i cry myself to sleep thinking about how prison break basically doesn't have a fandom anymore.... guys please i know i can trust u tumblr !!!!! WATCH THE DAMN SHOWWWW
I’m gonna need another mahone fanfic asaaaaap….please lol
YESSS I am obsessed with writing for this man!!
Pairing: Mahone x Scofield! reader
Summary: You were the first to forgive Mahone, the first to treat him as if he wasn't some fuck up, and the first woman who had truly seen him since Pam. The only problem- your brothers hate his guts.
Warnings: Canon-typical language, M receiving oral, legal age gap, degradation, and Alex is very dom.
You couldn't pinpoint when it had started- when the man who once hunted your family became one of the only people you trusted. Maybe it was how he so effortlessly listened-really listened. He listened like you always had something valuable to say, no matter how stupid you thought it was.
You were also the first to forgive him and the first to treat him like he wasn’t a walking mistake. Then, somehow, in the mess of Scylla and running for your life, you realized you fell hard for the man you once hated.
Shame your brothers still wanted his head on a spike.
Yet, here you were, next to the man they despise. The room still warm from what had just happened—heat humming in the air, your heartbeat slowly settling, his breath still uneven against your shoulder. You lay beside Mahone on the cramped safehouse cot, the kind that wasn’t built for two people, which only made everything feel closer.
He stares at the ceiling for a long moment, breath steady but tense, like he was already regretting how badly he’d needed you.
You turn your head, “You’re thinking too loud.”
A low laugh slips out of him, tired and gravelly. Then he shifts, propping himself on his elbow so he could really look at you—eyes soft in a way he’d never let your brothers see.
“Every time I try to stay away,” he says quietly, thumb brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek, “I end up right back here—with you.”
The words hang between you, heavy with everything you weren’t supposed to want.
You swallow, “My brothers would have a stroke if they knew.”
Mahone’s mouth curves into the smallest, saddest smile,“Yeah...That’s the part that scares me least.”
You don't answer because right now lying beside him, skin still remembering his touch— you don't want to stay away.
"I just-", Alex starts talking but cuts himself off, seemingly embarrassed to speak so freely about his emotions.
You nudge his side with your elbow, "What is it?"
"I'm tired of being seen as some kind of monster", he admits, forcing a small chuckle out afterwards to lighten the weight of his words.
You stroke his cheek with your thumb, thinking of the right way to comfort a man who rarely ever opens up like this.
However, before you can open your mouth, two loud thuds erupt from the other side of the door, followed by Lincoln's biting tone, "Ya gonna sleep all day or what, Mahone?"
Alex sits up quickly, squinting to make sure his door is locked before huffing out a sigh and pressing a finger to your mouth, shushing you. He lets Lincoln's words sit for a few moments before replying, "Ya ya I'm coming", dismissively.
The answer seems to satisfy Lincoln: "Just get your ass out here", he grunts before stomping away.
Alex looks at you, a slight frown resting on his face, "Get out...I'll come down in a minute. Nobody will notice unless we make it obvious".
————-
A couple of minutes later, everyone crowds around the safehouse table, the air thick with stale coffee and anxiety. Don Self has maps and files spread everywhere, talking a mile a minute. Mahone slips into the seat across from you, composed, calm… maybe a little too calm considering what had transpired this morning.
You try not to look at him. You really do.
Sara comes in late, taking the open spot beside you. She doesn't even sit before giving you one long, sweeping look. Her mouth tugs up at the corner—subtle, amused, entirely too knowing.
“You’re awfully quiet today,” she whispers, just loud enough for you to hear over Self’s rambling.
You shoot her a glare that only makes her smile wider.
She nudges your arm lightly, “Relax. I’m not judging. Just… noticing.”
You feel heat creep up your neck.
Self slaps another folder onto the table, launching into the next phase of the mission, but Sara isn't done. Her gaze drifts from you to Mahone, then back, like she's following a trail no one else sees.
“Didn’t picture you going for an older guy,” she teases, lips twitching. “But hey, I get it. He’s… intense.”
You almost choke. Sara has to bite down on her lip to keep from laughing.
Across the table, Mahone stiffens—not visibly, not to anyone else—but enough that you catch the slight lift of his shoulders, the careful way he avoids looking in your direction.
Unfortunately, someone else catches it too.
Michael.
He’d been focused on Self, but his eyes flicked up at the wrong (or right) moment. First to Mahone and then to you, then lastly to Sara, who was still absolutely failing to hide her grin.
His brow creases just a little. Not in suspicion or anger, just that familiar Scofield calculation whenever he realized something didn’t add up.
“You okay?” he asks under his breath when Self pauses to take a phone call, “You seem… awfully quiet this morning.”
You open your mouth, but Sara steps in smoothly, pretending to examine one of the maps, “She’s fine,” she says, a little too casually, “Just looks tired to me.”
Michael doesn't quite buy it. His gaze lingers on you for another beat before drifting back to Mahone—who was studiously pretending to read a document upside-down.
Sara leans closer, voice softening, “Just… be careful,” she says, tone shifting into something gentler than teasing. “Not because of him. Because your brothers would absolutely kill him if they knew.”
You swallow harshly and across the table, Mahone finally risks a glance your way—barely a second—but it was enough.
Michael sees that too.
And this time, he doesn't look away. He just sits back slowly, quietly, like someone filing away a piece of information they weren't supposed to have.
Self finally wraps up the briefing with a shaky, overconfident, “We move in thirty,” and starts gathering his papers like he’d just solved world hunger. Chairs scrape, people clatter about, and Sara squeezes your arm one last time with that I know exactly what you’re doing and I cannot wait to tease you again smirk before slipping out.
You stand too, pushing in your chair — trying to act normal, trying not to look in Mahone’s direction even though you feel the weight of him across the table.
And that's when Michael looks up.
Not fully — just that sideways, calculating glance he does when he’s observing something he’s not supposed to see. His eyes drift from you… to Mahone… back to you.
You pretend not to notice, and he pretends to let you walk away.
Lincoln notices Michael's expression...of course, he does.
As you head toward the hallway, you hear Lincoln’s low voice behind you, “The hell was that?”
Michael doesn't answer right away, just stares after you with that quiet tension that means he's thinking too fast, “Come on,” he mutters to Lincoln, barely audible, “we need to talk.”
You don't look back, but your shoulders tighten involuntarily as you slip out of sight. You feel their eyes on your back until you turn the corner.
Behind you, their voices drop even lower — just enough that you catch pieces as they step into the adjacent hallway.
Michael exhales hard, “You saw that, right?”
“What, the weird tension?” Lincoln grumbles, “Yeah, I guess...I mostly noticed your scowl.”
Michael rubs a hand down his face, “This is… this is not good.”
“It could be nothing, she is a Scofield after all...always kinda has that kicked puppy look to her.”
“It’s not just her.”
Lincoln sighs, “Yeah?"
Michael pauses, taking a breath, “Yes. We have to get ahead of this...her and Mahone before it gets dangerous.”
“Should’ve done it yesterday,” Lincoln mutters.
Michael runs a thumb across his lower lip — a nervous tell he thought nobody noticed, “We talk to her. Now.”
They exchange a grim, mutual nod.
You're halfway down the hall, pretending to study the peeling wallpaper, when they finally come around the corner.
“Hey,” Michael calls, too calmly, a curt smile on his face, “Can we talk to you for a second?”
You freeze, fucking fantastic.
Lincoln jerks his head toward an empty room, “C’mon.”
Your stomach dips, but you follow, mostly because if you didn’t, they’d just drag you in anyway.
Michael shuts the door behind the three of you with a soft click.
That was the only gentle part. He faces you with his arms crossed, expression taut, “Okay. Let’s just all be honest.”
Lincoln crosses his arms too, mirroring him, “For once.”
You blink, “Wow, love the energy in here.”
Lincoln rolls his eyes, “Cut the crap.”
Michael’s voice stays controlled, but strained, “We saw something.”
You give the most innocent look you were capable of, “Did you?”
Michael’s stare sharpens, “Don’t do that.”
Lincoln steps in, chin lifting, “You and Mahone, what’s the deal?”
You raise your eyebrows dramatically, “Is that what this is about?”
Michael doesn't blink, “Yes.”
You open your mouth, but he shakes his head, “No games. Just tell us.”
You cross your arms to match their posture, “Tell you what?”
“That nothing is going on,” Lincoln snaps.
“That you’re not getting involved with someone dangerous,” Michael adds, quieter but heavier.
You throw your head back with a groan, “Oh my god, you two sound like dad.”
Michael steps closer, voice tighter, “We’re worried about you. Mahone is… complicated.”
Lincoln folds his arms even harder, “He’s unstable and grief-stricken. Not to mention he used to hunt people for a living.”
“He saved you more than once,” you point out, “Or did we all forget the part where he didn’t let me die?”
Michael’s jaw twitches, “No one is questioning that, but that doesn’t mean—”
“Then what does it mean?” you shoot back, “That he’s off-limits because you two have history?”
Lincoln scoffs, “He’s off-limits because he could break your heart and neck in the same day.”
You snort, “Very comforting.”
Michael holds up a hand, “Just… tell us if this is serious.”
Your throat goes tight- you don't answer. You can't.
Michael’s sigh is soft, disappointed, “Okay. Then it is.”
“Jesus Christ,” Lincoln mutters, dragging a palm down his face.
You press your lips together, suddenly tense, “You’re both overreacting.”
Michael won't budge, “We’re trying to protect you.”
“Okay, cool, but I didn’t ask you to,” you retort quietly.
Lincoln jabs a finger toward you, “Well, you got us anyway.”
Something about the way he says it—rough, brotherly, terrified—hits you harder than you expected.
Michael’s next words drop like a weight, “If he hurts you… we can’t fix that.”
For a moment, you have no idea what to say.
“So what,” you finally breathe, “I’m supposed to just… I don’t know, join a convent? Never look at anyone again?”
“I’m telling you to be careful,” Michael insists.
You let out a humorless laugh, “Would you rather it was T-Bag I was getting frisky with instead?”
Lincoln gags violently, “What the—NO. What the hell is wrong with—”
Michael’s face twists, “Oh my god. Why would you even—don't—stop talking.”
“Well, then maybe mind your own business,” you snap.
Michael’s voice softens, though his eyes stay sharp, “We just don’t want you to get hurt.”
You swallow the knot in your throat, “Then trust me.”
They don't answer, but they step aside.
You push past them, pulse hammering, breathing shaky with irritation.
You make it halfway down the hall before you feel it.
That stare.
Mahone stands partially in shadows at the end of the hall— not dramatic, just quietly devastating. Hands in his pockets, shoulders tense, eyes locked on you with a heat that makes your breath catch.
“Everything alright?” he asks, voice low, rough around the edges.
Something in your chest tightens, and you step toward him without thinking.
“Define alright,” you mutter, shutting the door behind you.
“What did they say?” he asks, “Or—what didn’t they say?”
You stop a few feet from him, “Nothing I wasn't expecting...they were tag teaming me like overbearing parents. It was… a lot.”
Mahone winces, “I’m assuming I wasn’t portrayed favorably.”
“Nothing you haven't heard before”
He waits, eyes drifting over your face—searching.
“What did you tell them?” he asked quietly.
You shrug, like it's no big deal, “That it’s none of their business.”
His hand drops, and he stares at you like you’d just given him a gift wrapped in explosives. “You defend me,” he murmured, voice low, rough, “Even when it costs you.”
You step closer, “I’m not ashamed of wanting you.”
He inhales sharply, as if the room suddenly has less oxygen in it, “You should be careful saying things like that,” he said, voice low.
“Why?”
He doesn't answer at first. He just looks at you the way he only did when no one else was around. Then he steps forward, closing the space like he couldn’t stay away one second longer.
His hands don't touch you yet, but they hover at your waist, close enough that heat spreads across your skin.
“Because if you say things like that,” he whispers, “I’m not going to pretend I don’t want you too.”
You smile faintly, “Everyone knows now. What’s left to pretend?”
“Come here,” he says, barely audible.
You don't hesitate. You step into him, and his hands land on your waist—firm, almost greedy. His mouth finds yours with absolutely no hesitation this time—hungry, decisive, like he's done pretending he has limits.
You make a soft sound against his lips, and he swears under his breath, pulling you tighter against him.
His lips drag down your throat, slow and deliberate, “I shouldn’t be doing this,” he mutters against your skin.
“You say that every time,” you breathe.
“And yet—” His hands slide under the back of your shirt, fingers warm and demanding, “Here we are.”
“Here we always end up,” you whisper.
That breaks something in him. He kisses you again—deeper, harder—his hands gripping your waist, thumbs brushing dangerous paths along your spine. You arch into him, and he groans, mouth moving hungrily to your jaw.
“We’re supposed to be out the door soon,” he says, breath hitting your ear.
“How soon?”
“Twenty minutes.”
You slide your hands up his chest and whisper, “I can do a lot in twenty minutes.”
He freezes—just for a beat—like the universe had just whispered something blasphemous in his ear. “You’re going to get us caught,” he murmurs.
“No,” you correct, tugging him closer by his collar. “I’m going to get what I want, Agent.”
“And what is that?” His voice is nothing but gravel.
“You, right now.”
He breaths out a shaky laugh, “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
Your fingers slide into his hair, “Then show me.”
The sound he makes is low, almost a growl. He pushes you gently—but firmly—onto the table, stepping between your legs, mouth claiming yours again like the twenty minutes were already evaporating.
“Fine,” he whispers against your lips, “But don’t blame me when we’re late.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”,
You tug him closer, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt — and that's all the invitation he needs
His hand slides up the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair with deliberate slowness. You feel the breath leave your chest before he even pulls. He gathers your hair, twisting it around his fist until he holds it in a makeshift ponytail, forcing your head to tip back just enough for him to look down at you.
Your heartbeat tripped.
“You know exactly what you’re doing,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheekbone.
“I do,” you breathe, “and so do you.”
The corner of his mouth twitches — not a smile, something hungrier. He leans in, lips dragging across the pulse in your throat, and the way he holds your hair makes your breath catch audibly.
His other hand slides to your hip, pulling you forward, and for a moment, there is nothing in the room except the hot press of his body and the sound of your breathing tangling together.
The hair in his fist tightens just enough to guide you exactly where he wants you.
Your hands grip his belt, shaking with anticipation. You fumble with the buckle and slide the leather off, staring up at Alex.
He chuckles lightly, keeping his hold on your makeshift ponytail and stroking your cheek with his other hand, "Go on, babygirl", he urges.
You pull him out, blushing slightly before leaving a few short licks to his tip. You continue to tease him, licking down his shaft and making out with the head in a rhythm.
His breathing shallows as he tightens his grip on your hair, forcing you to look up at him, a knowing smirk plastered on his face. He tuts, "I know, baby, I know, but we don't have much time".
He pulls you away from his member and taunts, "Show me that pretty little tongue, won't you?"
You nod and stick your tongue out almost immediately.
Alex chuckles darkly, slapping his dick against your tongue, and you squeak out a moan in response.
"Dirty girl", he says before forcing your jaw open with his free hand and shoving himself inside your mouth.
You look up at him as he uses you—driving his member deeper and deeper down your throat, groaning in satisfaction each time.
Your hands grip his thighs as he continues, looking down at your submissive form, wiping away a stray tear from your watery eye.
"I'm almost there just keep that dirty little mouth wide open, okay?", he grits out more like a command than a request.
You whine around him, and the noise pushes him over the edge. You feel his spend collect on your tongue, and he loosens his grip on your hair.
After he withdraws, he looks down at you expectantly, "Let me see", he demands.
You open your mouth, letting your tongue slip out showing him how you'd swallowed all he'd given you.
He grips your arms and supports you back up, but he doesn't step back. He has one hand braced on the table beside you, the other at the back of your neck, breathing hard like he wasn’t ready for any of this to be over.
“Hey—” he says quietly, voice uneven, “what about you?”
You glance down at your watch, the second hand ticking mercilessly forward. Then you lift your head, eyes meeting his, and let a slow, smug smile curl onto your lips, “Twenty minutes is twenty minutes, Agent.”
His laugh is disbelieving, "Then let me take care of you tonight, ya?"
Once again begging for more people to watch Prison Break. If you like smart, tattooed, autistic men you will like this show. If you like crime shows then please give it a chance. You like when people punch cops? You’ll like this show. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE WATCH THIS SHOW AND WRITE FANFIC ABOUT IT
"i would die for you" is easy to say for a character that is self-sacrificing at heart just like "i would kill for you" is easy to say for a character without morals. and that's why making michael such an empath who tries to do good as much as he can is so great when you see how far he can go when it comes to lincoln. peak devotion.
