Characters: Lincoln/Michael (Slash)
Summary: Post-Escape "Paradise" Universe, Lincoln offers Michael his choice of "favors" for a birthday present.
Author's Notes: Happy (now late) birthday to thelana and jasmasson! thelana will know why this one was written, even though she's not involved with this fandom anymore. And in the spirit of serendipity, this is for the fanfic100 prompt #91, "Birthday."
"So what do you think you might want for your birthday?"
It's September, and there's a light breeze crossing the porch where Lincoln and Michael sit side-by-side in deck chairs and watch the ocean rolling against the expanse of sand.
"That's an interesting question." Michael looks into his beer, eyes the wedge of lime down in the bottle and drinks. "Hard to shop much around here."
Lincoln tilts the top of his own bottle toward Michael in agreement. "Don't I know it."
"Books are hard to come by, and music, and almost everything else."
"Except over the Internet—"
"—which is way too risky," Michael finishes for him. "That kind of leaves food and flowers."
"And favors," Lincoln suggests.
"Favors…" Michael ponders. What is Lincoln thinking of? Chores? Maybe a massage?
"Oh." Michael sits up, tries to look casual. I knew that. "What'd you have in mind?" His grin expands to mirror the one on Lincoln's face.
"It's your birthday Michael, so it's really what you'd like."
Sex on the roof. Except they might fall off. Sex in the car—kind of cramped—or Lincoln giving him a tongue bath, nice and slow…
"You've got some time to think about it," Lincoln teases. "Don't go into brainlock already, or you'll put yourself out of the picture before we even start."
"Don't count on it," Michael murmurs, using the voice he knows makes Lincoln melt. He runs a finger up the inside of Lincoln's arm, across the bend and up the bicep. Lincoln's skin rises into goosebumps behind the trail of Michael's touch.
"Yeah. Exactly." Michael's smile is a promise.
All through the afternoon, he lets his mind drift through possibilities. He doesn't always think in endless sexual innuendoes the way other guys—including Lincoln—seem to do from age thirteen onward, but that says nothing about his interest or ability or enjoyment.
Not for one second.
There will be a tank top involved, of that he's certain. With Lincoln's chest and arms, it would be criminal to ignore those assets.
At breakfast the next morning, Michael decides the tank shirt will be white and that he'll need to cut it off of Lincoln with a knife. Just for the effect.
Lincoln will still be damp from taking a shower—that's the mid-afternoon contribution.
Dinner adds "cutoffs," and Michael sneaks into the bathroom with a pair of scissors and makes a pair of Lincoln's shorts even shorter while Lincoln washes the dishes.
On the floor later that night, Lincoln drives into Michael with perfect, liquid rhythm. Michael gasps and rolls underneath him, his hands dropping down from Lincoln's back to urge him in deeper, and the world tilts in ecstasy and the birth of a new idea.
In the morning, Michael wakes to the sun slanting brightly across his pillow. Lincoln presses up behind him, his warmth comfortable now in the cooler mornings. When Michael turns his head to look he can feel Lincoln's smile curving up against the back of his shoulder.
"Thank you," Michael says softly, his smile spreading in realization. It is, and they are—here in this transformed life that he couldn't even have dreamed up a year ago back in Chicago, when he was soul-empty yuppie and Lincoln was on Death Row.
"You ever make it to the store?" Michael asks lightly, turning away those darker thoughts.
"Maybe." Lincoln nuzzles Michael's neck. "And maybe not."
"That's okay, I'm definitely having my wicked way with you, then."
"Breakfast. Shower. And a plan of my own devising."
"Mmm, can't wait." Lincoln kisses Michael long and slow, and then works his way down in delicious inches.
"Linc," Michael gasps, "stop trying to change my mind!"
"I'm not changing it," Lincoln murmurs lazily against sensitive flesh, "you'll be ready again in no time…"
Breakfast is pancakes, because waffle irons belong to a different north-of-the-border reality the two of them no longer have. Lincoln likes making pancakes anyway, and Michael likes eating them even if he does miss the crispiness of buttered waffles.
"What's this?" Lincoln's movement shakes Michael out of a golden brown syrup-laden reverie.
A paper bag now sits on the table in front of Michael, its exterior personally decorated in ballpoint pen. Parts of it look vaguely familiar, in a chicken-scratch sort of way. Michael leans closer: devil horns, a sword, ominous archways, playing cards and numbers. "Lincoln…"
"What?" Lincoln can barely contain his grin.
Michael shakes his head and laughs. "Nothing." It's really kind of sweet—not that he'd ever say that out loud. "I'll treasure it forever."
"Riiight," Lincoln says. "You know, the presents are actually inside."
Michael reaches a hand in, and pulls out a bottle of—"Teriyaki sauce! Where'd you find this?"
"My sources cannot be revealed."
"I want steak for dinner," Michael blurts out.
"Already in the fridge."
"Excellent." Michael puts his hand back in the bag and bumps into a metallic lump. And another one. He fishes around for a handful.
"You were nuts about 'em as a kid, and I figured you'd be missing the basics by now."
"You are so right." Michael unwraps one and pops it in his mouth, dragging his tongue across it happily. "God these are good."
Lincoln leans in to kiss Michael wetly, stealing a taste. "Mmmm, maple and chocolate."
Michael shivers under Lincoln's touch. "Hold that thought," he says huskily.
"It's okay," Lincoln murmurs, "only one thing left in the bag."
Michael pulls it out. "Advanced Sudoku!" He laughs delightedly. "What made you think of this?"
"Are you kidding? The whole thing's in your native language. Thought it might keep you busy for at least an hour or two."
"I can't wait! Except that I will, until you know—after."
"I know," Lincoln nods his head fondly. "Want to try it out while I take care of the dishes?"
"Think I'll take a shower. And then you should too. I'll have some clothes waiting for you in the bathroom."
Lincoln blinks at that last piece of information, and Michael just smiles mysteriously. "I won't be long."
Later, in the bedroom, Michael cants the blinds toward the ceiling to let in some light. He lies on the bed and closes his eyes, imagining Lincoln in the shower. Those thoughts make him feel warm, despite the air brushing lazily over his skin.
He listens in suspense, enjoying the anticipation of what will happen when Lincoln is done. The water shuts off, and he hears the metallic scrape of the shower curtain. Then after some lengthy rustling sounds interspersed with silence, Lincoln's laugh bursts out from behind the closed door.
Michael grins. The shorts…
Minutes pass, and Michael runs his hands over the bedspread with the thought of how Lincoln will look. When the door finally opens, he rolls up onto his side and Damn—that is everything he could have hoped for and more.
Lincoln's hair is wet and slicked-back, his cheeks flushed under the sheen of soft, dewy dampness. The tank shirt emphasizes his tanned skin, its shape revealing the swelling muscles of his arms and chest.
Michael breathes in slowly. His gaze travels down to the faded cut-offs, to where they cup Lincoln suggestively and their very softness invites touch. The fringed edges of the shorts brush against Lincoln's legs, and Michael wants all of it, every little detail here and now.
"You're saluting me, Michael," Lincoln grins.
Michael blushes, but then he thinks The hell with it. "If you could see what I'm looking at, you'd be doing the same," he says.
"That good, huh?"
"Special-issue centerfold." Michael rolls upright and sits at the edge of the bed, reaching for Lincoln and pulling him to stand between his legs. "In living color…"
Michael lifts up the bottom of the tank shirt and nuzzles Lincoln's stomach, his nose brushing the fine, silken hairs that trail down to disappear under the waistband of the shorts. He runs his hands up over the smooth, tanned flesh and lifts them up to Lincoln's shoulders, running across the muscles there like he's devouring Lincoln by touch.
"Mmmm." Lincoln leans into that attention, caressing Michael's head with one hand while the other rubs Michael's back in response.
Michael strokes his way down Lincoln's body in slow appreciation. "You have the most incredible ass," he murmurs, slipping his fingers up under the edge of Lincoln's shorts.
"Oh, yeah." Michael urges Lincoln to turn around so he can admire the view before dipping down and pushing the fabric up high enough to nibble at the bottom of the downy curve of Lincoln's cheeks.
"Michael…" Lincoln sways from the sensations.
"I've got plans for this ass." Michael licks a teasing line across the bottom and follows it up with a gentle bite.
"Plans?" Lincoln says faintly.
Michael grips the muscles firmly, hefts and smoothes them. "Oh, yeah," he says again. He slides his hand around to the front to tantalize Lincoln through the shorts, fingers tracing the outline of arousal. Lincoln pushes into the touch, and Michael unzips the cutoffs and pulls them down. Nothing but Lincoln underneath. "Nice."
"Lie down on the bed," Michael says, "on your stomach." He shifts over, but Lincoln doesn't move.
"You know I've never…"
"Me either, before Fox River," Michael reminds him.
"Oh. Yeah." Lincoln says. Michael can see him processing the meaning of that in his head: So toughen up, already—you'll live. "Yeah…" Lincoln says again, getting on the bed and turning his head to watch Michael.
"Perfect." Michael dives down and makes a feast of Lincoln, stroking and kneading and licking and teasing. Lincoln writhes slowly under the onslaught of that attention, and Michael grins because he knows what it feels like from Lincoln's side of things, all on-the-edge hot-and-bothered good.
Finally, he parts Lincoln's cheeks and blows gently on that puckered, sensitive skin. A tiny, pointed lick makes Lincoln jump, before he edges his way backwards hopefully. I knew it, Michael thinks, obliging Lincoln with swirls and stabs before laving the area aggressively.
Lincoln moans in a way that Michael has never heard before, and after a few more sweeps of his tongue Michael leans toward the nightstand and fishes out the lube.
"This'll be cold," he tells Lincoln, because it always is and Lincoln probably doesn't know that. He works a slick finger around the opening and then inside, his other hand stroking up underneath Lincoln to ease the sensation with distraction. It helps, enough that Lincoln leans up on a hip to give Michael better access. Lincoln's eyes are closed and Michael can see a hint of tension in his forehead. It serves to keep Michael from rushing through the stages, because they've got time and right now Lincoln is clearly finding this unsettling.
Slowly, slowly Michael continues to get Lincoln ready, dropping an occasional kiss on one of those inviting butt cheeks. He moves his fingers in deeper to swerve up and over that spot, and Lincoln gasps and his eyes fly open, his erection lifting suddenly in response.
"Is that better?" Michael does it again.
"Yes, yes-yes-yes don't stop."
"Okay." He doesn't.
Michael strokes and stretches into Lincoln, watching his brother grow flushed and shaky as the sensation keeps on building. When Lincoln is finally reduced to panting and groaning, Michael decides he's had enough of waiting on the sidelines. He moves in behind Lincoln and pushes his way in, and God, that's fucking incredible, so warm and tight. He breathes and breathes, and calms himself for a long moment by reviewing the engineering failure of the Tacoma Narrows Bridge.
"You can start moving again now," Lincoln rasps.
And Michael does—thrusting in smooth and slow, his body blanketed lightly over Lincoln's as he leans his face against Lincoln's back and shoulders.
So, so good— both the feeling and the position. Michael loses himself in it, going faster, deeper, rougher. Lincoln strains and moans against the mattress and the very sound of it just ratchets Michael up higher until—
"Ohhhhhhh…" he spills out inside of Lincoln, biting his shoulder blade as he comes in dizzying waves.
"God, Michael," Lincoln growls hoarsely. "You're a fucking animal."
"Better believe it," Michael laughs breathlessly, licking the bite mark in apology. He realizes then that he not only forgot to bring Lincoln off, but that he's crushing him now with his weight. "Damn," he groans, pulling out and rolling over onto his back."Can't believe I spaced out the reach-around my first time through."
"Which is why face-to-face is good," Lincoln mumbles into the bed.
"Couldn't help it—your ass kind of hijacked my brain cells. Man, that was hot." Michael replays the visuals in his head.
"Oh, yeah." Michael scrambles up and urges Lincoln over. "What do you—wait. What happened to the bedspread?"
Lincoln catches Michael's eye and laughs.
"You already—how? And you were trying to make me feel guilty!"
"I'm still your brother. It's my job." Lincoln pats him on the stomach.
"So, you want me to leave you hanging like that next time? Just friction and a prayer?"
"Next time!" Lincoln chokes.
Michael grins, because Lincoln definitely had that one coming, and because Michael's really only half-joking. "The other way is wonderful—still my favorite—but once in awhile it's good to trade." He kisses Lincoln slowly, whispers against his lips, "Sound like a deal?"
"How could I refuse?" Lincoln's arms come up around Michael and pull him in close. "Although my shorts—"
"—were a more than worthy sacrifice." Which Lincoln totally needs to wear for the rest of the day at a minimum.
Michael traces letters over Lincoln's skin in a lazy semblance of calligraphy. "What were you hoping I'd ask for, as my favor?" he finally murmurs.
Lincoln tightens his hold on Michael, their bodies molding together warmly, perfectly, completely.
"Anything that ended here..."
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