesn’t have all of that, minus the sweaty chest -- Michael keeps everything under a control so tight, it has to include his sweat glands -- it’s just that... Who cares? Nightmares aren’t supposed to make sense.

She breathes them in, strong and tangy, and steps back a few inches. Her shoulders collide with Lincoln’s half-bare torso, but that’s okay. It’s either that or being pushed into Kellerman, and she’s not letting the bastard touch her. Moreover, Lincoln is so hot against her... Wait, not going there, Lincoln is Michael’s brother... Michael’s damn hot brother against her back and buttocks. She thinks she wriggles her butt, all the time aware that wriggling against a guy who’s been stuck in jail for three years is neither fair nor cautious, but unable to refrain from doing it. Her nightmare, her inappropriate behavior.

Kellerman says something or maybe he just looks at her in a peculiar way because Lincoln barks out a laugh and sing-songs in a sarcastic and raspy voice that Kellerman has the hots for her. Like big time. Like as bad as for Reynolds, if not worse. Lincoln’s sing-songing is evidence enough that she’s dreaming... nightmaring. Still. The raspy voice slides down her neck and spine, curls around her hip and reaches her stomach. And there, it does amazing, amazing things to her vagina. Happy vagina. A pang, a twist, a squeeze, and she settles more comfortably against Lincoln. Clearly he doesn’t mind. Kellerman watches down the neckline of her shirt and licks his lips, something that Lincoln doesn’t miss.

“Dream on,” he tells Kellerman, then adds something about the fact that if they were the last three people on Earth, Sara would fuck him before she’d touch Kellerman with a ten foot pole.

Sara shrugs. Duh. Yes, of course. She’d totally fuck Lincoln; she would even fuck him if Earth was over-populated. She’s not sure why he seems to think that having sex with him would border on being a chore, but... Right. Michael’s brother. She must keep that in mind. You’re not supposed to sleep with your boyfriend’s brother, except perhaps if you plan on starring in the Jerry Springer Show.

An arm securely wraps around her shoulders and holds her. So sweet.

Lincoln has issues of his own with Kellerman and has fun messing with his cock head, and they’re all stuck in a dream anyway. It has to be the only reason why he kisses Sara’s neck. A wet and open-mouthed kiss, sloppy and so passionate that Sara whimpers out loud. She tips her head to the side, turns it, finds Lincoln’s lips. It’s not that she wants to have sex with Michael’s brother, you know, it’s that Lincoln is hard against her -- yep, that kind of hard too, most definitely -- his mouth latching on hers, his hands cupping her breasts and his thumbs brushing her nipples through her shirt. There’s only so much a woman can take before losing it. Kellerman watches and pants. Face ruddy, eyes flaring, and teeth showing in a fascinating snarl. Looks like there is also only much he can take before losing it.

She stares at him and considers the situation. Neither one of the men can see them, but she has those little angel/demon things sitting on her shoulders; they look just like Michael. Because, of course, Michael would know what she has in mind, and in store, for Kellerman. Angelic Michael on the right is too cute for words, but demoniac Michael, with horns and tail and everything, is kind of hot. Win-win sight. The former is whispering in that low-silk voice that you can’t alleviate use and abuse by using and abusing people; the latter is rolling his eyes and saying that you don’t alleviate use and abuse by doing nothing about it either. Both of them have a point, but another point is that Lincoln is still kissing the oxygen out of her, and Kellerman is panting as if he’s the one whose oxygen is being stolen. She gently strokes angelic Michael’s feathery wings with her index finger and watches him fly off her shoulder. Her nightmare, her inappropriate behavior, her bad choices.

Between two adept plunge-and-swirl of tongues, she whispers, “Let’s just...” into Lincoln’s mouth, and motions Kellerman to lie down on the couch. He obeys. On his back, opening his belt and taking out what needs to be taken out. Her lips curve in a sly grin at how fast, willing and ready he is. Very ready and very interested; very interesting too. Lincoln snorts.

She’s stripped down in a blink of an eye and straddling Kellerman the next second. Literally. Clothes removed and dropped to the floor. That’s the beauty of dreams, no pesky awkward undressing. Everything’s fluid and easy.

Both men are still fully clothed -- although for obvious reasons, Lincoln’s open shirt doesn’t count -- whereas she’s naked. She feels wanton and eager. She is wanton and eager. Her knees stick to the fake leather of the battered sofa and her calves scrape against Kellerman’s jeans. She opens his shirt and plants one of her hands in the middle of his chest, where a rudimentary bandage covers the rounded triangular patch of red flesh free of hair. He jumps as she uses that specific spot to steady herself. It almost makes her want to wave a string in his face to complete the scene.

That must hurt, the way she presses into this large and sweaty chest of his. In a good way if she trusts the look he throws at her: sore but hot and bothered. She should have known he would be into this kind of thing. She pulls on the moist curly hair on his pecs, the hair she didn’t iron-burn. He grunts, shoves up into her, and reaches for her waist, her breasts or, rather, anything he can put his hands on.

From the head of the couch, Lincoln grabs Kellerman’s arms midway and holds them above his head, enforcing an unspoken yet very strict ‘no touching’ rule. Sara looks and worries her lower lip between her teeth. Lincoln’s huge hands around Kellerman’s wrists and Kellerman’s head resting between Lincoln’s knees... it’s a hauntingly, disturbingly hot sight and an appealing notion. She lifts an eyebrow at her own reaction and shamelessly enjoys the view. She may as well since it’s displayed for her appreciation. It doesn’t fit with what’s happening right now, but who knows, maybe in another dream...

She rubs her nose into soft cotton and grinds down hard on Kellerman’s cock. He pushes into her with short and sharp jabs, all he can afford with the little freedom of movement she and Lincoln have granted him. He may be a despicable bastard, but my, is he good -- Sara would say magnificent -- at this. She rides him, works him, and doesn’t linger longer than she needs to. She slides off him as soon as his groans become urgent. He’s foreplay anyway. He swallows down an offensive ‘bitch’ that only has her shrug -- whatever insult he has for her, she can return it after she raised the stakes.

The hand pressing tenderly on the small of her back and edging towards her bottom feels so, so good.

“You didn’t imagine she would let you come like that, did you?”

Lincoln gloats. He can. Especially when he carefully lays her down onto the bed and settles between her spread thighs, while Kellerman painfully sits up. She whines loud and clear on his first thrust. He stretches her in the most perfect way, as wide and determined as she’d imagined. She did imagine, okay, no big deal; she has long boring days sometimes, and he’s imagination-material to start with. She holds onto whatever she can get a hold onto, his shoulders and his back, the cheap bed-cover and Kellerman’s eyes watching hungrily. She smirks at him upside down. She doesn’t care where his own hands are right now, but if it must be said, one of them is petting his aching chest, and the other one petting a much lower aching part of his anatomy.


She kisses Lincoln. She shouldn’t kiss Michael’s brother. On the other hand, she shouldn’t fuck Michael’s brother either, nor writhe under his tongue licking her nipples, or dig her fingernails into his arms or his ass to bring him closer and urge him deeper.

He’s finished before her and blinks with embarrassment when he realizes what’s going on. Or what’s not going on, as a matter of fact.


Good point for him, he’s quick to gather his wits. With a wicked grin, he slips out of her, slides down her, his mouth tracing a wet pattern between her breasts, across her stomach, and between her thighs. She arches up. He knows what he’s doing, no discussion. His tongue finds her; teases her, flickers and presses hard. She moans what has to be the most guttural sound that has been wrenched out of her throat in a while.

Sara, you okay?

She’s not sure. She feels quite febrile, right now. She’s in a place where she thinks in single words: tongue, slick, clit, ohgod, fingers, fuck...

“Sara?” Someone is gently shaking her shoulder, in stark contrast with Lincoln merciless tongue-and-finger-fucking.

Her eyelids flutter open, and she’s blearily staring into Michael’s blue eyes. There’s concern and inquiry in them. She frowns. Remembers she’s in the backseat of the old car they stole, not in the cheap motel room from the other day, with Lincoln and Kellerman in the front seat, and... Michael strokes her forehead with delicate fingers that she wants to rip off his hands. She loves him. She told him so and she meant it, but...

“You’re okay?” he asks again. “You looked like you were having a bad dream. You were making strange noises...”


She doesn’t think twice; she doesn’t have the luxury to. She edges a knee across his lap, squeezes his thigh between hers, and comes. Hard and fast. Biting into his shoulder to muffle her moans. Pleasure rippling through her in waves and leaving her breathless and slightly disheveled. He holds her tight as her whole body quiver against his, and she almost feels bad for the way she got there, for the saucy little movie that played inside her head. Almost. She can’t choose let alone control what and who she dreams about, after all, right?


She’s flushed when she looks up and meets Michael’s eyes again. He’s shocked but more than a bit aroused. She notices whitish marks of nails on his tattooed forearms, and pictures how she scratched Lincoln while in dream-land. She wonders if she left the marks on Michael now, or a few minutes ago, before waking up.

“Did you...” Michael whispers into her ear, voice smooth and deep, and that’s something else that goes straight to her...

Yeah, no way is she thinking this kind of thought and using this kind of vocabulary when she’s fully awake.

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Doesn’t need to. He chuckles quietly at the blush on her cheeks and quickly kisses her lips. She catches Lincoln’s look in the rearview mirror and flushes even deeper. She smirks at him, though. No point in denying it, and it’s not as if he knew what part he played anyway.

“Kids, it’s not that you making out in the backseat doesn’t make me hot,” Kellerman starts, unaware of how close to home he’s hitting. “But maybe you can wait ‘til we book a couple of rooms?”

“Shut up,” Lincoln grunts, eyes on the road again. “Don’t talk to them, don’t look at them, don’t think about them.”

Michael lets Lincoln deal with Kellerman. He has more urgent things to do. Like nuzzling Sara’s neck and kissing her ear lobe. He whispers to her that he stands corrected: she looks like she was having the hell of an interesting dream.

She inhales -- she does smell sweat on Michael’s skin, by the way -- and nods.

Who is she to disagree?