Work Text:
Lincoln hears Michael trying to breathe against the crushing weight pushing his chest into the bed and kneels up slightly so that his brother than can turn his head on the pillow.
Michael’s flushed and panting, his wide mouth open to gulp in more air.
“More daddy. Please, harder.”
Lincoln slips another finger into his brother’s ass and twists all three digits until Michael keens. Lincoln’s whole body is shaking with need and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment to still his mind.
Michael’s pleas, “Daddy, do it, please,” cut into the suffocating tension of the bedroom until Lincoln feels like he’s bleeding out.
They haven’t done this in so long, mainly because they both think this is some crazy fucked up shit that they both tried, and failed, to stop (although to be fair, only Lincoln voiced that thought aloud and he gets the idea that Michael tries to never think about their liaisons, ever). But Lincoln just knew the second Michael called him tonight that he wouldn’t be able to refuse the chance to have his little brother’s long, pale body sprawled all over his enormous, ridiculously expensive bed and burning under his hands and, Jesus fuck, calling him “daddy” like he’s stuck in a damn well.
Lincoln remembers when this (so fucked up) thing started. Yeah, the sex too, but the “daddy” thing was an event in itself. At the time, Lincoln had been so lost in the first inescapable sin of fucking his brother that he’d been convinced that nothing could be worse. Neither of them knew what the hell they were doing and he rationalized that somehow Michael didn’t consider them brothers.
That Lincoln had fucked up so many times, or rather that Michael had been fucked over so much, that there was no familial affection between them anymore. Sure, Michael called them brothers but Lincoln certainly hadn’t felt like a big brother since Michael was single digits.
Right on the heels of that theory was the idea that if Michael didn’t consider them related even a bit then, honestly, his brother would probably have nothing to do with him. But Lincoln could only take his depressing logic so far before he started to wonder about all of the things he’d irreparably ruined in his life and there weren’t enough hours in the day to go over all that.
So, Lincoln explained the sex away and gave Michael the only thing that couldn’t be tainted any further, because God knew that it was already as black as pitch.
Then, comes this “daddy” stuff and, shit, the first time Lincoln thought he would throw up right there in the bed ‘cause weren’t they already damned enough?
Michael spoke even less about the perverse endearment, meaning not at all, and it became quickly apparent that whatever his brother was working out in that big brain of his Lincoln wasn’t going to be privy to, ever.
Not if he wants to keep the sex.
And Lincoln does, goddamn him but he does, since this is the only time he gets to see Michael without that veneer of fake that gets slicker with every passing day. He knows that faux-Michael as much as his brother seems to know him when they see each other on the street, not at all.
Consequentially, there’s now a growing list of things Lincoln tries not to think about when they’re doing this:
1. Not under any circumstances does he think about going home to little LJ (who’s at that age where he loves to talk just to hear his own voice and can easily keep up a running commentary containing just the word “daddy”).
2. Nor does he think about the fact that Michael technically never knew their father and the only foster father he’s had locked him in a closet for days and did unspeakable things to him while Lincoln was doing a stint in Juvie.
3. He absolutely doesn’t link the things he does to Michael with the things that dead son-of-a-bitch did to his brother. Unless he wants to seriously contemplate eating his own gun.
And finally, 4. He doesn’t ever think that there’s anything more between them than the fucking. He’s helping Michael get over…whatever it is he needs to get over, and Michael’s made it clear that there’s no affection, no real need here beyond wanting to get off with someone familiar.
Besides that (and Lincoln remembers this every time he runs his hands over Michael’s flawless body) his brother could be getting this from anyone, everyone, else. People who wouldn’t care that he calls them daddy and likes to hear him beg in complete contrast to the "normal" Michael.
Lincoln does think about how lucky he is, even if he’s the last person to deserve it. And occasionally he does enjoy thinking about how much better this all would be if Michael would just shut the fuck up and let Lincoln simply be with him…but that thought edges too closely to number 4 on the list.
Long fingers on his cheek snap Lincoln out of his thoughts and he has to blink to focus on Michael’s frowning face. His brother’s out of breath but manages to turn on his side enough to see him.
“Um,” Michael opens his mouth to speak, then axes whatever he was thinking and lies back down on his stomach. Michael can only seem to hold his gaze for a moment before he’s looking across the room. He knows that they don’t really talk during sex; Michael pretty much invented that rule. Dirty, filthy moaning and teasing, yes. Actual conversation, never.
Doing so, Lincoln’s sure, would throw off planetary alignment, reverse gravity, or something else catastrophic. But knowing that doesn’t make either of them less awkward at the moment.
Lincoln tries not to think about everything on the list of what not to think about that he was obviously thinking about and gently pulls his pruned fingers from Michael’s ass.
“Turn over,” Lincoln’s voice is rough with disuse. Michael moves immediately to comply but then pauses mid-turn.
His eyes narrow as if he expects Lincoln to do something stupid. Lincoln’s too familiar with it. “What are you doing?”
Lincoln doesn’t think before he grabs a lean thigh and moves Michael onto his back, where he wants him. Too fucking bad if he’s going off script, Lincoln thinks, just this once he wants to actually be in control.
Michael’s eyes are wide with shock, and maybe a bit of fear, when Lincoln leans close and barely brushes his mouth with a kiss. They never kiss, Lincoln can’t remember the last time.
Michael opens his mouth, probably to ask another question, and Lincoln moves in to his advantage. He kisses his brother hard, latches his fingers over his ears, and tastes him as deep as he can. Michael lets out a small noise, deep in his chest, and kisses back, the closest sign of surrender Lincoln’s ever going to get.
His brother’s legs are still spread wide open and it’s not much to just dip and guide himself into Michael’s slick hole on a continuous glide.
With surprising strength, Michael rears up with a moan, forcing Lincoln back on his haunches. Lincoln sinks even deeper into the tight inferno of his ass and holds onto his brother’s waist as Michael braces with his arms behind him.
The position is nearly impossible with two grown men but Lincoln leans back the slightest bit, putting all of their weight on his thighs until Michael is forced to wrap his arms around his brother’s neck and straddle his thighs.
Michael’s considerable weight is in his lap and squeezing all around his cock and Lincoln suddenly can’t move another inch. He can practically taste the sweaty skin pressed flush against him, can feel Michael breathing hard all throughout his body. He can taste his brother on his tongue and lips, is surrounded with Michael from his shoulders to his cock, and he’s ready to go off like a bottle rocket.
“Come on, daddy,” Michael moans in a register deep enough to rock through Lincoln, “Fuck me. Please.”
Lincoln’s spine goes so rigid Michael whines as if he moved. He holds Michael’s head still so that he can look up into his face. “Say my name.”
Michael’s lower half squirms, little rocks of his hips as he tries to thrust up and down. “Daddy, fuck me. Do it.” The desperation in his voice is almost enough to get Lincoln to fold.
But Lincoln clenches his fingers on Michael’s bony hips, stills him completely even though his own body is screaming to fuck into that burning heat until he goes blind.
“Michael,” saying his brother’s name gets direct eye contact, “say my name.”
“Why,” Michael throws his head back in apparent frustration. “Why are you doing this?”
Lincoln can’t answer. He just knows that he needs this as much as Michael. Grip tight enough to bruise, Lincoln holds Michael’s hips down and moves in a slow grind up into his brother’s body. Michael’s cock is smashed tight between their bodies and Lincoln can feel it twitch against his abdomen.
“Say it.”
Michael lets loose a broken groan, he’s been holding on as long as Lincoln. His voice is a hot rasp in Lincoln’s ear, “Just fuck me.”
Lincoln doesn’t hesitate to go for Michael’s swollen cock, holding on so tight at the base that Michael squeaks. His voice is as steady as Michael’s as he repeats, “Say my name.”
Another slow grind, a tight stroke of his fist, and Michael’s whimpering to the ceiling. Lincoln figures his brother’s ass must be feeling rather sensitive; he feels like he might shake apart if Michael fights him any longer.
“Please,” Lincoln’s low plea shocks them both. Michael goes deathly still in his lap. “Please, Michael. Just-,” Give me this, Lincoln damn near begs. He hides his face in the wet skin of his brother’s neck.
He feels hands on his head just a second before Michael says, “Lincoln,” so softly that Lincoln wonders if he imagines the sound.
But then Michael says it again and again and Lincoln’s shuddering, tipping his head back to kiss Michael’s trembling lips, and Michael’s thrusting down as Lincoln moves up to meet him and Michael’s riding him hard, like he’s a little angry, but Lincoln could care less because he has Michael’s cock in his fist and it’s almost as hot as his ass, so vice-tight that Lincoln wonders for a second if his cock is going ever make it out, but he finds that that doesn’t matter either because Michael’s still saying (moaning, shouting) his name and nothing else, as if “Lincoln” now substitutes for every other word, which is strange but also exactly what Lincoln wants right this second.
Lincoln comes harder than he can ever remember as he hears Michael’s tired voice breathe his name, his brother’s come all over his fist, and he’s absolutely sure that anything is better than “daddy”.
As Lincoln collapses back to the bed, his thighs aching, it doesn’t matter that after all of this is done and they’re both fucked out and exhausted that Michael’s mask will fall back into place. He’ll go take a long shower, probably eager to get the stink of Lincoln off his skin, and Lincoln will get dressed, covering up the sweat and spunk that soaks into his clothes and skin. And he’ll try his best to leave before Michael proceeds to come out of the shower and ignore him until Lincoln gives up and leaves anyway.
Because although Lincoln knows he deserves it, knows he deserves never hearing from Michael again for everything he’s done, sometimes leaving with Michael’s sweat still wet on his skin renews his hope that his brother will keep calling for him.