Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/614581.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Prison_Break
  Relationship:
      Michael_Scofield/Lincoln_Burrows/Lincoln_"LJ"_Burrows_Jr, John_Abruzzi/
      Theodore_"T-Bag"_Bagwell, Various_Relationships
  Character:
      Michael_Scofield, Lincoln_Burrows, Lincoln_"LJ"_Burrows_Jr, John_Abruzzi,
      Theodore_"T-Bag"_Bagwell, Fernando_Sucre, Benjamin_"C-Note"_Franklin
  Additional Tags:
      Orgy, Incest, Strip_Tease, Comedy
  Series:
      Part 10 of Striptease_II
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-12-29 Chapters: 18/18 Words: 20187
****** Encore ******
by froggy_(therealfroggy)
Summary
     Michael and the other merry men are short of cash - again. So why not
     just give a repeat performance? LJ heartily approves, even if Lincoln
     doesn't. The last instalment in the Striptease II series.
***** Material Boys *****
“Okay, tribe council, now,” Michael called, shoving Lincoln again. The older
man grunted and rolled over, almost crushing LJ in the process. They'd both
fallen asleep by the camp fire the night before.
“Shut up, papi,” Sucre complained from his and C-Note's tent. “It's too early
to even think!”
“I don't care, we need to talk,” Michael called back, prodding the fire with a
stick. He needed coffee, and he suspected a lot of other people would as well.
“LJ, can you go wake up the M'n'M's?” The mobster had been most insulted to be
given that particular epithet. The murderer had laughed until the mobster
slapped him upside the head.
“No,” Lincoln said, sitting up stiffly. “he can't. I'll wake them. LJ is not
going in there alone.”
´In there` was referring to their tent. Lincoln had never gotten past the fact
that LJ had spent a night in there, nor had he gotten over the sounds he'd been
forced to endure that night.
Grumbling about ungodly hours of the day, Lincoln made his way over to the
third tent, threw back the flaps and stuck his head in. He then roared
something unintelligible about meetings and Michael – unintelligible because of
his yawn – and added, “And get the fuck off each other, for chrissake! You look
like the freaking Teletubbies!”
At which point Michael and LJ dissolved into laughter, and Lincoln emerged from
the tent with a grumpy expression.
Much later than Michael would have preferred, they were all seated around the
fire, each nursing a cup of coffee. Abruzzi and T-Bag were last to arrive,
looking tired and rumpled.
“Well, now that Tinkywinky and Tipsy have woken up, we can get on to business,”
Michael smirked, earning a grin from LJ and grumbles from about everyone else.
“We have money problems again.”
“Again?” Lincoln said, yawning again. “I thought we had lots of money. I hate
thinking about money.”
“We've been living around like this for months, Lincoln, about three months.
Think about it. The money wasn't going to last forever.
“Now, I've been thinking about this, and I honestly think this would be as good
a time as any to go for Westmoreland's stash. But we need money to get there;
we need at least as much as last time to get us from here to Utah. Unless we
all volunteer to stay behind while one of us go to get it?”
Loud protests. Michael held up his hands. “I thought so. We need money, and we
need it pronto. I hate to say it, but money makes the world go round – so how
are we going to get it?”
“Why are we even discussing this?” LJ said, suddenly very awake. “It's obvious,
isn't it? Get it like you got it last time.”
There was silence for a moment, then T-Bag opened his mouth and Abruzzi placed
a hand over it. “No, Theodore, we don't need that now.”
“Like a married couple,” Lincoln muttered, making Michael grin and Sucre make
odd noises reminiscent of strangled guinea pigs.
“You're right, that would be the easiest way out,” Michael said, pensively. “I
mean, we've already done it, so it would need a minimum of preparations and
expenses. However...” He smirked at his brother, then at Abruzzi. “I assumed
someone here would be even less eager this time.”
Abruzzi shrugged. “Why? It's not like it could be worse than last time.”
The rest of the camp gawked at him, except Sucre, who glared. “Hell no, papi;
not again! Come on; like once wasn't enough! Can't we just have someone pick up
the money and bring it down here?”
“Because we probably can't trust anyone,” Michael said. “Five million dollars
changes people. We need to get it ourselves. Besides, Sucre... You've done
worse, haven't you?”
At this point, LJ was sitting up eagerly, following the conversation raptly.
“Michael, my son is here!” Lincoln protested, almost spilling coffee all over
LJ. “I won't have my son involved – in any way whatsoever – in this shit!”
“Lincoln, he doesn't have to be,” Michael explained patiently. “We'll do it
just like last time, only this time we'll make more money, because we'll know
what to do. And do not even start with me with the self respect and image
thing!” he said, overriding Lincoln just as the older brother was opening his
mouth. “We've had that discussion, and you lose it every time.”
“Fine.”
To everyone's surprise, it was Sucre who conceded. “We'll do it. We'll do the
fucking striptease. But papi, this time...” He looked highly uncomfortable.
“Anything for money, right?”
Michael nodded, smirking evilly. “Anything.”
What the rest of the camp didn't know, was that Sucre himself had been
requested to give Michael a blow-job in return. The Puerto Rican had not been
able to bring himself to do it; this time, however, Michael suspected none of
them would have the same inhibitions.
Finally, after long moments of silence, Lincoln sighed heavily and shrugged.
“Fine, fine. We'll do the fucking show. But LJ is not watching!”
“Actually, dad, I was thinking I could join in.”
“What!”
Abruzzi regarded LJ for a minute, then grinned. “Come on, Sink, your son isn't
half bad looking. He could make a good -”
“Shut the fuck up! What are you saying, that I should... should prostitute my
son just to get Westmoreland's stash?” Lincoln sounded positively desperate
now, not to mention livid.
“Nah, jus' let him in on the fun,” T-Bag drawled, smirking at both LJ and
Lincoln. And Michael, for good measure.
Lincoln jumped at T-Bag, obviously in need of someone to vent on. Abruzzi
simply lifted an eyebrow, but didn't even attempt to help as Michael and LJ
tried pulling Lincoln off the older man.
“Ya really need some o' that anger management, Sink,” T-Bag drawled, licking
his lips and smiling deviously at the Burrows/Scofield family. “Gonna get
someone hurt someday. Me, most likely.”
Abruzzi laughed. Michael grinned.
“Fine,” Lincoln snarled, “Let him join. But if any of the customers so much as
tries to cop a feel, I'll tear their fucking guts out.”
Michael rolled his eyes. “Linc, sometimes you're just such a caveman.”
Lincoln huffed. “Well, someone in this family had to get the muscle, not just
the brains.”
“Or the looks.”
“Shut it, perv. You're no Miss United States yourself.”
“Sure he is,” C-Note yawned, “can't you just see him in the swimming suit
competition?”
“Damn, C-Note; that was just so much more than I needed this early in the
morning!”
***** Bringing back memories *****
“Has anyone seen my tie?”
Michael was rummaging in his and Lincoln's tent, getting mildly annoyed. He was
so sure he'd put that tie with the rest of his costume!
“Can't find my collar either,” Abruzzi replied, sounding disinterested. That
could, Michael reflected, have something to do with the fact that T-Bag had
donned his entire costume and was swaggering around camp, obviously trying his
best to distract everyone.
“Well, I can,” Sucre replied, sounding annoyed. “Why is your collar in my
tent?”
“That would be T-Bag's fault,” Michael replied, moving to search LJ's tent.
Perhaps his tie, like Abruzzi's collar, had been misplaced. “Sucre, I'm sorry
to break it to you, but you and C-Note aren't the only ones who's been in that
tent.”
Loud swearing in Spanish was accompanied by loud swearing in English as the two
inhabitants of that very tent complained in chorus.
“'S just a lil' sacramental wine, ain't it, John boi?” T-Bag said, smirking. He
then proceeded to bring the collar back to Abruzzi, muttering something in the
taller man's ear. The mobster grinned, then started fastening the collar around
his neck.
“Where the fuck is that tie!” Michael muttered to himself, getting seriously
annoyed.
“I think I found it,” Lincoln said. “Yeah. Anyone else missing anything?” He
withdrew a bunch of fabric from the sleeve of his long, black, fake leather
coat. Michael retrieved his neck tie from among Sucre's sixpence, someone's t-
shirt and Lincoln's trousers.
Michael noticed LJ watching eagerly as everyone donned their costume, checking
that everything still fit and that nothing was missing. The boy was all but
drooling, and Michael wanted to snigger. If Lincoln thought he could keep his
son out of anything, he was sorely mistaken.
“You'll be needing a shave or two before we go on stage, John,” Michael
remarked. The mobster sported heavy stubble.
“Won't we all,” T-Bag said, feeling his goatee, which was less accurately
trimmed than it had been a month ago.
“You're not losing the goatee,” Abruzzi said.
“You look better with it,” LJ piped up, sounding far more neutral than Abruzzi
had.
“Speaking of facial hair, I think you should stop shaving just a day or two
before the show, Linc,” Michael remarked. His brother, though he would never
say so in company, looked completely bad-ass with stubble.
“Okay, let's have at it. Anyone needing anything fixed?” Michael asked,
straightening up. His costume fit like a glove; he had stayed more or less the
exact same size. Must be all the night-time exercise.
“I do,” LJ said, looking around with obvious interest at the six men assembled.
“I don't have a costume.”
An idea struck Michael. “LJ, do you have a routine thought out?”
The boy shook his head. “No. I was thinking, I could watch all of yours and
maybe get some ideas.”
Lincoln gave a sound of feeble protest, but Michael nodded. “Good idea. But
just in case, there's an opening in my act. We could do with two college boys,”
he smiled.
LJ sat up straighter. “College boys?”
T-Bag was smirking like the devil himself by now. “Now that would be a sight
for sore eyes.”
                                      ***
As he looked around at the older men, LJ observed as they each clearly
associated different feelings with the costumes they all wore. He snorted a
laugh. They looked kind of stupid, though oddly... endearing?
They were all sitting around an approximately flat area of ground, the CD
player standing off to one side. Michael was checking himself frequently, a
smile playing on his lips and a very mischievous glint in his eyes. Lincoln was
looking as if he was resisting something – LJ suspected the urge to blush.
Sucre was looking determined and pensive, and C-Note was just looking grimly
resigned.
Of course. Abruzzi was smirking and throwing knowing glances at the others, and
T-Bag was licking his lips in anticipation and looking for all the world ready
to just jump at the first patch of skin he saw. LJ had heard Abruzzi call T-Bag
a nymphomaniac enough to realize that both men were something of the kind, at
least with each other.
If he hadn't been worried that they might both rip his guts out, he would have
pointed out what was obvious to everyone else but them: they were more like a
pair of newly-weds than anything else.
Music suddenly started, and LJ's gaze was drawn quickly to T-Bag, who had
gotten to his feet, placed a chair in the middle of the open space and moved
off to the side.
Soft, sensual music filled the night. A woman started singing – LJ recognized
Old fashioned morphine, and wondered at the Alabamian's choice of music – and
T-Bag started moving. Soon enough, however, LJ understood full well why he had
chosen that particular song. It seemed to be written for T-Bag's act; the way
he moved, slinking across the “stage” to the chair before doing very
interesting things on said chair...
“Close your mouth, LJ,” Lincoln snarled softly, and LJ grinned at his father.
But he closed his mouth before turning back to T-Bag.
The black denim jacket was off. The white tee-shirt was off. The belt was
whipped dramatically off, and then – What! Well, fuck me sideways! – the jeans
were off as well. T-Bag, obviously unashamed and completely naked, was
strolling around the stage for one last round as the song faded, then left the
“stage”.
“Ya shouldn' be starin' like that, boi,” T-Bag smirked, giving LJ a saucy wink
before slowly starting to redress.
LJ knew he was blushing, but couldn't help but grin in return. “Why not? It's
educational.”
Abruzzi, Michael and T-Bag roared with laughter. Lincoln gave an angry growl
and glared daggers at his brother, as if all this was his fault (not that it
wasn't, LJ thought).
“All right, next,” Michael said, calming down but still smirking. “C-Note, same
deal as last time?”
C-Note nodded, looking relieved. “I earned my cash, didn't I?”
“You did,” Michael agreed, making LJ curious as to what, exactly, the other man
had in store for the show.
“Black Trio, then,” Michael grinned. “You're up.”
Abruzzi, Sucre and Lincoln got to their feet. LJ was immediately intrigued.
Michael had tried telling him about this act, but Lincoln had wrestled him to
the ground, almost choking him in his efforts to shut him up. The latter was
now looking highly uncomfortable, while Abruzzi was grinning relaxedly and
Sucre was looking as though it couldn't hurt to let anyone see it.
Music started, and LJ couldn't help but laugh. Alice Cooper; what had possessed
his father to think of that? But as the act started and the three men – to LJ
they looked more like jungle cats or wolves – began to move, he figured the
choreography wasn't their work, nor the choice of music. It just had Michael
written all over it.
And as the act progressed, LJ found he could no more take his eyes off it than
he could T-Bag's act. The three men were fighting, moving, stalking the stage
restlessly. LJ found himself entranced until noticing Sucre, with a grin so
completely unlike the Puerto Rican, coming straight towards him. LJ couldn't
contain a small exclamation as he was picked up, carried to the middle of the
“stage” and deposited between the half naked men there.
All around him, the three older men started stripping each other, toying with
LJ and striking poses full of aggression and challenge. LJ felt slightly dizzy
– and mortally embarrassed at his own arousal – as he was suddenly picked up by
Sucre again, then carried back to his seat, where Michael waited with a grin.
“Enjoy it?” Michael whispered in his ear, as the three men kept moving. LJ
nodded dumbly as Lincoln grabbed Sucre's throat, seeming to use a little more
force than strictly necessary. The music faded and the three men remained in
their positions for a few moments before breaking it, slowly moving to get
their clothing back on. Lincoln was scowling at Sucre, who looked as if he was
somewhat regretting pissing Lincoln off.
“They were supposed to pick up you, weren't they?” LJ whispered, still
grinning.
“No, they're picking someone from the audience,” Michael explained mirthfully.
“But I think Sucre just found out he's got some humour in him after all.”
“So when do I see your act?” LJ asked, by now very eager to see Michael's
number.
“When we find a pole,” Michael grinned.
“Pole? Shit, uncle Mike, you serious?”
“Dead serious,” Michael smiled. They began gathering up their props and heading
for their tents. “I wear a college student costume and I pole dance. I don't
think I'll be teaching you the pole, though – but you can join in my number if
you want.”
“Nah, I don't think I should take the attention away from you pole dancing,” LJ
grinned. “Besides, I want to see it for myself. But I could use a little help
making my own routine. I'm guessing you did the other ones, too?”
“Just mine and the Black Trio's,” Michael smiled. “How did you know?”
“Come on. Alice Cooper and leather? It had your signature on it in neon
letters!” LJ said, earning a laugh from his uncle.
“You're smarter than what's good for you, kid.” Lincoln had hung back until he
was walking with them. He sounded rather offended. “What's the use trying to be
a good father when you're hell-bent on ruining yourself?”
Michael and Lincoln laughed.
“Ruining myself?” LJ repeated. “Come off it, dad!”
But Lincoln was already muttering swearwords to himself and walking faster in
order to get ahead of them. Michael shrugged, then sighed. “He's like that
sometimes, isn't he.” It wasn't a question, as both Michael and LJ knew Lincoln
pretty well.
“Yeah,” LJ agreed. “I'm just going to have to apologize.”
Michael arched an eyebrow at him.
“Physically,” LJ smirked. He figured Michael and Lincoln's tent would be extra
crowded that night.
***** Interlude: Sorry seems to be... Unnecessary! *****
“Move over.”
Lincoln turned around, trying to give his son a frosty stare but succeeding
only in looking grumpy.
LJ, deciding his father needed a good pick-me-up, only smiled innocently in
reply and squeezed himself down between Michael and Lincoln. “Lighten up, dad;
you're no fun when you're all bad-tempered.”
“I don't like you being in this show,” Lincoln stated. Duh, thought LJ.
“On the night of the show, I don't want you running off with customers, letting
them pay you to... do stuff,” Lincoln continued. LJ silently intended to comply
with his father's wishes on that point.
“And I don't want you to spend so much time with Abruzzi and T-Bag. They're a
bad influence,” Lincoln concluded lamely.
“I could do that,” LJ said, pressing close to his father, “if you... and
Michael... let me in on the fun.” Pressing a wet kiss just under the older
man's ear, he placed a hand on Lincoln's broad chest and toyed with the fabric
of the sleeping bag.
“Fair enough,” Lincoln stuttered, mentally struggling for a second before
giving in and turning to kiss LJ softly. Open, eager lips met his, and he took
full advantage, thrusting his tongue into the boy's mouth.
“Mmm, dad,” LJ purred, “fuck me?” He slowly opened Lincoln's sleeping bag,
finding Lincoln naked inside it.
“Since you ask nicely,” Lincoln replied hoarsely, rolling them over until LJ
was on his back underneath him. The tent really didn't allow for gymnastics.
Quickly discovering LJ wore nothing more than his shorts, he rid the boy of
those too before lying down heavily on top of him.
LJ loved feeling Lincoln on top of him like this. He spread his legs underneath
the older man, trying to pull Lincoln closer still.
“Michael,” Lincoln said, a strangely playful note creeping into his voice.
“Join us.”
LJ had almost forgotten his uncle was there, but was quickly reminded as
Michael – with an ungodly smirk on his face – joined them, first kissing LJ
then moving behind Lincoln, kissing his way across that broad back. LJ smiled
deviously at his father. He knew what he was up to.
“What're your plans for the show, then?” Lincoln asked, sounding casual but
betraying himself by groping around his bag for the lube.
“Don't know yet,” LJ replied, adding a slight intake of breath as Lincoln's
erection pressed into his thigh. “Maybe... Oh God, dad!”
Lincoln had thrust two slick fingers inside the boy, revelling in the
whimpering exclamation that earned him. Quickly adding another finger, then a
fourth, Lincoln kept teasing the boy mercilessly, stroking slowly.
“He's ready, Linc,” Michael said, kissing his brother's neck. “Or do you want
him to say it?”
“You know I do,” Lincoln smiled. “I love it when you beg, both of you. Say it,
LJ. Tell me what you want.”
“You,” LJ panted, doing his level best to talk evenly. “Just... fuck me...
please.” His words were parted by Lincoln's relentless thrusts.
Finally, LJ thought, Lincoln lined himself up and thrust slowly inside. LJ
keened with need; Lincoln was going so slowly, so restrictedly.
“Michael,” Lincoln said, unmoving inside the boy. LJ could see Michael taking
the tube from Lincoln, he heard the slick sounds of the lube being applied.
“Not now. Just go.”
Michael, obeying Lincoln's command, forewent preparing his brother and simply
eased inside him, going slowly for Lincoln's sake. Broad shoulders were flexing
underneath his hands, then a deep groan rumbled through Lincoln and the
vibrations spread deliciously to Michael.
“Would you please move!” LJ stuttered, hands trailing Lincoln's sides until he
could grip his hips. They bucked once underneath his touch, then stilled again.
“Michael,” Lincoln said again, voice shivering slightly. Michael pulled gently
back before thrusting forwards, pushing Lincoln with him. The older man growled
and surged forwards into LJ, the smaller body receiving the thrust with
eagerness.
LJ threw his head back and cried out, clawing on Lincoln's hips. Held down by
Lincoln's wonderfully stout body, he felt every inch of the intrusion – and
Michael's movements through Lincoln. Both brothers seemed to move within him,
creating the most delicious friction and heat. His cock was trapped between him
and Lincoln, getting all the attention he would ever want.
Moaning both their names with abandon, LJ thrashed about as much as his flesh
and blood cage would allow, writhing against arms and hips and skin.
“Tight,” Lincoln groaned, feeling pulsating walls casing him in, almost a sharp
contrast to the hard length he felt filling him.
“Mmm,” Michael agreed, nibbling a little on Lincoln's neck. “Tight. And hot.”
“Fuck... hard,” LJ panted, slipping one hand over Lincoln's shoulder only to
find his fingertips sensually caressed by Michael's lips and tongue. With
everything reduced to heat and slick thrusts and sweaty skin, LJ was burning up
inside and he never wanted it to stop, but then Lincoln kissed him while
Michael started sucking on his middle finger, and his erection was rubbed so
firmly against his and Lincoln's stomachs. Tightening, tensing, he came,
feeling each move draw his orgasm out with agonizing pleasure.
“You're easy to satisfy, aren't you?” Lincoln whispered, pressing closer until
he could feel LJ's come spreading over his abdomen, his upper stomach. Each
thrust coated them both in it.
“Dad,” LJ whimpered, “too much!”
Silenced by another kiss, LJ felt the older man withdraw slowly from his body,
still hard and smooth against his thigh.
“Do you want to stay?” Michael asked, rolling his hips against Lincoln's ass.
“Do you want me to fuck him on top of you?”
“Yes, oh God, shit,” was all LJ could ramble as the younger of the brothers
resumed his thrusts, once more moving Lincoln against his son, only this time
LJ was spent, and Lincoln was no longer fucking him.
“Shit, Michael,” Lincoln panted, “I can feel you... so hard, and his come... Oh
fuck!”
“Yeah, fuck,” Michael agreed, feeling Lincoln clench around him as he hit the
older man's prostate.
“Ungh! Oh God, Mih... Michael,” Lincoln moaned, then dipped his head to kiss LJ
again. “So fucking...”
“Tight,” Michael repeated, panting and shivering. Both men were shaking, and LJ
could feel it all. He felt Lincoln rub against him, felt the older man's
precome on his thigh, felt Michael's presence and the movement of the two men
rutting in heat.
“LJ,” Lincoln groaned, “I'm gonna -”
“I know,” LJ interrupted, clenching his legs around Lincoln's waist. “I want
you to.”
Michael's breath caught in his throat as Lincoln clenched around him, growling,
coming. LJ gave a moan of perverse pleasure as he felt Lincoln mark him, felt
Lincoln's come on his skin. Michael was moaning now, stuttering incoherently
about “tight” and “hot”, and LJ basked in every sensation, moaning in choir
with Michael as his uncle twitched against Lincoln.
“Fuck,” Lincoln panted, noticing Michael was no longer moving in him. “Fuck.”
“Mmph,” Michael agreed, his face pressed against Lincoln's shoulder. Slowly, he
pulled out of the older man, sated and panting.
“Seriously,” LJ smiled, a bit out of breath himself, “you guys are crazy. Where
do you get the ideas?”
“Imagination knows no limits,” Michael rasped, slowly rolling over to his own
sleeping bag again. “Especially not after a bit of practice.”
“Or tequila,” LJ remarked, stretching comfortably between the two older men.
“Shut up,” Lincoln said grumpily. “We didn't have any tonight.”
“We should,” LJ remarked. “For stamina.”
“Hah! If you're even thinking about going again, then there's something
seriously wrong with you,” Michael snorted. “You sure you haven't caught
anything psychological from T-Bag?”
“No,” LJ smirked, “he's never given me anything but orgasms.”
“LJ!”
“Sorry, dad. Couldn't resist.”
***** I don't need tools *****
“You're mental!”
“No, seriously, LJ. It would work, and it would be hot.”
“Yeah, I'd look like a deranged Texas chain-saw wannabe! What a turn-on, uncle
Mike.”
“No you wouldn't; there'd be no mask involved.”
“Well, sorry, I'm not going with that idea.”
“So what idea are you going with, then?”
“If you watch my practice later, you'll find out. But just you, okay? I don't
want dad going haywire.”
“No problem. But if it's no good, then you'll go with -”
“No, uncle Mike, I will not go on there in a carpenter outfit!”
“Why not? With tools and gloves, you'd look like a porn star. Not to mention
the heavy boots.”
“Which would have to come off before I could get my trousers off. I'd fall on
my face before the music had even started, probably knocking someone out as I
sent the hammer flying!”
“Well, without the boots, then. You'd still look incredible.”
“Well, screw that. I'll go with the Village People thing if you don't like my
performance. But I'm the cop and not the carpenter.”
“I'm not sure there ever was a carpenter in Village People, LJ.”
“I don't care. I'm not dressing up as a carpenter, with or without tools
hanging from my belt.”
“Now, what kinda tools would that be, Pretties?”
“Go away, T-Bag.”
                                      ***
Michael's throat was dry. He felt in desperate need of both water and a fan;
the dry Mexican evening air coupled with this form of entertainment reduced his
capacity of thought to, Fuck carpenters!
As the sole viewer of LJ's performance, he neither had to fake disinterest nor
share his entertainment with anyone – resulting in LJ focusing all the efforts
he would eventually focus on an entire audience, on Michael alone.
And what efforts! At the end of his show, the only thing separating LJ from
anything at all was a tiny, dark blue... could that even be called a pair of
shorts? Michael thought, swallowing against his parched throat.
“I admit defeat,” he said, smiling slightly as LJ, unnecessarily slowly,
redressed. “To be honest, I didn't think you could be quite that... creative
when it came to something like this. What made you think of it?”
“MTV,” LJ said lightly, pulling on a simple t-shirt. “You ever seen the music
video for the song I'm using? No, obviously not. It's kind of the same style,
only, well. They don't strip down.”
Michael nodded slowly. “Just one more thing. I would advise you not to show
that to T-Bag alone. Not that I think he'd hurt you on purpose, but he could
get very... aggressive. You know, the make-up, the whole costume really... He'd
be all over you whether you wanted it or not.”
LJ laughed. “More like, he'd be fucking me raw within seconds.”
Michael arched an eyebrow. “Well, he's been known to kill and rape students
just your age, you know.”
“I know,” LJ said, shrugging. “But Abruzzi's got him bitchified. Can't even get
him to play without Abruzzi giving the green lights; you should have seen the
show they made out of me trying to get it on with T-Bag without Abruzzi.”
“That's why you went to their tent at night?” Michael asked.
“Yeah. Dad freaked out, didn't he?”
“He's worried, for which I honestly can't blame him,” Michael replied, more
seriously. “They may be safe now, but hey, there's a reason I've got eight
toes. Just be careful around them. Lincoln and I are just a shout away, okay?”
LJ rolled his eyes. “Whatever. I guess we should get back to camp; dad'll be
trying to gut someone by now. He probably thinks someone kidnapped and raped us
both.”
Michael gave a chuckle. “Yeah, he's kind of protective like that.”
                                      ***
“LJ. If I hadn't known we need the money... I just...”
“That wasn't what I asked, dad,” LJ said, redressing. “Good or bad?”
“Good!” Lincoln replied, clearing his throat. “Fucking incredible. I just wish
you weren't going to do it in front of paying customers.”
“Well, I am, so you should make your peace with it,” LJ grinned.
“I want you to promise me something, LJ.”
Oh, great, his father was at it again. “What, dad?”
“When you're done, after your performance? Stay behind stage. Or stay at the
bar, but don't drink anything but sodas. If this time 'round is anything like
last time, the customers will get frisky, and they'll ask you to do... stuff...
for money. Or ask for private shows. I don't want to see you in one.”
“Why?” was the immediate reply, “Why can't I give private shows?”
“Because they'll be expecting more,” Lincoln said, getting to his feet so he
could move closer to his son. “And I mean it, LJ; if I see anyone in that place
making a move on you, I'll kick their asses and carry you outta there.”
“You're so possessive,” LJ said, teasing. “I'm not exclusive.”
“I know, LJ, but do you want some filthy old pig to try and grab you and drag
you out to his car? You look too young to fool anyone who looks closely –
you're just sixteen, for heaven's sake!” Lincoln said, trying to impress the
seriousness on the boy.
“Dad, easy, I know what to expect,” LJ purred, moving in to press against the
older man. “Besides, I'll stay clear of the pigs. I'm only there to earn money,
not to find a new boyfriend. Or girlfriend, for that matter.”
Lincoln turned away, heading for camp. “Well, that won't stop me worrying.”
LJ rolled his eyes. Now he'd have to start worrying too – about Lincoln no
longer being easy to calm down by a little purring and pressing. Damn it, he
would have to get more creative.
***** The Magnificent Seven *****
“I say we go to the place we were last time. Good stage, good crowd. 'Sides, we
know the manager now.”
Michael shook his head. “Not an option,” he answered the mobster. “People could
have recognized us, or realized who we were. We can't take that chance.”
“Then what do you suggest, Fish?” Abruzzi demanded, getting impatient. “We
can't do it in the States, can we?”
“No,” Michael agreed, “we can't. But I think we should go to a bigger place
this time. A tourist town further north. We need to move in that direction
anyway.”
“Then let's just pack up the tents and go!” C-Note said. “I don't feel like
living like this for much longer, anyway. We'll just go until we find a good
place, then we'll do the show and leave again.”
Lincoln and Sucre nodded in agreement. T-Bag was busy leering at LJ, and
Michael and Abruzzi were thinking.
“Fine,” Michael said, “we pack up and go. We'll have to walk until we get the
money and can get a car or something; they're cheap down here. We walk by night
when it's not too warm and there aren't many people out, and we sleep during
the hottest part of the day. Let's get going.”
As if shaken out of a slumber, the men gathered around in an uneven circle on
the ground got to their feet and stood for a second, looking around at each
other.
“Well, move it,” Michael said efficiently, moving towards his and Lincoln's
tent. “Everyone, pack up. And make sure it can be carried.”
A scramble followed during which everyone tried to get their stuff together at
once. After much confusion, aggression and yelled curses, all the tents were
down and the backpacks filled with what could be crammed into them. T-Bag was
sulking about something (Michael suspected it had something to do with the
scowl on Abruzzi's face), and C-Note was looking happier than he had in a long
time.
“Let's go, then,” Michael said simply, heading north. Casting one last glance
back at their camp site, shrouded in dusk, the seven men began walking.
                                      ***
“This backpack weighs a fucking ton!”
“Wait, I've got a pebble in my shoe.”
“Uncle Mike, there's a lake or something! Can't we just stop for a quick dip?”
“It's fucking hot, even for this time of day.”
Michael sighed in exasperation and trudged on. “This is like taking a
kindergarten for an outing!” he grumbled, annoyed. Sucre laughed. The Puerto
Rican and C-Note were the only ones who weren't bitching about everything there
was to bitch about.
“So what's got you in such a good mood?” Michael asked. “You haven't complained
once since we started.”
“Hey man, no offence, but I'm just looking forward to leaving this ass rodeo,”
C-Note grinned, hefting his backpack higher on his shoulders. “Soon enough,
I'll be somewhere where I won't have to listen to Sergeant Sodomy and Eye Tie
every fucking night. I'll be with my family, and I won't ever have to take my
clothes off for money again.”
Michael smiled. “I can see the appeal of that, definitely. What about you,
Sucre? You must be happy you can soon get Maricruz and run off with her.”
Sucre snorted. “If she hasn't married Victor.”
“Hey, she wouldn't do that to you,” Michael said. “You've been talking to her,
haven't you?”
Sucre shook his head gloomily.
Michael stared at him. “You haven't even called her? Jesus, Sucre, isn't she
supposed to have your baby?”
Sucre shrugged, looking decidedly downcast. Michael frowned.
“You're calling her,” he said decisively. “Next town we pass, you find a pay
phone and call her.”
Sucre glanced at Michael. “You think she'll talk to me, papi? After what I
did?”
“What you did? You broke out of prison to be with her!” Michael said, feeling
solely responsible for convincing Sucre he had to go find Maricruz. “The baby
won't be due for some months yet, will it? You should definitely go find her
once you have your share of the cash.”
Sucre looked a little brighter, but still confused, somehow. Michael had a
sneaking suspicion it had something to do with the whole “ass rodeo” concept,
as this had been troubling his former cellie since long before he actually gave
Michael head, but still he couldn't be that intent on incriminating himself?
“Hey, Michael,” Lincoln said, catching up with his brother, “LJ had an idea.”
“What?” Michael asked, hoping it was not another request to go for a swim.
“There are lots of farms and stuff round here, right?” Lincoln said eagerly.
“And we've got all this heavy stuff to carry. What we need is something to
carry it for us, right? So LJ and I thought, maybe we could snag a small cart
or a mule or something!”
Michael laughed. “A mule? Sure, Lincoln; that'll simplify our journey that
much! Have you got any idea how to handle a mule?”
Lincoln shrugged. “Can't be that difficult. We'd put it on a leash or
something. Besides, these tents are getting heavy.”
“Why not get us a horse each while you're at it?” C-Note said, laughing. “The
Magnificent Seven, riding into the Mexican sunset on their way to a strip
joint! Oscar material, I tell ya.”
Michael and Sucre joined in the laughter. Even Lincoln grinned.
“Yeah, okay. But how about some little cart or something; you know, something
we could pull in turns?”
“Well, if we had the time, we could build one, and if we had the cash, we could
buy one,” Michael said. “But we're not stealing from these farmers; they're
struggling enough as it is. We'll just have to switch who's carrying the tent
more often.”
Lincoln grumbled something about “not like we haven't before”, but kept
walking.
Michael sighed. They had been walking for four days, and everyone was getting
impatient. They would have to get that car soon, which meant they would have to
get the money soon, which in turn meant they would have to find a strip joint
pretty quick.
C-Note was humming some western tune and grinning. Fighting a grin at the
thought of the seven of them riding into a city to dance can-can in an old-
fashioned saloon, Michael kept walking, hitching his backpack a little further
up. It was, in fact, heavy as hell.
***** Emo-ness prevails *****
“We've got it! Michael, we've got the venue!” Sucre was all but glowing.
“Great! And you've called her?” Michael was honestly interested in his friend's
emotional welfare; if pursuing Maricruz was what he needed to do, then Michael
was prepared to help him to his best ability.
Sucre laughed with delight and hugged Michael briefly. “Papi, she told him no!
She left him at the altar, and she still wants to marry me! We're having a
baby, papi!”
Michael smiled broadly at Sucre. “Congratulations. Will she come here?”
Sucre nodded, almost beside himself with joy. “She's coming to meet me here,
Papi; we're going to move to the south of Mexico, and set up with my share of
the cash. I'll get a job, I'll take care of her, I'll do everything right this
time!”
All but skipping, Sucre hurriedly related the details of the venue as if in
passing, before mentioning that the owner spoke English fairly good, and then
ran to share the news with C-Note. Michael could see the darker man pat him
encouragingly on the shoulder with a smile.
Both men were looking forwards to starting afresh with their families. Michael
wished with all his heart that they made it. He, however, was in a slightly
more complex position; LJ needed to live as normal a life as he could, while he
and Lincoln needed to stay hidden until the conspiracy was unravelled. How to
accomplish that, he had not yet figured out. But he had a sneaking suspicion
Veronica would have to be involved somehow.
                                      ***
“Aw, c'mon, boys, why not?”
“We're going on stage in two days, T-Bag,” Michael said, exasperated. “We're
not doing it with the mother of all hang-overs!”
“Why can't we just -”
“Discussion ended, perv,” Lincoln said, trying to turn the sausages over in the
pan with a fork. He swore loudly when the grease sprayed his fingers.
“Once more, we've got the bar booked, costumes at the ready, and we're all
familiar with our choreography, right?” Michael said, ignoring Lincoln's
grumbling and T-Bag's pout. The other men nodded.
“The day after tomorrow, from ten pm onwards, we've got the bar scene and the
customers to ourselves. And this time, remember – anything for money. Abruzzi,
no jealous acts, okay?” The last was added with a grin.
Abruzzi snarled something unintelligible at Michael. The mobster had, in truth,
become more and more uncomfortable over the past week; he was reverting back to
how he had behaved just after leaving Fox River. Only this time, he was as
nasty to everyone as he had been to T-Bag back then.
“We're this close, guys,” C-Note said suddenly, eagerly. “Just one more stunt
like this and then we'll get a car, drive north and -”
“Shut it, Eightball, we've heard it already,” Abruzzi grumbled, then got up.
“We all finished here? I'm going to bed.”
T-Bag sat up eagerly, but Abruzzi merely closed the tent flaps behind him
without a backwards glance. The Alabamian, a barely concealed grimace on his
face, sank back and stared glumly at the camp fire.
“Trouble in the tent?” LJ grinned cheekily.
“Shut it, boi,” T-Bag said threateningly, staring murderously at LJ. LJ blushed
and looked away, quite unused to this grumpy, touchy T-Bag.
Later, as he and Lincoln lay in their tent, Michael figured not only Sucre and
C-Note were aware that their lives were about to change drastically. Apparently
the mobster suffered an internal struggle; something was definitely wrong and
if not even an eager T-Bag could help...
Michael rolled over, determined to sleep. They would have to sort things out
for themselves. He was no relationship counsellor, and even if he had been, he
was not about to go to the lion's cave to try and help it out.
                                      ***
“LJ, you've got to stop,” Michael sighed, seeing his nephew frowning as T-Bag
just slapped him upside the head and walked away. “They're not having sex any
more, and that gets them annoyed and dangerous.”
LJ laughed. “Oh, come on. Since when did Abruzzi and T-Bag get so emo?”
Michael frowned. “Emo?”
“Emotional and stuff,” LJ explained. “You know, the lot that wear their hair
diagonally across their forehead and cuts themselves. Listen to dark music and
bitch about how it sucks being them, because nobody understands them.”
Michael laughed. “Emo? Abruzzi and T-Bag are emo? Don't let them hear you say
it, LJ; they'd both strangle you.”
LJ shrugged. “I'm just trying to liven them up a bit, for all our sakes.”
“Good idea, kid, but it won't work.” Lincoln had joined them. “They're on about
something, and until Abruzzi's done being a bitch, T-Bag won't improve either.”
Heading back to the camp fire for a cup of coffee, Michael frowned to himself.
“I'd say it's pretty obvious what Abruzzi's on about.”
The two other men looked at him curiously, but Michael shook his head. “It'll
sort itself out. I'll bet you it will. In the mean time, we shouldn't annoy
them, just make sure we get through the show all right.”
Lincoln and LJ shrugged, and Michael put the water kettle to boil over the
fire. He almost felt sorry for the bastards.
                                      ***
“John, you fuckin' prude, what the hell is wrong with ya?” T-Bag complained,
picking himself up off the ground. John had just hit him as he tried biting his
neck, having followed the taller man into the woods for some privacy.
“Shut up, T-Bag,” John spat, sitting down with his back to a tree. “Now get out
of here, there's a reason why I came out here alone.”
“What, so ya could handle your frustration?” T-Bag taunted, licking a few drops
of blood from his split lip. Burrows was usually the only one who hurt him like
that, and usually only in anger.
The fact that John calling him “T-Bag” had hurt more than the split lip, was
not something he was keen on admitting to himself, much less to the other man.
“No,” he said simply at the mobster's threatening look. “Ya seem to be
revertin' back to that ol' sacramental wine state, John, an' I don't think it's
good for ya.”
“How touching,” John said mockingly, closing his eyes. “Now fuck off. I'm
trying to think.”
T-Bag stood glaring at the other man before deciding. “So ya won't mind if I go
find the Pretty an' his brother instead?” he said, trying to coax a response
out of the taller man.
“No,” Abruzzi said viciously, “and I never did care.”
T-Bag shrugged. “Fair enough.”
But T-Bag didn't go to find Scofield, Burrows, or even the Burrows kid. He left
John alone, then sat in his tent and thought that maybe, if he'd have met John
before John had married his wife, he wouldn't be here at all. But John wouldn't
have been fucking him raw for months, either.
***** While awaiting the big event *****
“Your lip's bleeding.”
“Oh really? I hadn't noticed, Pretty.”
“T-Bag, we're going on stage tomorrow.”
“No shit, Sherlock? Ya really did go to college, didn't ya.”
“Be serious for a moment, will you? If that isn't taken care of by tomorrow
night, then your show is completely fucked.”
“Give over already, Pretty! It ain't that bad.”
“So what happened? Abruzzi caught you jerking off to LJ again?”
“You got a foul mouth, Pretty.”
“And you're avoiding the question, T-Bag. I know Lincoln didn't hit you last
night, and I think C-Note would have made a bigger deal out of it. That leaves
Abruzzi, seeing as none of the rest of us are inclined to use violence against
you. So what's wrong?”
“None o' your damn biss-ee-ness, boi. You understand me?”
“You don't scare me, T-Bag. And I think, for all our sakes, that whatever is
wrong between you and Abruzzi, you should sort it out. I don't care what it is,
I really don't; it's just that the whole camp knows something is wrong. It's
distracting, you see.”
“And since when did that make it any o' your business?”
“Okay, okay, don't get all emo about it. But I still mean what I said before
our first show; you are not to hurt each other!”
“Emo? What the hell you talkin' about, Pretty?”
“I don't know. Ask LJ.”
                                      ***
“Just one more day, eh, kid?”
“Yeah. So what's your number? I still haven't seen it.”
“It's lap dancing, so you won't see it. What about yours?”
“Lap dancing? That's awesome. But you can see mine tomorrow night, it's, um...
emo-ish. You ever heard Panic! At the disco?”
“Nope. It's probably better than mine, though. I just get money for... well,
you get the picture. Your father let you in on it, then?”
“Obviously. He's easier than he appears like that.”
                                      ***
“Hey, mami, it's me.”
“Fernando! Oh, Fernando, it's so good to hear your voice, baby; I miss you so
much!”
“Easy, mami; breathe! You're breathing for two now, remember?”
“Oh, Fernando, I can't wait till you get here! I can feel him kicking; I just
want you to feel my stomach when he's kicking.”
“I'll be there soon, I promise. You got everything ready?”
“Yeah. All my bags are packed and... what should I bring? Don't laugh,
Fernando; I don't know where I'm going!”
“I told you, mami; you're going south of the border. Just pack clothes and...
stuff you need.”
“How long before I see you again?”
“Don't know, but not long. We're... leaving the day after tomorrow, early. And
then I'll just need to, uh, get something, and I'll meet you here later.”
“I love you, Fernando.”
“I love you too, mami. I'll see you soon.”
                                      ***
“Move.”
“Fuck off, Abruzzi; I was here first.”
“Fine. Give me the pot.”
“What happened to ´Could you please pass me the coffee pot, Sink`?”
“It went up your brother's ass along with everyone's -”
“Watch it, man! I'm not gonna let you -”
“Let me what, Sink? State fact?”
“Just go fuck T-Bag, will you?”
“You're pushing it, Sink!”
“Ooh, so now you're getting all touchy about T-Bag? Why don't you just go on
Dr. Phil and talk it over?”
“Hey! John, let go of my brother! Lincoln, stop trying to kick his shins!”
***** Interlude: Kissing and making nice is for girls *****
“On your knees,” Abruzzi snarled, “and no messing around. Just do it.”
T-Bag, albeit hesitantly, got to his hands and knees above the mobster, who was
lying on his back on top of his sleeping bag. Abruzzi grabbed hold of his
shoulder and pushed him firmly down until his face was level with the taller
man's cock, swollen and red and demanding.
T-Bag took Abruzzi's erection into his mouth, and for the first time in his
life he did so unwillingly. He knew something was wrong, and even with John
Abruzzi fucking his mouth roughly, he was suspicious and worried.
T-Bag was not a man to trust easily, and the change in the other man disturbed
him.
“Fuck... you, Teddy,” Abruzzi panted, bucking as T-Bag made a whimper and
clutched at the other man's hips. It was much rougher than it had ever been; it
didn't hurt more, but there was something alien and confused about the way
Abruzzi was thrusting into his throat.
For the first time since he was in his late twenties, he felt the gag reflex
during a blow job. And when Abruzzi held his head still and twitched against
his tongue, coming wetly in his mouth, he didn't swallow, but waited for the
other man to release his head so he could spit outside the tent opening.
Abruzzi glared at him, but said nothing. Not until T-Bag moved up and began
biting the mobster's throat tryingly, when he waved the murderer off with a
frosty, “Fuck off, Teddy. Since when did bitches demand anything? You remember
how that works, right?”
T-Bag stared at Abruzzi. Since when had he not been able to tempt the man into
reciprocating? Something was seriously wrong, and T-Bag couldn't for the life
of him see what he'd done to get the other man so... pissed off, really.
“An' here I was, John, thinkin' ya were goin' to kiss an' make nice.”
Abruzzi snorted contemptuously. “Make-up sex is for girls and college boys,
Teddy, not men.”
“Wouldn'a hurt,” T-Bag said angrily, “seeing as ya owe me more 'n one already.”
“I owe you nothing!” Abruzzi snarled, staring murder at T-Bag. “You'd better
get that in your head sooner than later.”
T-Bag, dumbstruck, could only stare at the other man until he rolled over and
pretended to go to sleep. Then he cursed to himself and left the tent silently
in search of a copse dense enough for him to hide while he jerked off. If he
heard one more comment about “couples' therapy” he would gut Scofield.
***** Drum roll, please *****
Michael had the strangest sense of deja vu. For the second time in his life, he
was strutting around on a stage, with customers howling and whistling at him,
while he was taking his clothes off in a practised routine. As he swung around
the pole, sliding to the floor before coming to rest in a provocative pose, he
smiled to himself. He could really get used to this.
Once more crawling around the stage's edge to collect the money being waved at
him, he tried not to imagine what was to come after his own performance. He
didn't think he would look... presentable... should he dwell on it for too
long.
“C'mon, private show, honey,” shouted a large woman with a Southern accent from
a table close to the stage. Michael smiled at her, but headed for the backstage
area first. He needed to dispose the cash in a safe place before he did
anything else.
“Great, Michael,” Lincoln remarked, grinning suggestively at Michael. “Even
better than last time. So how come you're back in here so quick?”
“Making a drop,” Michael said, grinning back. “Same do as last time? Great. Put
it in my shirt for now, and we'll put that in Lincoln's coat when he's done.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've got money with my name on it out there.”
Lincoln and Sucre laughed, cheering him off into the bar area. Michael closed
the door behind him – now clad in nothing but his boxers and neck tie – but not
before he noticed Abruzzi standing in the corner brooding.
He sighed and waited for someone to call him over for more dancing. If Abruzzi
insisted on being gloomy and bitchy, then fine. But he really should lighten up
for the show.
                                      ***
“Move, people, I want to see,” LJ complained, trying to shove his way to the
front as Lincoln, Sucre and Abruzzi stood in his way, watching T-Bag dance.
“You're too young to see it,” Sucre grinned, but he gave up his place to let LJ
watch. He really didn't seem too interested.
“He's hot, isn't he?” LJ remarked casually, but Lincoln grumbled and Abruzzi's
eyes shot daggers at him, so he didn't elaborate.
Not that he didn't find the older man hot, or that he was actually afraid of
Lincoln's grumbling. But Abruzzi was getting unsettlingly grumpy and emo (no
matter how much Michael laughed, LJ still thought Abruzzi was behaving like a
depressed teenager), and LJ didn't like it. Not when he couldn't for the life
of him see why.
But T-Bag soon drove those thoughts from his mind. He watched the Alabamian
slither around stage, doing his level best not to openly drool at the sight.
The man was hot, though there seemed to be a strangely resigned set about his
smirk.
Shrugging to himself, LJ turned away from the stage, returning to his place in
front of the mirror, applying his make-up. He wasn't going on until fifteen
minutes after T-Bag (Michael had decided the Black Trio should be their grand
finale), but he still wanted to be ready. He was actually getting rather
nervous.
                                      ***
“Boi, what the devil are you wearin'?”
LJ turned around, blinking. He hadn't noticed T-Bag re-entering the backstage
area; Sucre, Abruzzi and Lincoln were all gathered in a corner, talking, and C-
Note was gone to do his bit, but LJ was still in front of the mirror.
“Um, my costume?” LJ tried, eyebrows raised.
T-Bag stared at him, seemingly incredulous. “Ya look like a doll. A suicidal
doll.”
LJ laughed. “Yeah, that's kind of the idea. Have you ever watched MTV much?”
The murderer shrugged indifferently. “Can't say that I have.”
“Well, it goes with the song. The concept. Just watch.” Then he turned back to
the mirror, applying more eye-liner and reaching for his lipstick.
“What the – kid, you've got to be insane!” Abruzzi exclaimed. He hadn't seen
LJ's outfit earlier either, as he hadn't been bothered to notice that LJ had
changed into it. “Don't try to tell me that's how they dress in that music
video!”
“Well, no,” LJ said, turning back to applying his lipstick, “but I only took
inspiration from their music and style. The rest is my own idea.”
“But you're cross dressing!” Abruzzi insisted, suddenly sounding annoyed.
“You're wearing garters and stockings! And a skirt!”
“And they're all torn,” T-Bag piped up.
“You're a drag queen,” Abruzzi said. “What, exactly, do you think is wrong with
the customers?”
“You tell me,” LJ snapped, “since they paid to see you kiss T-Bag!”
Abruzzi all but roared wordlessly at LJ, making an abrupt move as if to grab
the boy's throat, but Lincoln was moving hastily towards them and the mobster
retreated.
“You know, the skirt could have been a bit longer, LJ,” Lincoln said sourly.
LJ just laughed at him. “Yeah, that would totally have obliterated the moment
where I take it off, dad. Just wish me luck and watch, ass holes.”
                                      ***
Michael was watching his nephew walk onto the edge of the stage, then stopping
and standing in the shadows at the back of it for a moment. When the song
began, the boy jumped into action, doing... that thing. Yes. That was how best
to describe it. That thing.
A dark crimson garter belt held intentionally torn black nylon stockings in
place beneath a short tulle skirt, also black. The garter straps were taut
against the pale skin of LJ's thighs, flexing as the boy dipped low, climbing
through a black-and-white striped hula hoop that he held up for himself.
A dense fishnet tank top – nowhere near dense enough for the audience not to
see through it, though – shimmered in black and dark, dark purple, and balanced
precariously on LJ's ruffled hair was a black little top hat. The lipstick
wasn't dark enough to look unnatural, but the pout LJ displayed beneath heavily
painted eyes was enough to dehydrate a man with its drooling potential.
The customers were whistling, howling, clapping and shouting. They were more
enthusiastic even than they had been when T-Bag had dropped the jeans, Michael
thought, and LJ was just now ridding himself of the skirt. He grinned. He had
to agree with them.
LJ did something absolutely hypnotizing with the hoop and his midsection, and
Michael had to tear himself away from it. The music was loud, but not loud
enough to drown out the noise of the audience. LJ was a brilliant stripper,
that was all there was to it.
***** Back in black *****
For all the practice he'd seen them do, LJ decided nothing compared to the real
thing when it came to the Black Trio. Watching three very aggressive males
undressing each other and almost groping each other on stage did very
interesting things to LJ's already active imagination, and he certainly
understood why customers would pay to see it.
Hell, if he hadn't been getting the show for free, he'd have paid what little
money they had left to see it.
Abruzzi held Sucre in a firm grip, snarling into the other man's neck. Lincoln
ripped his trousers off, and the show progressed, revealing more skin by the
minute. LJ licked dry lips and watched eagerly. The only reason he was not out
there making money like Michael and T-Bag (he'd seen them dance on tables and
in front of smaller groups; he supposed they were getting paid), was the
promise he'd made to his father.
He really felt curious as to what the other guys would be doing. Kissing each
other? Giving the customers private peep shows? Making out with the customers?
He heaved a frustrated sigh as the show on stage ended. He was stuck here for
hours, with no opportunity to have fun. He sat down on a nearby stool, deciding
to try and make at least one of the other guys hang around for a few minutes.
                                      ***
“Hey babe, I'd like to see that again – with him. How about it? Ten bucks?”
Michael smiled sweetly at the loud woman waving a bill at him. He and T-Bag had
kissed once when none of the customers seemed to display the same imagination
as the last group had; after waiting for fifteen minutes with only two requests
for a private dance, he had pretended to talk to the bar man, then kissed T-Bag
soundly. After that, the requests had quickly multiplied.
He nodded at the loud woman, giving her a wink. Then he grabbed Sucre's hand
and led him over to the table. “Sure. We'll do most anything you want. Right,
Rico?”
They had re-assumed the fake names from their first show. Sucre was blushing,
but smiled as he nodded. “Anything.”
The loud woman and her friends – both male and female – cheered. Michael turned
to Sucre and slipped a hand around the back of his neck, pulling their faces
slowly together. When their lips met, Michael found none of the previous
resistance – Sucre's lips opened softly underneath his, inviting him in.
Slipping his tongue in to tangle with the Puerto Rican's, Michael made a purr
deep in his throat and angled his head, deepening the kiss. There were
appreciative whistles as Sucre responded in kind and slipped his hands around
Michael's back, pulling him closer.
The kiss was slowly broken off with light nips on Michael's part, descending
from his former cellie's lips to the man's collar bone. Then the loud woman
saucily slipped the ten dollar bill into Sucre's trouser lining, and the two
men broke apart, both smiling slightly at the other.
“Feel free to call us again,” Michael grinned, then sauntered off towards the
bar. Sucre followed, a slight blush returning to his face.
“I shouldn't have enjoyed that as much as I did, should I?” Sucre said
ruefully, looking sheepish.
“It's just a mouth, Fernando,” Michael repeated, still smiling. “And it was
just a kiss for money. I can't help it if I'm a good kisser, now, can I?”
Sucre laughed. “Conceited.”
“Yeah, I guess I am. So who should we flaunt ourselves at next?” he grinned.
“Abruzzi!”
“What? I thought you wanted no part in that whatsoever, especially with -”
“No, papi, look at Abruzzi!”
Michael looked where Sucre was staring. And there, in the middle of the floor,
stood Abruzzi, one arm wrapped around a busty blonde woman and tongue way down
her throat.
Michael stared. He knew most of the guys were prepared to work for their money,
but there was something so very... desperate about the way Abruzzi was kissing
that woman. Like he was trying to suck something out of her, something that he
needed.
“He looks like he's using his tongue to dig his heterosexuality back out of
her,” Sucre said, then laughed. Michael grinned at the darker man, but couldn't
help but feel for the mobster.
Him and T-Bag both. Poor bastards.
                                      ***
Lincoln was laughing out loud, slopping beer over the bar as he reached for his
new bottle and missed it by an inch or two. He had no idea striptease and
alcohol were such a perfect match; not when he was the one doing the stripping!
The woman sitting next to him was batting her eyelashes and making less than
subtle hints that she wanted him to leave with her. He was less than interested
in spending the night at her place, but only because that would mean missing
out on more of the cash.
“Sorry, hon,” he slurred, grinning at her. “I've got lots of money to make.
Promised the other guys I wouldn't split on 'em.”
“Well... How about just a quick one, then?” she said, her voice almost as
enticing as her low neckline. “I'd be willing to compensate for your time. How
about a hundred?”
“You think I'm that cheap?” Lincoln said, then, before she had the time to look
offended, added, “You're right. I am. Which way to the back ally exit?”
The woman smiled at him, rising from her chair. He followed her, grinning. He'd
almost forgotten what a woman felt like.
                                      ***
Abruzzi was getting desperate. He had kissed countless customers, all of them
women, and had even allowed one – a very, very kinky one – to give him a blow
job. She had paid him to give him a blow job. He shook his head. So many crazy
people in one place.
But the problem was, despite his tongue getting intimately acquainted with the
mouths of half the female clientèle, and his cock with the mouth of one of
them, he still tasted T-Bag on every one of them. He was about to call out T-
Bag's name when he came in that kinky woman's mouth.
Looking around frantically, as if imagining he could find a cure for his T-Bag
addiction in the dingy strip joint, his eyes met T-Bag's, and he looked away
quickly. Damn the man!
“Hey, Gus.” One of the customers paying him to kiss her earlier, was looking at
him with an evil grin. “I've got a suggestion for you. I'll give you five bucks
to kiss another one of the guys. Interested?”
“Sure,” he said, looking hopefully for Fish. That would at least be like
kissing a woman; those lips were enough to set him thinking of his prom date.
“Fab. Call him over.”
Abruzzi's heart sank, and he couldn't contain a groan. “No. Not him.”
“Why not? You don't like him?” the woman said, looking suspicious.
“Yeah, uh, I do, just... I don't think he'd want to,” Abruzzi lied quickly,
desperately. Why was he afraid of even kissing the man? It wasn't like he
hadn't done worse!
“Sure he does; I saw him kissing that school boy and it was hot as all hell.
He'd love to. What's his name?” she persisted.
Abruzzi heaved a sigh of defeat. “Dean! Get your ass over here!”
                                      ***
“I don't think so, pal.”
The man silently slid another hundred-dollar bill across the desk. Lincoln
looked at them, torn, but the man was staring at Michael, and didn't seem to
even notice Lincoln's dismissal.
LJ. The man had wanted LJ. Not for himself, but for Michael. He wanted to see
the two of them together; only watch. Filthy perv! But for two hundred
dollars...
“Of course,” Michael smiled, getting to his feet. “Lincoln, I'll take care of
this. I think your attentions are wanted over by the stage. Just follow me,
sir.” The last part was directed at the silent man at the bar.
Lincoln had been watching him suspiciously through the evening. He hadn't
removed his hat or gloves, despite the warmth. And he had been drinking nothing
but a few glasses of red wine all evening. He appeared to be in his late
forties, maybe early fifties, and he appeared very very straight. Lincoln had
been wondering what a man like that was doing at a male strip show.
The man silently followed Michael, not saying a word. Lincoln watched them
disappear, then turned back to the crowd. He knew Michael would at least have
the sense not to bring the guy into the backstage area, but did LJ have the
sense to go back there after he finished with Michael?
Lincoln swore and took another sip of beer. Why did his whole family have to
turn out to be sluts?
                                      ***
Sucre smiled to himself. He had successfully avoided women all night; kissing
only the other guys and only giving head once – to Lincoln.
He couldn't explain why, but it all felt like less of a betrayal to Maricruz
that way. He wasn't interested in men at all, really; it was just money and he
was doing it for her anyway. So as long as he didn't actually touch other
women, he felt justified in sacrificing what little dignity he had left. By
this time tomorrow, they would be well on their way to the money; and soon
enough, he could settle down with the mother of his child and never kiss a man
again.
Cheered by this heartening thought, he accepted another bill for a private lap
dance. He had no idea he could actually do that, but hey – what hadn't he
discovered about himself in the past months?
                                      ***
“The ladies are requesting a kiss, Dean.”
“Well, then we must oblige, Gus.”
Abruzzi closed his eyes, trying to ward off the surge of heat that sprung
through him as his and T-Bag's bare chests were pressed together, but when he
opened his mouth, the taste of T-Bag was there again and he couldn't help it.
Crushing the smaller man to him with a vengeance, Abruzzi shoved his tongue
into T-Bag's mouth, growling.
He didn't hear T-Bag whimper in reply, and he didn't even know that he was
pushing against the Alabamian until they were pressed against the wall,
straining against each other.
“Easy, boys,” the customer laughed, “you'll make a hole through there. Here's
five each. I think I need a drink!”
And then she left them standing there, pressed against each other, panting.
“John,” T-Bag began, but Abruzzi gave a pained growl and tore away from him. T-
Bag could see his retreating back heading for the backstage area, then heard
the door slam.
When the next customer came along, asking him to kiss Sink, he couldn't deny
that he did so less than eagerly.
***** Interlude: Too old to play with dolls *****
Chapter Summary
     Or, what Michael and LJ were doing with the creepy customer in the
     back room.
“Are you sure, LJ?” Michael whispered, pretending to kiss LJ's ear. “He wants
to watch the full show.”
“Of course I'm sure,” LJ breathed. He tipped his head back, giving Michael
easier access to the tender skin just below his ear. “But aren't college boys a
bit too old to play with dolls?”
Michael smirked against LJ's skin. “You wouldn't say that if you knew how I
´play` with dolls...”
LJ gave an appreciative hum and decided to tackle the issue of clothing rather
fast.
“Take off the top and shorts,” Michael instructed softly, backing LJ against
the small table standing in the corner of the room. “But leave the skirt and
garters.”
“Ooh, kinky,” LJ muttered, grinning. Michael was naked by the time he'd bent LJ
backwards over the table, kissing the pale skin of LJ's chest and toying gently
with his nipples, and then LJ somehow lost both his top and - Oh yes, those are
definitely my shorts flying off.
Michael was kissing his way down LJ's body. “We don't have any lube,” he
muttered into LJ's skin, “so you'll have to trust me on this one.”
LJ braced himself, waiting for dry fingers to penetrate him, but instead found
himself quickly turned around so that he was standing on the floor, bending
forwards until his chest was pressed against the table and his ass was jutting
into the air.
He couldn't stop himself from crying out in surprise when he felt hot wetness
on his skin, drawing nearer to his opening. Michael's tongue was laving a
playful path across his ass cheeks, the small of his back, then down again,
slowing and –
“Hnngh! M – mmm, Tom,” LJ moaned, barely finding the presence of mind to
remember Michael's fake name. How could he find it, when Michael's tongue was
pressing insistently into him, coating, flicking, pushing and... and...
LJ gave a whining sound of pleasure and protest alike as Michael slowly began
withdrawing that wonderfully wet digit, replacing it with his fingers for a
moment before removing those, too.
“Relax, okay?” the older man purred softly, stroking sure hands down the boy's
sides. LJ moaned prettily and complied, feeling Michael's erection pressing
against his opening.
He didn't even think twice of the man watching them from a spindle chair in the
opposite corner; Michael was so hot and hard against him, and he was so turned
on, he didn't even care that a complete stranger was watching him being bent
over the table.
“Hard?” LJ begged, feeling Michael slip inside him, stretching and filling him.
“You're just like this guy I know,” Michael laughed softly in his ear. “You
just can't get it hard enough.”
“T... Dean, eh?” LJ moaned, trying not to falter as Michael pressed hard
against his prostate.
“The very same,” Michael groaned, so softly LJ could barely hear him. Then
Michael, too, decided words were overrated and began sliding in and out of the
compliant body beneath him, feeling the straps of the garter belt rub against
the skin of his thighs.
“Harder,” LJ commanded, bucking back against Michael. “Oh God yes, fuck me!”
“Mm, Robbie, you talk so dirty,” Michael said, loudly enough for their
spectator to hear it. “Go on. Tell me what you want me to do to you.” The man
said he wanted talking.
“I want you to fuck me hard, Tom,” LJ panted, the role play turning him on more
than he thought was healthy. “God, I want you to – to ram into me... oh, fuck,
yes... until you come. And then... and then I -” He had to whimper as Michael
reached around to fist him gently.
“Then I want you to pull out, and come on my skin,” he panted, smirking at the
table top as Michael twitched against him. “Mark me with your come.”
“Fuck!” Michael groaned, his thrusts gaining in strength and speed. “Robbie,
just fuck!”
LJ had to grip the edge of the table with both hands; Michael thrust hard
upwards, making LJ rise to his toes with each move.
“More,” he gasped, clenching around Michael.
Michael was moaning, panting, then quickly pulled out, hurriedly stroking
himself as he felt his orgasm nearing. Breathing LJ's name, he came, spending
himself on the pale skin of LJ's ass. LJ whimpered when he felt the hot liquid
hit his skin, pressing back against Michael.
“You're so beautiful like this, Robbie,” Michael groaned, coming down fast from
his high. “Bent over the table, still half dressed, my come glistening on your
skin...” LJ gave a strangled mewl and Michael bent over him, whispering in his
ear. “None of the others would approve of it. Your father wouldn't want to see
you like this, would he? Not unless he was the one... fucking you.”
LJ was about to beg for mercy when the older man turned him around, pushing him
further onto the table, and then bent down to take his cock between full, red
lips.
“Tom,” LJ whined, “please!”
“Mmm,” Michael purred around him, sending obscenely delicious vibrations all
the way through LJ. Then Michael lifted a hand to firmly massage his balls, and
he screamed as he came, legs twitching beneath the crimson straps.
Michael swallowed. College boys were certainly not too old, LJ thought.
***** Retreat! *****
“Great work, guys!” Michael exclaimed, having finally put their money into
manageable wads and storing these in Lincoln's inner pockets. “We did it; we
even made more money than last time!
“Now, first thing tomorrow, we're buying a car. So say goodbye to this life,
because this is the last night you're spending peacefully for a while. Starting
tomorrow, we've got a mission to accomplish.”
Lincoln was looking worriedly at LJ, who looked utterly and completely shagged.
His hair was even more messy, his make-up was a disaster and his cheeks were
flushed. And, of course, he was smiling as if he'd just been fucked six ways
from Sunday.
C-Note and Sucre were both looking excited, eager and happy. Michael smiled at
them, and they smiled back, all thoughts of shame and dignity ignored for the
time being.
Abruzzi was looking decidedly blank. T-Bag was obviously sulking, but not like
he had some days ago – like a child deprived of his sweets. Now, he was sulking
like he had just been denied the one thing he really, really wanted.
Michael ignored the M'n'M pair for the time being; they would have to sort
things out between themselves. Hefting his backpack onto his shoulder, he led
the way out of the building, heading back for their tents. Likely the last
night of the stasis they had all been living in for months.
And hopefully the last night he'd have to listen to Abruzzi rape T-Bag's mouth,
and then to the murderer jerk off outside someone's tent afterwards. Fuck it,
but he was sick of their stupidity where relationships and feelings were
concerned.
                                      ***
“Dad, what're you going to do about Veronica?”
“I don't know, LJ. Did she say when she was coming back?”
“Nah, just that she was going to wait things out. ... We could go find her?”
“We could...”
“You don't want to, do you.”
“It's not that simple, LJ. I loved Veronica. But I don't know if I still do.
... Do you think I should go to her?”
“Well, it would complicate things. Maybe we should just get the money and then
think it over later?”
“Good idea, you two. Now shut up and sleep.”
“Yes, Father Michael.”
“Teach your son better manners, Lincoln.”
“Yeah, let's spank him until he learns.”
“Dad!”
“Lincoln...”
“I know. Kinda irresistible in that make-up, isn't he?”
“Mmm-hm. You know, I really think he needs a spanking.”
“Guys... Guys, don't – oh. Oh, okay, just... just go ahead.”
“Thought you'd say as much.”
                                      ***
“Naming my son.”
“Taking DeeDee to the park and buying her ice cream.”
“Kissing Maricruz's forehead before she wakes up in the morning.”
“My wife's lousy cooking.”
“Quiet at night, with no ass rodeos.”
Both men laughed. They were lying on their backs, in their respective sleeping
bags; both unable to sleep and both talking eagerly of all the things they were
going to do when things got right again.
“Hey, man, I'm glad you were here for this thing,” C-Note said suddenly. “I
don't think I would have done too good with only the... the other guys.”
“Same here,” Sucre said, smiling in the dark. “We understand each other,
right?”
C-Note gave his shoulder a friendly pat. “We do. So what are you going to call
your kid?”
“Don't know yet. Maybe Maria, if it's a girl. Or José. Or...”
***** Interlude: Bad boys must be punished! *****
“LJ, you said just to go ahead,” Lincoln said, low voice brimming with
laughter.
LJ blushed beet red. “I know, but...”
“Michael's told me how much you enjoyed it,” Lincoln purred, “and I know it's
good. Just let me show you.”
“Or you'll get another spanking,” Michael added, nipping playfully at the red
skin of LJ's ass. Michael would never have guessed that LJ and Lincoln would
both be so into spanking.
“But it's... embarrassing,” LJ gasped, pressing his face into the pillow and
almost subconsciously thrusting his ass into the air.
“It shouldn't be, you've got the prettiest ass I've ever seen,” Lincoln
smirked, moving behind his son. “With perhaps the exception of yours and
Michael's asses together...”
LJ laughed; a sound that quickly transformed into a desperate groan as he felt
Lincoln's tongue caress the sensitive skin of his opening. “Holy fuck, dad!”
“Foul mouth, LJ,” Michael chided, slapping his hip gently. Lincoln thrust his
tongue in and the boy arched his back, moaning. God, that felt so good!
“Enough play,” Lincoln panted, eventually tearing himself away from the
writhing body before him. “You've been a bad boy, haven't you, LJ?”
“If you two don't get on with it, I'm going to go jerk off by myself,” LJ
whimpered, turning around to lie on his back.
“So much for trying to engage in some interesting foreplay,” Michael laughed,
moving in to stand on all fours over LJ. “Sucre replay, Linc?”
Lincoln growled in agreement and moved in behind his younger brother. LJ was
about to ask what a 'Sucre replay' was when Michael took him swiftly into his
mouth, purring around him. Before he could scream in pleasure, Lincoln had
moved in behind Michael, holding the younger man's hips steady with one hand.
“Watch him as he's fucked, LJ,” Lincoln groaned, head canting slowly back as he
pushed into Michael. “Watch his face as he comes around me. Watch his face as
you come in his mouth.”
LJ and Michael whimpered in stereo as Lincoln began pounding into the man on
his hands and knees, pushing him against LJ for each thrust. The pleasure of
Michael's lips tight around his cock was magnified tenfold by the sounds his
uncle was making; the feeling of delicate hands on his skin made even more
delicious by the sight of Lincoln's grimace of concentration.
“Fuuuck,” LJ keened, hands fisting in Michael's hair. Michael was swallowing
him whole, and he could feel the older man's throat muscle work around him.
“Linc,” Michael whimpered, momentarily releasing LJ. “Don't! I can't; I'm going
to... gonna... uhhn!” An almost pained moan flew from him as Lincoln thrust
hard into him, tearing his orgasm from him with a caressing tug on his
erection.
One hand stroking Michael through his orgasm, Lincoln bit his lip hard to hold
back as he felt Michael clench around him. So incredibly tight and then Michael
sagged, almost dropping over LJ, mouth still feverishly working the boy.
“Oh, God, Michael,” Lincoln groaned, “finish him! I can't hold on much longer!”
“Fuck, dad, just finish it!” LJ stuttered, shivering beneath the scorching
rosebud surrounding his erection.
That was it for Lincoln; clawing desperately at Michael's hips, he came inside
the younger man with a growl of pleasure. LJ once more whimpered in need at the
sight of the two older men; the stimulation was too much. No sooner had Lincoln
spent himself than Michael withdrew from LJ, leaving the boy shivering in need
and gasping for breath.
“Oh, come on,” LJ whined, “don't stop now!”
“Lincoln,” Michael panted, “help me out.”
Lincoln and Michael both moved forward, leaning down until their mouths were
both at LJ's groin. Then slowly, with a smirk like the devil incarnate, Michael
curled a hand around Lincoln's neck and pulled his brother's head to his own.
Then their lips met – around LJ.
“God, holy God, oh fuck!” LJ cried, stuffing his knuckles into his mouth to
stifle his voice. Their lips were sliding and sucking and nipping gently all
along him, their tongues teasing around his flesh. They were making out like
judgement day was at hand, and he was caught right in it – in a figure of
speech.
“Such a foul mouth, LJ,” Lincoln murmured appreciatively, then slowly fastened
his lips around the tip of LJ's cock. Michael soon let his own ditto slide
along the shaft, and LJ bucked against them as his skin seared with heat. He
was so close; so close and Michael was nibbling with his lips and then Lincoln
tongued the slit right at the end.
“Fuck!” LJ cried out, feeling his orgasm crash down around him. He could feel
Lincoln suck hard, milking him of every drop, and his body shuddered in
aftershocks while the two men led him slowly down from his high.
“Da-aad,” he panted, “uncle Mike, shit! You guys are...”
“The loves of your life?” Michael grinned.
“Fucked up ass holes?” Lincoln supplied.
“The lay of a century?” Michael pondered.
“The most kinky pervs this century!” Lincoln declared.
LJ sighed, almost blushing but not quite sparing his blood the required energy
to travel to that part of his body. “Sick fucks.”
“Yeah,” Michael agreed, slowly kissing his way wetly up LJ's torso. “It's good
to see you've inherited at least some of your father's characteristics.”
***** When did he get so angsty? *****
John Abruzzi was lying on his side, facing the tent wall, thinking hard. He
knew his mind was working furiously because he wasn't even thinking about sex,
something which had become something he did for at least sixteen hours every
day.
He wasn't thinking about sex, but he was thinking about T-Bag and women. And
his wife, his children and his identity. The latter, he found, was quickly
deteriorating into something quite unrecognisable; he could hardly connect
himself with the man who had once escaped from Fox River and desired revenge
more than anything. When he thought about it, it occurred to him that he hadn't
even contemplated Fibonacci for weeks and weeks.
He didn't want revenge any more; he didn't care what happened to Fibonacci. He
was only worried about one thing: the moment when they were standing around a
dug hole in the ground with five million dollars at their feet.
Because then he would have to decide. Then he'd have to choose between two
incompatible desires, and whichever he chose, he knew something would be lost
forever. And he didn't want to lose any of it.
At that moment, he knew he would have to choose between his past and his
present. Between his family and a murderer.
Between his wife and Theodore Bagwell.
He hoped the other man could be... convinced. He was quite sure he could, but
still, there was the risk that the other man had meant what he'd said on the
night of their first show – about going off to separate countries and go about
their business as usual. Either way, Theodore was a choice.
On the other hand, there was his wife and children. Unlike Sucre, Abruzzi had
called his wife, and learned that she had gone to Sicily with the children. She
had told him that revenge should never come between a man and his family, but
that she was prepared to give him another chance, if he proved himself to her.
John Abruzzi could recognize an opening, and that was certainly a door wide
open to his old life.
Two months ago, Abruzzi would simply have snorted at the idea of having to make
a choice at all, packed his cash and hopped on the first plane to Sicily. He
could set himself up there and resume his life with the woman he used to love,
and his son and daughter. Perfect.
However, John Abruzzi didn't desire perfection any longer; not that strongly.
He found himself also craving, so badly that he could not tell what he wanted
more, the continued anomaly of a murderer by his side; a tamed monster that was
well and truly his.
He knew if he did not stay with T-Bag, he would miss the sex. He would miss the
cruel humour. He would miss the lilting tune of the other man's accent and he
would miss the lack of criticism for his former deeds. But most of all, he
would miss the sense of... companionship, perhaps. Or understanding. Their
mutual weakness and their absurd compatibility.
And this worried him. It kept him from sleeping and it killed his lust for the
other man, because he could not understand why he could not just leave
Theodore, tell him to fuck off and to stay away from children.
He could not for the life of him understand when he had developed feelings for
the other man. He wasn't even gay, he thought; he'd never been attracted to men
before. Though he had to admit Fish was a pretty looking man, and that the
Burrows kid was decidedly attractive in his naivety. But it was no longer
possible to deny it to himself; he was... well, not in love; he would never use
that phrase to describe anything to do with T-Bag. But he was deeply obsessed
with him. Needing him.
And on the other side of that madness, John could see his wife. His children;
his own flesh and blood. And while he missed them and loved them, he just could
not bear the thought of giving up his obsession so easily. Not when he needed
the Alabamian so badly.
Not when the other man made him feel things even his wife had never made him
feel.
“John.”
Oh, great, Theodore was awake. And no doubt intending to intrude upon his
little reverie.
“Not now,” Abruzzi growled, closing his eyes briefly. He couldn't even hear the
shorter man say his name without longing to press their bodies harshly
together, but he couldn't.
What if the murderer had never intended for this to actually last beyond the
money? What if, should John even suggest they move on together, he would laugh
and make some sarcastic remark about hypocrisy and sexual orientation? Not only
would John then have blown his chances with both his wife (who expected him to
come back immediately; she insisted he had no business running after the five
million) and Theodore, but he also feared that this was one rejection he simply
could not take.
“I ain't gonna letcha sleep,” Theodore insisted, “'till ya stop bitchin' about
and tell me straight. What's goin' on?”
When had it happened? When had their relationship changed from simple insults
and sex (although the sex had been spectacular even then) to something as
complicated and dangerous as emotion? And what was John Abruzzi going to do if
he found out it was not reciprocated?
“For fuck's sake, John,” Theodore insisted, and John could have sworn – or
maybe just hoped – that he heard a little uncertainty in the Alabamian lilt.
“What's it to you if something's bothering me, bitch?” Abruzzi snarled, trying
to keep himself from turning over and kissing the other man. This wasn't him;
John Abruzzi just didn't feel things like this for other men!
“It ain't necessarily anythin',” Theodore retorted, voice smooth but cold as a
tomb. “Just wonderin' whether you were woryin' 'bout the same as me.”
John gave a snort. “And why would I be thinking about how best to lure the
Burrows kid away from the raging rhino?” he said, trying to keep his voice
rough and disinterested.
Theodore sat up angrily. “I won't take this shit no more, John. I don't know
what your problem is, but I ain't puttin' up with it.”
“Maybe you're my problem, T-Bag,” John snarled, trying to let his frustration
out with the old insults. “Filthy rapist.”
Theodore stared at him for a while, face expressionless. Then he crawled out of
his sleeping bag and resolutely turned his back on John, sitting down to stare
at the tent fabric. “Liar.”
John Abruzzi looked wildly about him, as if for a way out, but found he just
couldn't ignore this any longer. He needed to know, needed to be sure, because
if Theodore Bagwell never had been his, then he needed to get himself away from
the man, and quickly.
If there was only the slightest chance that the other man was still his – then
he had to take that chance, regardless of anything else. He couldn't control
himself any longer.
“Why do you care what I call you?” John demanded, testing the grounds. “Since
when did it matter to you whether I called you bitch or Bagwell? Or Theodore?”
He distinctly heard Theodore snort derisively. “Since when did ya stop fuckin'
me, John? Since ya made that first call to your wife?”
“Don't,” John began, but stopped himself. “Just answer the question, Theodore.”
“I may not have a college graduation, John, but I ain't stupid,” the murderer
said, still facing away. He sounded disappointed, not sulky. “Somethin' ain't
right. You got all malignant once we started movin' for the next show, an' you
been callin' your wife. You're leavin', ain't ya?”
Busted. Somehow the murderer had hit him full in the face with the staggering
choice that John himself was forced to make.
“Not... I don't know,” John answered, amazing himself even at the change of
tone in his voice. He sounded almost pleading.
“What're ya waitin' for, then?” Theodore said with vehemence. “Go, get on a
plane, go find your family. More cash for us.”
Only due to the time he had spent with the man, could John recognize he didn't
mean a word of it.
“Now who's the liar. Do you really care about the cash, Theodore?” John said
sharply, feeling a stab of apprehension despite the fact that he knew the other
man wasn't being sincere.
“What's it to you?” Theodore said sarcastically, throwing John's words back at
him like a gauntlet. Then a smirk bloomed in his voice as he said, “Maybe I
need all that money to buy me a whore; a young one. Young an' pretty an' easy
to deal with.”
At that point, John shocked himself and T-Bag equally by grabbing the other man
by the shoulder and turning him around, glaring at him. “So this,” he hissed,
angry and oddly raw and confused, “is nothing to you? You'd rather have some
Mexican whore than... than...”
He would not even think about saying “me”. Glaring silently at Theodore, John
Abruzzi breathed heavily and waited for a response.
“No,” Theodore finally responded, looking just as confused as Abruzzi felt.
“But that'll have to do, won't it, since I won't have -”
Cutting off as abruptly as John had, Theodore Bagwell let himself slump,
defeated. John Abruzzi had him bitchified and he knew it; couldn't have done
anything about it if he'd wanted to. But the mobster would leave him; leave him
and go home to his wife. Had the roles been reversed; had John been the one
running after Theodore's pocket, he would have held him down and forced him to
stay. As it was, he could only feel angry with the taller man for leaving him,
as he knew he eventually would.
“And what is it you won't have?” John said, voice raspy. Theodore's eyes were
avoiding his, and the smaller man looked hurt and angry.
“Ya can't be that stupid,” Theodore snarled in exasperation. “Whose bitch have
I been playin' for the past month, John? I don't want ya to leave and ya know
it damn well.”
Abruzzi let go of Theodore as if burnt. His head was reeling. Why did he have
to feel such relief at that statement? Why couldn't he just shrug and ignore
it? And why, why did he want to kiss Theodore so badly?
“I don't... have to go,” Abruzzi admitted finally, hating the whole situation.
“I could stay.”
Theodore's eyes widened. He didn't say a word, only stared at the mobster,
incredulous, disbelieving.
“Fuck you, Teddy!” John exclaimed, the turmoil finally taking over. “I can't
even think about it! I want to stay, I want to go, but I can't... won't...”
Taking a deep breath, calming himself, he forced himself to meet Theodore's
eyes. “I want to stay. We could... fuck, I don't care, but I'm not going to
Sicily. I can't.”
When Theodore only continued to stare at him, John covered his eyes with a
hand. It was taking all the resolve he had left to force the next words from
his throat.
“How do you fuck me up this bad? I should be on my way already, but I can't
leave, because I can't leave you. Why, Theodore?” he demanded angrily, as if
the murderer would have the answer. “You've made me so fucking weak!”
Theodore didn't bother answering right away. Instead he moved slowly closer to
the other man. It was obvious he was highly uncomfortable with the whole
subject.
“You, uh... ain't the only one weak,” he offered, sounding so strange John had
to look at him. He looked so odd; like he was slowly being tortured while
spilling his secret. “I...”
No more was said. Neither man even wanted to express what was understood, and
both felt ashamed at the mere amount of feelings they had let spill in the
tent. But Abruzzi discarded all thoughts of ever seeing his wife again, because
he knew he needed the man sitting silently beside him in the tent. And T-Bag
did his best to forget everything that had happened up until then, because he
knew he didn't want any of it to get in the way.
When finally, some ten minutes of silence later, T-Bag leaned over and
frantically kissed Abruzzi, the taller man didn't even think to complain of the
previously unwanted intimacy. He returned the kiss, knowing he'd never feel
such a frightening mixture of compulsion and familiarity when he kissed his
wife.
***** Interlude: Such girls, such girls *****
When finally, some ten minutes of silence later, T-Bag leaned over and
frantically kissed Abruzzi, the taller man didn't even think to complain of the
previously unwanted intimacy. He returned the kiss, knowing he'd never feel
such a frightening mixture of compulsion and familiarity when he kissed his
wife.
“John,” Theodore whispered, sounding terrified. John couldn't think why. “Fuck
-”
John kissed him again, greedily drawing the shorter man's lower lip into his
own mouth. He wanted to fuck Theodore raw and stay inside him until he swore
he'd never fuck another man again.
“On your back,” he panted, rolling them both on the floor of the tent so that
Theodore ended up underneath him. “On your back this time, Theodore.”
The Alabamian gave a frightened moan, but let Abruzzi spread his legs and laid
down between them. They wore nothing but shorts in the hot night air, but there
was not enough skin; not to Abruzzi. He needed more, wanted everything Theodore
had to offer. Wanted to taste and feel every inch of him, everything he'd not
had before.
“Don't,” Theodore began in a tight voice as Abruzzi began stroking him through
his shorts, then removed them.
“Why not?” Abruzzi breathed, feeling control slip from his grasp. “Why not,
Theodore? What're you afraid of?”
“You, don't, I -” T-Bag began, but Abruzzi was working two of his fingers
inside him, and the murderer's mouth snapped shut.
“You're scared, Theodore,” John panted, doing his best not to withdraw his
fingers and finally, finally, thrust home. “So scared. Why? What's scaring
you?”
“John,” Theodore whined, head thrashing from side to side as three of John's
fingers stilled inside him, pressing hard against his prostate. “God! Fuck,
John, I'm...”
His voice died in a scream of pleasure as John bit his neck hard and pressed
those fingers even further in. The mobster was groaning into the skin of his
neck, head spinning from the scent and sounds of Theodore Bagwell.
“You don't have to,” he hissed, adding another finger and thrusting more
slowly. “There's nothing to be scared of. I won't leave. Fuck it, Theodore, I
won't leave, I can't...”
Theodore crooned and writhed beneath the larger man, fingers twining in
Abruzzi's hair. “Fuck,” he panted, “fuck me, just... Christ, John, hard!”
“I will,” John said softly, pressing into Theodore's entire body. “I will fuck
you, every day, until you scream at me to fuck off and leave you alone.”
Then he pulled his fingers slowly out, pushed his shorts down his thighs, and
lined himself up with Theodore's opening. “Relax,” he said gruffly, pushing
slowly forwards.
Theodore tried relaxing, he really did; it was just... Why did this feel like
his first time? Why did he feel shy, and unsettled, and worried about pleasing
John?
“Too tight,” John groaned, burying his face in the smaller man's neck.
“Theodore, relax!”
“Can't,” Theodore whined, clenching around the other man and making him groan
again. “Too... just fuck me, John,” he panted, closing his eyes.
“Relax,” John demanded again, then stilled inside him before kissing him
deeply.
Theodore moaned and offered himself up to the kiss; Abruzzi's tongue was
stroking slowly over his and their lips were sliding slowly together. It felt
so right, and yet so wrong. Like something had changed between them, and he
didn't know if he liked it yet.
John drew out, then thrust back in, slowly. Tenderly. Theodore bit his lip and
lay unresponsive, merely clenched the sleeping bag underneath him in nervous
fists. The taller man moved slowly for a few thrusts, but stopped.
“Theodore,” he whispered, gasping for breath. “Stop it. Why... what's wrong?
Why now?”
“I... I don't know,” the Alabamian panted, then hesitantly lifted a hand to
John's neck, stroking slowly but uncertainly. “Could...”
But he forewent speaking in favour of gently biting the skin of the mobster's
throat, sucking at it, desperately forming a love bite with his teeth and
tongue.
“Look at me, Theodore,” John said, feeling the other man's lips leave his skin.
Holding the brown eyes with his own, John thrust again, slowly. “It's not like
you haven't been fucked thoroughly before,” he said, grinning tryingly.
Theodore gave a snort of laughter, but twitched just the same when John pushed
forwards again. “Just new to this, 's all.”
“Doesn't matter,” John said, feeling mortified. “I am too.”
A sharp intake of breath followed his statement when the Alabamian's eyes
slipped shut and his face screwed up in the most wonderful grimace of pleasure
John had ever seen. He thrust faster, wanting more, until Theodore was once
again moaning in pleasure and not fear.
“Fuck, John,” Theodore groaned, “ya gonna kill me like this!”
“Bullshit, Teddy,” John said, dipping his head to bite harshly at the other
man's throat.
Within moments they were rutting against each other, swearing and moaning
loudly. The awkward moments of tenderness burned away in aggressive passion,
both men fuelling the fire in search of what they knew rather than what they
had had to face.
And when Theodore came, back arched and saying the other man's name in a
whimpering moan, he was once again John Abruzzi's bitch, and loving every
second of it.
John came shortly after, driven to a frenzy with Theodore's nails clawing at
his back.
***** The End? *****
“Michael, I seriously think I'm going to be sick. I mean it; I'm going to lose
my breakfast.”
“Don't be such a baby, Lincoln. I think it's... charming.”
“No, it's not! You and LJ are cute. You and Sucre are hot. Me and LJ are...
Whatever; they're Abruzzi and T-Bag! They're not supposed to... They look like
a pair of fucking honeymooners!”
“Oh, come on, dad; don't you think it's just a little bit romantic?”
“No! Disgusting! They're not romantic; they're... they're raping each other
half the time, and throwing insults the other half! And two men are not
supposed to kiss each other like that!”
“We do,” Michael reminded him.
“That's different; we... uh, we're kind of -”
“Yeah, yeah, we all love each other and care about each other,” LJ grinned.
“But isn't it kind of obvious they do too? In their own, um, physical way?”
Lincoln remained silent. He didn't really want to connect the pair with love of
any kind, not when they'd done nothing but... But what, exactly? Fucking
everything that moved for the past two months?
“I think you should be happy for them,” Michael said, smirking evilly. “I don't
think many men would have made Abruzzi decide not to go back to his wife. It
must be true love!”
LJ laughed. Lincoln screwed his face up in a grimace of disbelief, but had to
admit – to himself, at least – that the two men seemed oddly changed. It wasn't
like they were skipping along holding hands, but their escapades of last night
had been just as loud as anyone else's – only, they lasted longer and sounded
more like a bad soap opera.
Michael insisted it was cute that the two men were so obviously in love with
each other. LJ was slightly disappointed in his loss of entertainment, but
apparently found Michael and Lincoln far better substitutes.
Lincoln didn't really want to see them kiss each other like teenagers on a
first date one more time. He found it disturbing.
C-Note and Sucre were demonstratively avoiding both the M'n'M pair and the
Burrows/Scofield family. The two men with intentions to go find their families
had likely heard just as much as the rest of the camp during the night, and
Lincoln had to admit that listening to sex taking place in the next tents was
less than relaxing. And neither Sucre nor C-Note were particularly
understanding when it came to their night-time activities.
“Okay, we're here,” Michael announced. “Now you wait here. I'll go get a car,
then come back here. Someone watch my backpack, okay?”
“Remember to get one with air conditioning!” Sucre called after him, grinning.
With their budget, they'd be lucky to get one with five seats and room for the
remaining two in the back.
                                      ***
“This is it, papi,” Sucre said, shifting nervously from foot to foot.
“This is it,” Michael smiled. Then, before Sucre had the time to protest, moved
forwards to catch the other man in a brief hug. “It's been... incredible.”
“Yeah,” Sucre smiled bashfully, “un-fucking-believable. I'm... I'm glad we...
Thanks, papi.”
“It's been an honour,” Michael grinned, shaking his former cellie's hand. “Now
you go find Maricruz. Best of luck, and invite us 'round sometime!”
“For the baptism,” Sucre promised, then quickly shook hands with all the other
guys. Hefting his backpack onto his shoulder, he smiled broadly at them and
left quickly, waving with one last smile before disappearing around the corner.
C-Note, Abruzzi, T-Bag, Michael, Lincoln and LJ were left standing in a narrow
alleyway between two houses in the little Mexican town. The money weighed
heavily in each of their backpacks, and there was a strange air of finality
about it all.
“Well, I'm next,” C-Note said quickly, obviously eager to get away. He had been
for a few days. “You guys, uh, take care. And thanks for breaking me out of
prison, Fish!” Quickly going through his handshakes, he smiled and nodded at
them before disappearing in the opposite direction of Sucre.
LJ was grinning at Abruzzi, who was looking decidedly embarrassed.
“Thanks for all the... tutoring,” he said, winking at the two older men. “And
enjoy your honeymoon!”
Abruzzi gave a strangled sound of protest, but T-Bag chose that moment to
actually pinch the taller man's ass, so most of everyone's attention was
refocused to the amusing sight of Abruzzi blushing and scowling at T-Bag.
Everyone shook hands, wishing each other luck, and then T-Bag and Abruzzi
headed for one end of the alley while Michael, Lincoln and LJ headed for the
other.
“Bye, Pretty, Sink, LJ,” T-Bag drawled, licking his lips slowly. “And Pretty –
didn't I once tell ya I would have my way with ya? Hate to say I told ya so,
but...”
Even Abruzzi laughed as the pair rounded the corner and disappeared.
***** Epilogue I: Family men *****
“LJ, stop!”
“Don't wanna.”
“I mean it, LJ; if you don't stop that...”
“You'll do what, Michael?” Lincoln asked, slowly stroking himself.
“I'll... Oh, fuck you guys!” Michael exclaimed, drawing a hissing breath as
LJ's teeth gently grazed his big toe. The engineer was lying on his back, naked
and panting, with LJ crawling all over his body to discover the most sensitive
areas. Lincoln was watching them, equally naked and aroused, awaiting his turn.
“What; I can't help it if you've got a foot fetish, uncle Mike,” LJ purred,
tongue playing lasciviously between two of Michael's toes.
“I do not – stop it – have a foot fetish!” Michael insisted, moaning loudly
when LJ sucked the older man's pinkie into his mouth, nibbling gently and
sucking hard.
“Yeah, you do,” Lincoln grinned, enjoying the sight of his little brother
sprawled out and desperate like that.
“Fine!” Michael cried as LJ licked once, slowly, over his entire foot sole.
“Fine, I've got a foot fetish! Now stop fucking teasing me!”
LJ immediately complied and turned away from his uncle, moving quickly over to
his father instead. Michael gave a loud moan of disappointment, but Lincoln
growled appreciatively when LJ attacked his hips with a vengeance.
“It's his hip bones,” LJ murmured into Lincoln's skin. “I've already tried it.
He just loves... this.” And then he began to lavish the sensitive skin of
Lincoln's hips with open-mouthed kisses, harsh suction, insistent tonguing and
gentle nibbles.
“Hell yes, I do!” Lincoln groaned, placing both hands behind his head in order
to fully enjoy the eager attentions of the boy over him. “Most definitely!”
“Then shut up and enjoy,” LJ said, almost giggling, brushing his lips over the
older man's navel.
“No,” Michael said, too turned on to wait any longer. “Enough teasing. If
you've started something, LJ, it's impolite not to finish it.”
“I don't think he ever learned his lesson, Michael,” Lincoln grinned, sitting
up before moving with Michael to trap LJ between them. Hands entwined around
LJ, the two older men began to pet him slowly; stroking and kissing everything
within reach.
“No,” Michael agreed, sucking LJ's earlobe into his mouth before releasing it
slowly. “I think he needs another spanking.”
LJ tried not to whimper. Honestly, he did.
“You're such a naughty boy, LJ,” Lincoln growled, suddenly pulling the boy down
and over his lap. “You get off on this, don't you?”
“Not as much as you,” LJ laughed, but his laughter turned into a moan when
Lincoln's open palm hit his skin. Not too hard; there was a sting, but LJ
bucked in his lap and felt his erection slide against Lincoln's thigh with the
movement.
“Upstart,” Lincoln grinned, delivering another blow. LJ shivered.
“You even look pretty like this, LJ.” Slap. “Skin all red and flushed...” Slap.
“Writhing and moaning.”
LJ bit his lip hard and whimpered when another hand slid slowly over the
smarting skin of his ass, trying to push back against Michael's hand.
“Lie still,” Lincoln said with a smile in his voice, slapping again.
“Dad!” LJ cried, bucking against the older man's thighs. “Please!”
For every slap, every sting, he was rubbing himself against the muscular thighs
beneath him; rubbing against them and riding the surge of adrenaline following
the slight pain of the blows. Then several hands joined the first, and there
was no more spanking, only eager hands caressing and feeling his skin.
“Please what, LJ?” Lincoln said, voice deep and husky. Michael chuckled and
bent down to playfully bite the ridge of the boy's shoulder.
“I'm not even going to say it,” LJ groaned, arching into every touch. “Just do
it!”
“It? That really gives us a whole range of possibility, Michael,” Lincoln said.
“How about some new, interesting positions?” Michael suggested.
“Yes!” both LJ and Lincoln eagerly agreed.
“I saw this really interesting one in a Karma Sutra book once,” Michael
grinned, moving in to kiss both Lincoln and LJ. “But I think it included one
woman and two men. Do you think we could adjust it to fit us?”
Then he helped LJ get to his knees before moving to straddle the boy. “I think
Lincoln needs to be behind me for this.”
Exhaling steadily as he grasped LJ's erection in one hand, he lowered himself
onto it with barely a gasp. “Mm, there we go. First half accomplished.”
LJ's head was spinning. His ass was smarting from the contact with the blanket
underneath them, and Michael was skilfully clenching around him until he was
panting. The older man's body was so tight; so hot and so demanding. He moaned.
“Lincoln,” Michael said, voice brimming with mirth. “Now you.”
“Now me, what?” Lincoln repeated stupidly, mesmerized by the sight of the two
slim forms together.
“Come on; fuck me already!”
It took some time for that to register in Lincoln's already heated brain.
“What, now?”
Michael laughed, LJ groaned at the contractions around his cock.
“No, Lincoln, some time tomorrow. Yes, now!”
Hesitantly, Lincoln moved forwards until he was straddling LJ's legs right
behind Michael. Michael pushed on LJ's shoulders until the boy was flat on his
back and Michael was lying on top of him, presenting his ass to the older man.
“Michael, you...”
“Come on!” Michael said impatiently.
Panting and open-mouthed, Lincoln held himself steady with one hand before
pressing slowly against Michael. Feeling both the skin of his brother and son
against his cock, he could barely control himself.
“Fuck!” he moaned, sliding inside Michael. “Fuck, LJ, I can feel you in him!”
“Shut up, dad,” LJ whimpered, “or I'm gonna come right now!”
Michael was biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. Feeling two men inside
him; two cocks hotly pressing against his prostate; he just couldn't keep
himself together.
“God!” Michael moaned, feeling the two cocks inside him rock slowly in
counterpoint. LJ began thrusting ever so shallowly, and Lincoln soon joined in.
“Oh, God!”
“Uh huh,” Lincoln managed, sliding slowly forwards.
I can't do this! LJ was so close to coming; he was clawing on Michael's
shoulders just to hold on to sanity. He could feel the heat of both men;
Michael clenching around him and Lincoln fucking the beautiful man in tandem
with LJ. He was so close and he –
“Shit!” LJ whimpered, coming. He could feel the slickness spreading between
them; could feel it coat both him and Lincoln as they thrust faster in and out
of the divine tightness of Michael.
“Holy fuck,” Lincoln breathed. “Michael, God, I can... Oh God, I'm -”
But Michael was tensing, shuddering, heaving for breath; desperate for relief
from the pain-edged ecstasy he was soaring in, he tilted his hips until he
could rub himself against LJ's stomach with every rock of their joined hips.
“Yes, oh shit, yes, fuck!”
Michael came hard, crying out in an inarticulate scream of pleasure. Tensing,
twitching, burning.
Lincoln felt LJ slip from the hot opening of the man between them; felt the
body around him tense until he couldn't bear it. He had to hold on; just a
little bit longer...
“Fuck!” he swore when Michael grabbed his flank with one hand and tried pulling
him closer.
“Let go, damn it,” Michael groaned, canting his head back. “If you don't
fucking come right now, I swear to God, Linc! Fuck!”
What good were his defences against Michael's voice demanding that he come? No
matter his self control, he couldn't block out the tug on his cock as he pulled
back for another thrust, nor the symphony of whimpers and moans emanating from
the two bodies beneath his own.
“Mike! LJ!”
Wet heat flooded Michael's body. Satisfied growls and shuddering breaths
sounded loud in the night air. A shiver ran through all three men.
“God.”
“No, that should be Lincoln and Michael.”
“Really, uncle Mike; I knew you were conceited, but gods? I don't think so.”
“He's hurting my feelings, Mike.”
“Shut up, Lincoln; your grin is the world's biggest give-away. But he's being
rude. He really shouldn't get away with it.”
“Still no luck with the spanking, then.”
“No. I think we need a paddle.”
“Hey! No paddle, thank you very much, uncle Mike!”
“Just you wait, son.”
“Great. Now you've given him ideas.”
“Trust me,” Lincoln smirked, mouth going languorously to work on LJ's neck, “I
had those ideas in my head long before he even mentioned a paddle. My
imagination is very vivid.”
With both Lincoln and Michael kissing his neck gently, LJ could still feel a
cold shiver run down his back at the thought of Lincoln's ´vivid` imagination
and the results of it. “I am so utterly fucked, aren't I?”
“Most definitely,” Michael agreed sleepily. “Though not literally. Not yet.”
***** Epilogue II: Wedding Nights *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
“Theodore, what the hell are you doing?”
“Jus' tryin' to spice up the relationship a bit. Now c'mon, work with me.”
“I am not flexible enough for this!”
“Sure you are. You just bend your leg right here an' -”
“Fuck it, Theodore! I am not doing this tantra shit with you!”
“Actually, it's called kama sutra, an' it's supposed to be all philosophical
an' shit.”
“I don't give a flying fuck; can't you just bend over so we can get on with it?
With this rate none of us is going to come this century!”
“... Can't really argue with that, John Boy. There we go.”
“Good boy.”
                                      ***
“Do it.”
“John!”
“Theodore. Now do it.”
“I... I don't wanna do it; it's embarrassin'!”
“What the fuck, Theodore? You had no problem doing it in front of Fish and the
rest!”
“Tha's different,” the Alabamian stubbornly insisted. “This time I'd be...
serious.”
Abruzzi swallowed. If last time was just a joke, then he most definitely needed
to see it when it was serious!
“And if I told you I really, really wanted to see it?”
A slight pause, then, “Then I'd reconsider.”
“Then fucking do it, Theodore; I'll do whatever you want.”
“Whatever I want?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Put your costume on.”
“No way in hell.”
“Fine, then I ain't puttin' on mine.”
“God damn it, Theodore! Fine, fine, I'll put on the bloody costume!”
“Good. Now, mister Mafia, do ya want your show with or without the chair?”
“With. Hell yes, with the chair!”
                                      ***
John woke up to a stifling hot tent, covered in the scent of sex and T-Bag.
Judging by the light it was barely dawn; he couldn't figure why he'd woken up
so early. Looking around the small tent, he quickly registered Theodore was
gone.
“Theodore?”
No reply. Yawning, he rolled over, trying to go back to sleep. The fucker was
probably just out on Nature's business.
However, when Theodore didn't return, and he'd waited for fifteen minutes, he
got annoyed. Where the hell was he? Kicking his sleeping bag off of himself, he
got up and left the tent.
So there he is. What the fuck is he doing, swimming at this time of day?
“Theodore, get your ass back in the tent. It's got to be about five in the
morning!” he called, feeling grumpy about actually caring enough about the man
to leave his bed to look for him.
“Actually, it was six fifteen when I left,” the Alabamian called back, doing a
few more strokes before diving forward to disappear underneath the water's
surface.
“And you just had to go swimming at six fifteen in the morning?” John grumbled,
yawning again and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
“Water's better,” Theodore grinned, heading for the shore again. “Why don't ya
join me?”
John looked at the man paddling through the water, then shrugged and shed his
shorts. “I'm already up; don't see why not...”
Theodore wasted no time in making his way over to the mobster when the taller
man entered the water. “Good mornin'.”
“It's not morning, it's night,” John said, yawning again.
“Aw, don't be such a baby,” Theodore grinned, placing a playful kiss on the
taller man's throat. “It ain't that early.”
“It's cold,” John complained, insisting on making a point of the discomfort
they were subjecting themselves to.
“No, it ain't,” the murderer countered, moving closer to the other man. “See?
It's hot as all hell; 's why I came out here in the first place.”
And John had to silently admit that the situation had potential for heat.
“Well, you still dragged me out of bed at an ungodly hour,” the mobster
insisted, “so...”
“I dragged ya nowhere,” Theodore laughed, but he still pressed himself close to
the other man and nuzzled gently at his ear. “But I am willin' to make amends
for your trouble.”
Smirking and kissing the shorter man, John let one hand press them closer
together while the other cupped the back of Theodore's head. “Really.”
“Not in the water, though,” the Alabamian insisted, pressing against the taller
man and trying to walk him backwards to the shore of the lake.
“Why not?” the mobster demanded, dipping his head to kiss the other man soundly
on the lips. Their tongues duelled for a while, slippery and hot, and John
didn't even mind the other man's – or his own – morning breath.
“'Cause there are leeches,” Theodore laughed, rubbing against the other's
thigh. “An' while they don't bother ya if ya swim, they'll get real personal if
ya stay still for too long.”
“Fuck!” John swore and tore himself from the shorter man, heading for the shore
as fast as he could. “You're a fucking mood wrecker, Teddy!”
Theodore was laughing and swimming languorously toward the shore, following his
companion. “I ain't the mood wrecker, John Boi; the leeches are!”
John grumbled something about “stupid fucker” and “insane”, but Theodore didn't
mind. He was barely out of the water before he wrapped himself around John from
behind, nuzzling between the taller man's shoulder blades.
“C'mon, now, don't be such a prude,” he purred, before licking hotly at John's
skin.
“You're a piece of work, Teddy,” was the reply. “A real piece of work.”
“And you're a professional,” the murderer lilted, hands wrapping around the
taller man to find his erection. “You always interested this early?”
“No,” John said, trying to hold back a blush as he softly added, “only in you.”
“Then I'd better take advantage, don't ya think?” Theodore said coyly, slinking
around the other man to kiss him again.
A moan of agreement was all John Abruzzi could utter as their erections were
pressed together, sliding against each other.
“On your knees,” he finally managed, dipping his head briefly to nip at the
murderer's shoulder. Between several nips, kisses, touches and sounds of
appreciation, they manoeuvred themselves to the ground, hands groping and lips
demanding.
“This your favourite position, John Boi?” Theodore said, laughter in his voice.
He was on his hands and knees, presenting his back and ass to the taller man.
“For a good reason,” the taller man said, almost hesitant to reveal such a
thing. He stroked Theodore's cock twice, using both his companion's and his own
precome as lube when he started pressing two fingers into the other man.
“Oh?” was all the Alabamian could manage as two digits began spreading him
open.
“Yes,” John panted as he quickly shoved four fingers inside Theodore. “But I
want you to beg for it.”
“John,” Theodore whined, bucking back on the source of his pain-edged pleasure.
“C'mon, don't be such a tease!”
“Beg, bitch,” John smiled, removing his fingers to hastily replace them with
his cock. He needed Theodore and he needed him now.
“Please,” the smaller man begged, readily killing off his dignity for just a
little more of John Abruzzi. “Please, John, fuck!”
“You remember the first time I fucked you, Theodore?” he panted, pushing hard
inside the writhing body of Theodore Bagwell. “You remember being on your knees
like this in the prep room in that strip joint?”
“Yes,” Theodore keened, arching into John as the taller man leaned over him,
reaching around him to roughly fist his cock.
“Remember how I fucked you raw that night, Theodore?” he hissed. “Remember how
we got drunk on tequila and I did it again the next night? Remember how you
begged like a dog, how you became my bitch, just to have me fuck you like
this?”
“Oh, fuck, yes!” the Alabamian cried, shuddering in pleasure.
“I fucked you then, fucked you just like this,” John moaned, thrusting harder
into the man beneath him. “And I love it, Theodore; love fucking you and making
you beg.”
T-Bag whimpered and, screaming John's name, came in hot spurts over the taller
man's hand. “John!”
“Mm, mine,” John growled, stroking the other man through his orgasm. “I'm the
only one you'll bend over for, aren't I, Theodore? You'll come only for me, and
I'm the only one who can make you beg.”
“John,” T-Bag keened again, “too much!”
“Too much?” John smirked, letting his hips rock against the other man's. “Then
beg for me to come.”
“Fuck, John,” Theodore whimpered, letting his head fall forward. “Fuck me! I
want ya... Want ya to come; oh fuck, I -”
John Abruzzi surrendered and groaned loudly in the early morning air, pumping
hard into the man on his knees as he came, hot skin clenching around him. “God,
Theodore!”
“Mmm,” the murderer purred, feeling the taller man sink down over him. He laid
down on the ground, feeling every inch of John's skin against his. “Fuck.”
“Yeah,” the mobster agreed, panting. “You're such a bitch, Theodore.”
“Just ya wait until tonight, John Boi,” Theodore quipped, slightly out of
breath, “when I got my strength back.”
“What, you're going to fight me for it?”
“Now, ya know I would never do that, John. No, I was thinkin' of makin' you
scream like a bitch, too.”
“That won't happen, not in a million years,” John stated into the skin of
Theodore's shoulder before pressing a possessive kiss to that same spot.
“Just ya wait, 'Enry 'Iggins,” Theodore chortled. “I got some tricks up my
sleeve, still.”
John felt his mouth go dry. With Theodore, new tricks were never safe and
always in favour of both of them. And they always had Abruzzi growling for
more.
Chapter End Notes
     And so concludes the Striptease II series. If you still haven't had
     enough shameless man-porn, the third series/part of the cycle -
     written on request for the people at prisonbreakfic.net - is called
     The Pornish Adventures of Tabruzzi and it's uploaded here, too.
     Thanks!
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