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Title: Insurance
Author: Sucuri Fandom: Prison Break Pairing: Abruzzi/Scofield Rating: NC-17 Author's Notes:
This was written in celebration of season two. This is posted here
in celebration of John's Tight T-Shirt in the season premiere, and
as a talisman to ward of the Evil Spoilers of Doom that I have read.
Michael believed that when he got to prison he’d have no problem lining up a crew, charming the guards and the inmates and the doctor, and getting out. He believed that people would come through for him, and that people in prison would trust him enough to believe in him and his plan. “Things in here aren’t like it is out there, Mike.” Lincoln said, a warning Michael heeded about halfway, because he was the one rescuing and Lincoln should have been the one taking the direction. Michael knew, he said. “They don’t ask you if you want Coke or Pepsi here?” He asked drily. Lincoln glowered through the fence, and when a guard warned Michael to be 10 feet away, he turned, and found John Abruzzi staring at him. Michael smiled to himself as he walked all of 2 feet away from the fence. An hour later, Michael was bleeding profusely from where his toes used to be, and with the sudden clarity that sometimes only pain, pain, can grant you, he knew what Lincoln was talking about. ***** When Michael finally gets a P.I. card, and a ways after, he notices that he’s now protected. The fact that prison now knows that he’s Lincoln’s brother does a little. The fact that T-Bag’s harsh beating was by John’s crew, and that Michael may have been involved somehow, does a lot. T-Bag gets out of the infirmary earlier than Michael expected, and when he sees him approaching–swaggering–across the yard, he mentions this to John. But then T-Bag’s there, with a surprisingly calculating look in his eye, and Michael has to remind himself that he’s much more clever than he seems. “Pretty, one day when your boy ain’t here, I’m goin’ to fuck you up.” T-Bag’s tongue slips out from between his lips, and he smirks. John tenses and takes a step forward, and T-Bag steps back, into a space between his gang. He glares at John, and then his eyes slide from John back to Michael, and his leer is so eloquent, so dirty that Michael wants to scrub T-Bag’s mouth out, using bleach and steel wool, but that’s more John’s thing. T-Bag opens his mouth again, “Or just fuck you.” There’s something in John’s posture from that remark that doesn’t sit well with Michael, and it’s more that and less what T-Bag said that bothers him. A few from John’s gang are heading over directly, eyeing T-Bag intently. Without really thinking, he lays a hand on John’s shoulder in goodbye, and heads over to the fence where Lincoln has just arrived. On his way, he hears John’s voice, but can’t make out words. Since he doesn’t hear violence he doesn’t look back, until he hears T-Bag say something about how maybe he got it wrong, maybe the Pretty is Abruzzi’s boy. He still doesn’t hear the sounds of violence, and that makes him even more apprehensive, but of what, he’s not sure. Lincoln has told him to heed his instincts, and that’s a warning he will listen to. To distract himself, he tells Lincoln that since Sucre is his cellie again, they’re going to start one the wall soon, after some other preparations are made. ***** Suddenly, randomly, an inmate pushes Michael into an open door and slams it shut. John’s the only one in the room, and Michael wishes he would have stayed in that yard for the conversation, because he knows this, this, has something to do with it. Without preamble, “What’s this about?” He doesn’t take his eyes off of John to look about the room because that would be like taking your eyes off of a ready-to-strike cobra in search of snakes that weren’t venomous. “You left our conversation with our hill-billy friend a little early, Fish.” John says, and Michael shrugs and nods, simply acknowledging the truth. He’s learned that demanding things from John Abruzzi is privileged behavior, and he can get away with it only if he can pass it off as something besides a demand. “I figured that since we never got to finish,” And Michael can’t help but notice the interesting word choices in his sentences, all suggesting a unit, “I’d fill in a few things for you.” Michael, wary from the beginning, is startled to see John find this comment so amusing. John continues, “Because see, you got something I want, and I got something you need.” And, duh. “We’ve already established that, John.” Michael says, and then he realizes, duh. Michael knows how he looks, because he’s feeling exactly how he felt when Lincoln was ordered to Fox River; surprise, and a calculating anticipation. At his expression, John grins, and takes a step forward. In the back of his brain there’s logic telling Michael that there are guys at the door, of the other side, ready to stop him from running and to bust in as soon as John calls. As Michael takes a step forward, he knows running won’t be a problem. It’s not that he finds John attractive; but if he thinks about it, he truthfully doesn’t find him unattractive. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to lose John’s support to the group, either, because like John said, he has something John wants, and it isn’t just this. It’s that they understand each other, finally, and this is really just more of that, a continuation to that, and an extra layer of security. Insurance. John has more of a reason for initiating this, anyway; Michael is his escape, and his pathway to Fibonacci. A part of him hopes that this, this, isn’t just an excuse people believe for when they meet to talk. That would be so...unfulfilling. Most of him knows that if he tries to talk business in these times, John will hit him. When John’s body in close enough to feel warmth, Michael steps closer, and John’s hands are pulling roughly, guiding him closer and John’s lips taste like mint chapstick and his mouth tastes like coffee. Michael hopes the way his hands are placed on John’s hips–gripping, pulling, holding–communicates exactly what he wants, and how he feels about this arrangement. John doesn’t waste time, with one hand on the small of Michael’s back and the other working it’s way down the front of his uniform. Michael gasps into their kiss, a hissed “Yes,” because he’s only been in a few weeks, but he’s been planning for a whole damned year. Michael lets himself be pushed sideways and back, until he’s against a wall. John’s tongue in his mouth is licking, and Michael is pressing against his body, kissing back roughly. The hand that wasn’t down his pants slides down his ass and pulls at his thigh, and Michael takes the hint and lifts it, hooking it around John’s. John surges forward, into space that isn’t there, and Michael makes a whining moan into John’s mouth as his hand leaves Michael’s cock. The hand is replaced by the pressure of John’s covered erection against his bare one, and he hisses as John thrusts against him, the fabric rough against him. Michael wriggles, moving his leg to pull John’s pant’s down just enough, and takes his cock in hand. John’s hands are so tight on his hips that he feels like they might snap, and knows he’ll have to explain bruises away later, and does’t care. In fact, if John doesn’t hurry up and make moves to fuck him, he’s going to ask because he wants to feel this later, wants to shift when he sits, because since he came here it’s been hard to feel anything unless Lincoln’s within sight and his plan is tangible. And John seems to know just what he wants, because there’s a growled “turn around, hon,” and before he’s done thinking, before he can digest the out-of-place endearment, Michael has his hands against the wall and is spreading his legs, and John’s pushing his pants and underwear down to his knees. “Yes, do it,” Michael has to bite his hand to keep from yelling as John’s fingers, barely wet from saliva, push into him two at a time. John’s all over his back, and Michael can feel his smile against the back of his neck. “You know, no one would ever recognize you like this,” John whispers, almost conversationally. “No one would believe you’d be spread like this,” He punctuates with a sharp thrust of his two fingers right into Michael’s prostate, making him see stars and groan John’s name. “And who’d have thought it would be my name you’re moaning?” John adds another finger, and Michael shudders around him. “And that I’m the one giving it to you,” three fingers are stretching him and God, Michael can’t breathe correctly with them doing that, “I’m going to be the one to fuck you?” Michael can’t get his mouth and his brain to connect long enough to form a sentence. Surely, since John’s so good at fingering him, he’s done this before, and that must mean he knows that three fingers aren’t really necessary, but they feel so good and they’re in so deep that it feels like John’s going to try and fist him, and Michael just moans and spreads wider. He clenches involuntarily around John as he hits his prostate again, and likes the sound of John’s groan low in his ear. And then John’s out of him, pulling out and spitting, and then he’s back in, with the head of his cock pressing into him. He goes deeper and deeper and then he’s there, right there, and even that doesn’t stop him. Michael groans loudly before he can stop himself, and his head lolls back, onto John’s shoulder. John’s voice is clear and strained in his ear, telling him how good he feels, and how he needs to be quiet, and how after this, all the time now after this, he’s going to fuck Michael raw. Even with John’s cock up his ass, even before the real fucking, the hard and deep and fast and urgent fucking has started, Michael’s already looking forward to the next time. And then John moves, and Michael’s brain is leaking out the head of his cock, along with his precome. John’s hand jerks Michael off roughly and to the same rhythm he’s fucking him, and Michael can’t help the keening moans coming from his throat, or the way he groans and comes into John’s hand as the man bites his neck. John doesn’t even stop, just fucks him harder, holding his hips tighter, licking over the spot he just bit. Michael’s nearly hard again when John comes inside of him, and after the feel of that inside him and the weight of the man against his back, it’s only a few more strokes before Michael’s coming a second time. John pulls out after a moment, and takes a quick slap at Michael’s ass before Michael can summon the energy to push off the wall and pull up his pants. ***** In his cell, Michael’s taking a nap under his covers, when he feels a person sit next to him. “Sucre?” He asks sleepily, not moving. “Here, man.” Sucre says, and the voice is from the cell door, and has a strange, accusing quality to it. Michael rolls over onto his side, and finds himself looking up at a grinning John Abruzzi, whose hand is tracing the ridges of Michael’s spine down his back. Michael can’t stop the blush from rising on his cheeks, or his own answering smirk. “Shit, man, I didn’t really care when you wouldn’t tell me where the marks came from ‘cause everyone does it, but this is–” Something flashes in John’s eyes, but when Michael shifts to lay a hand on John’s thigh, it passes. “Sucre?” Michael says again, his voice very different from the one earlier. “Yeah, man?” Sucre said, his voice telling Michael that he’ll leave and come back ‘pronto’ with an entire fucking calvary, in necessary. “Hang up a sheet on your way out, will you?” John says, but it’s not a question, and Sucre gets a clear view of Michael’s hand on the back of John’s head as they kiss, before Sucre has the sheet up and his out the door. As he walks past T-Bag’s cell, he hears a voice behind him; “Hey, Sucre, why’s there a sheet up in your cell if you ain’t in there?” Sucre turns and sees C-Note, and panics. “Oh, Pretty’s got other company, I reckon.” T-Bag says from his cell, looking up at Sucre for verification and leering as he did so. Sucre just nods, and tries not to run away, but when he’s two cells down he hears, “He looked a little heartbroken, didn’t he? Maybe he needs a little chocolate to, you know, cheer him up.” Sucre walks faster as he hears C-Note start to swear. |
