Oh, The Places You'll Go

Hard Target

Notes: So my first Burn Notice fic. No spoilers. Set towards the end of S2. Written for Porn Battle IX - prompts: partner, friends

Light bondage, if that's not your thing.

Sometimes, no matter how tight your plan, something goes wrong, an infinitesimal misstep turns into an avalanche of disaster, and you find yourself naked, handcuffed to a cast iron headboard, slowly coming out of a drug-induced haze with a hard on the size of a P90 and your phone way over on the far side of the room. It's times like these when the only thing you can do is pray for a miracle.

Pray really, really hard.

Michael's not exactly out of it, but he's not exactly in, either, and he can't be sure if the soft, metallic clicks he can hear are from someone breaking in or some weird byproduct of the air con. The door is out of his line of sight and it would drive him crazy not knowing who's potentially coming through it, but most of his crazy is currently directed at his painfully aching erection that he can't touch.

He tugs at his handcuffs again, not sure if he wants to free himself to be on guard against the prospective intruder or if he's just going to fuck his fist as if his life depended on it--and it might. It's futile, though, and he flicks his attention back towards the door. It's definitely opening, he thinks, and catalogs his options. They're pretty limited, given his current state of bondage, and he even cut his toenails yesterday. He braces for impact.

"Well, hello there, little Mikey," says Sam, rounding the corner and leaning against the wall, mouth twitching as he tries not to smile. "And hello to your dick, too."

"Ha, ha," says Michael attempting his scariest shark grin. He closes his eyes briefly, giving thanks for a miracle in the shape of a deceptively smooth, middle-aged guy in a suit. He rattles his handcuffs and looks meaningfully at Sam.

"You appear to have found yourself in a tight spot," says Sam, not moving from where he stands. "Now, tell me. If you had been able to reach your cell, who would you have called first--Fee or me?"

"Sam," says Michael through gritted teeth. "Just fix it, will you?"

Sam's lips quirk in response, and he pushes himself off the wall, hands shoved in pockets.

"Sure," he says. "What are friends for?"

Michael expects Sam to make a brief recce of the room in search of the key. He expects Sam to use his particular skill set to unpick the lock with his kit when he turns up nothing but air. He expects Sam to toss him his clothes, whistling loudly while Michael takes care of himself in the bathroom and for them never to speak of this again.

It occurs to Michael, five seconds later, that after all his years as a spy he's still somehow managed to forget always to expect the unexpected.

Sam sits beside him on the bed, lays a hand over Michael's hot, hot dick, and says, "Just call me Mr. Fixit."

Michael's eyes fly wide open, and he's not sure if it's from the shock of Sam's offer or the light pressure of Sam's hand against him.

"Jesus, Sam!"

"Any port in a storm, right?"

"No! I can take care of it myself. Just get these damn cuffs off me."

Sam raises an eyebrow and takes his hand away. Michael, to what would be his eternal shame if he wasn't half-convinced this was all some drug-induced trip, bucks his hips up towards him, desperate for the pressure back. Fuck, they must have pumped him to the eyeballs with Viagra--he's undergone beatings, gunshot wounds, tooth extraction, electric shock, Madeline's cooking, many, many bad things, but this? This is possibly the worst torture ever.

Sam's grinning at him. He lifts his hand to his mouth, licks a long stripe along it and lays it back over Michael's dick. Michael shivers. He actually shivers. He kind of hates himself right now.

"Are you sure?" asks Sam. "No means no, I get that. But I got your back, buddy, trust me on this one. No man is an island. Sometimes your own hand is not the best guy for the job."

Michael looks at him, and Sam gazes back, frank and open, the smirk entirely gone. It's Sam. Sam, who's seen Michael at his best and his worst. Sam, who's proved himself over and over again. Sam, who would have died for Michael on that boat, would die for him again. Sure, on the surface he's a wisecracking flake who'd sell out his own mother for a lifetime supply of mojitos, but he's got a core of steel. Maybe he's not Michael's first choice for this exact situation--Fee smells better, for one thing--but he's running a pretty close second.

He screws up his mouth and nods.

Sam shakes his head. "Need to hear it loud and clear, Mike."

He has his best 'let's kill the bad guys' face on, and in that moment something else burns in Michael besides the screaming need for release. Maybe it's the drugs talking, but for once he's okay to own the fact that he loves this guy more than almost anyone in the whole world.

"Yes, Sam," he says. "You have my total, unconditional consent to give me a handjob. Now will you please before I stroke out."

Sam laughs--damn him--and takes off his jacket, rolling up the sleeves of his improbably crisp white shirt. He wraps his hand around Michael's dick. He must be warm--no one's ever cold in Miami--but Michael's so hot that Sam's fingers are cool against his skin and Michael bucks up again, sighing with relief.

"I could talk to you about the weather," says Sam. "If it'll make you more comfortable." He strokes up, letting his thumb crest the head of Michael's dick, and Michael nearly busts out of his handcuffs with the sheer, blinding pleasure of it.

"Sunny," he gasps. "It's always sunny."

"So that's an ixnay on the small talk. Gotcha."

Sam settles to it, then, and Michael can't tear his eyes away, watching his dick emerge from and retreat back into Sam's big fist. It's hotter than it has any right to be, and Michael has been so ready, so long, he can't believe he doesn't tip over the edge in seconds. He doesn't, though, and if he'd thought the twisting pressure gnarling him up inside couldn't get any stronger, he's about to find out how wrong he is.

His vision starts to blur around the edges and he closes his eyes and lets his head fall back on the pillow, colors kaleidoscoping behind his eyelids. Michael starts to hum, then, a tuneless drone that resonates inside his head, twining in and out of the colors, pulling him to the surface, pulling him closer and closer until he can smell it, the sharp scent of sex, and he's not the begging type but if this doesn't end soon the words are falling onto his tongue, one after the other, readying themselves for action.

"That's my boy, Mikey," says Sam, and his rhythm changes, stutters, then speeds, and Michael yells because it's impossible not to and he comes fast and hard and finally freed. Behind his eyes everything goes blank.

He's coming around for the second time in the last half hour, only this time it's to a wet cloth on his belly, a softening dick and a feeling of peace like he can barely remember having before.

"Think I got it all," says Sam, tossing the cloth in the trash and fishing a small, leather pouch out of his jacket pocket.

"Thanks, Sam,' says Michael, grateful he doesn't have to meet Sam's eyes as Sam leans over him, working on the handcuffs' locks. "That was...a relief."

"Gotta take care of your own," says Sam, body hovering close over Michael's head. Michael can smell him, hot skin, cologne and sweat, and it's strangely comforting.

"And no, I won't tell Fee," Sam adds. "Ah! Gotcha. One down, one to go."

"What happens in Miami?"


That's another one Michael owes Sam. They should probably start a running tally because who the hell knows who owes whom what these days? There's a click and then both Michael's wrists are free. He sits on the edge of the bed, rubbing the feeling back into his arms and almost fumbles the catch when Sam tosses his bundled clothes at him.

"Though I guess it wouldn't hurt if I was number one on your speed dial. Buddy."

Michael looks up to find Sam waving his cell at him and grinning. He can't help but grin back.

"Let me get dressed," he says, "Then I'll buy you a mojito and we can discuss it." He waits a beat. "Buddy."

"You know how to treat a guy right," says Sam, and Michael shakes his head in mock despair. He's hungry. He wonders if the bar serves blueberry yoghurt.

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