Post #1

[fringekink_mod]

This is a kinkmeme. You may just be familiar with the concept.

If not: explicit, adult content; read at your own risk, and keep the kids -- wherever that arbitrary line is in your jurisdiction -- out. Also, please wear your seatbelt.

RULES

1. When prompting, use the comment field to jot down character, pairing, or moresome first, then the kink(s), then any other prompt elements; after a line break, you can elaborate via words, images, or links. Like so?



2. When responding, use the subject line for the original prompt (plus your title, if you have one).

3. All kinks are welcome -- sexual, emotional, conceptual, likewise all gen, het, slash, bitextual and other fic from crack to drama.

4. Anon is encouraged but up to you.

5. Mark all spoilers, mmkay?

6. Go for it!

REMINDERS

7. With a view to some prompts: Spell Check is your BFF. Don't make Alt!Astrid cry, please?

8. A kinkmeme's more than a promptmeme. Here's eliade's non-definitive and non-exhaustive (but pretty illustrative) List of Fan-fiction Kinks, Tropes, Clichés, and Fetishes.

9. Could you -- in the subject line or the first line of the body of text -- draw attention to the fact there's rape or non-con, major character death, underage, and/or graphic violence in your response (which is the Archive Of Our Own (AO3) policy).

Comments

Nina/Walter/William

[(Anonymous)]

Drug-fueled college-era threesome, Nina as psychological (or maybe even physical) top.

Re: Nina/Walter/William

[(Anonymous)]

(Quickfire response; might want to do more with it at some point. Hope this tides you over for now, though. *g*)

Nina likes to watch.

No, more precisely: Nina likes to *direct.*

Both Walter and William would be happy to have her (and *have* her) on the bed with them, but she prefers to perch on the edge of the desk, carefully rolled joint smoldering in hand, while she tells them what to do.

"Yes, Walter, now you suck him. Belly! Open your eyes. Watch him get you hard so you can fuck him. ...oh, that's good."

And under her exacting instructions, as flawlessly ordered as a well-planned experiment, it is.

She waits until they're sprawled over each other exhausted before she slides almost demurely down from the desk, lifts up her flippy skirt (underwear, of course, would be an unnecessary obstacle) and finally kneels on the bed with her white thighs on either side of William's face.

"Now suck me," she growls, and he does, because Nina Sharp always has the biggest balls in any room, flippy skirt or no.

[(Anonymous)]

Olivia/Peter; authority figures, domination

Either Olivia is fine.

[(Anonymous)]

I don't know if that's *exactly* what you wanted, but I had so much fun writing! Anyway, there is another authority figure on its way, just hang tight! :)


Olivia had this night ritual of brushing her hair on bed for what felt like hours, before going to sleep. That night she was oblivious to him watching her while he pretended to read the newspaper, actually; not that she would mind if he watched her but there was a beauty in her unawareness as she ran down the hairbrush on her long golden strands and the appreciation on her face, deep concentration in her closed eyes. She was doing it not to untangle her hair anymore but because it soothed her, Peter noticed with a tiny smile. Olivia sat carefree, dressed in only panties and one of his shirts simply because he asked her to wear it, freshly showered and smelling like a spring morning. She looked at him when she caught his stare, smiling coyly.

“What?”

“Nothing, I’m just watching you. Wish I was that hairbrush you hold so possessively…”

Her smile got broader, as she divided her hair in two and braided it, pushing the hairbrush aside, not breaking the stare.

That smile. It could light up a room when she smiled. Peter loved that he was the one to bring it to her face; it made her look so much younger, especially when her hair was down and she was half-naked on his bed. She turned to him again when she was done, both braids hanging over her shoulders.

“You look like a little girl,” he said, chuckling.

Olivia laughed herself, walking towards him, barefoot, resting against the arm of the armchair he was sitting on. Peter immediately put the paper aside, holding her.

“Well… I’m your little girl, then.”

It was one of those moments that would make people around them feel sick, for they were gazing lovingly at each other, his arm wrapped around her waist and hers around his shoulders as she fondly caressed his face. Peter pulled her to his lap and she curled around him like a cat, spreading heat over his crotch.

He couldn’t help it, he loved that woman so much it hurt him sometimes. The only thing he could do about it was smile. Every single time he looked at her, he would smile like an idiot.

”My little girl?” he chuckled, nuzzling her cheek.

“Yeah,” she said sweetly, almost child-like, kissing lightly his neck.

“Daddy likes it, then,” he replied, getting her cue. Olivia smiled, letting her lips brush lightly against his, grinding her hip against his groin not that gently, making him groan at the contact. Peter felt a surge of blood straight to his cock and he knew she was aware of his reaction by the knowing look she gave him, eyes deep and dark green with lust.

“I love you so much, Daddy, I want to see you happy.”

“You do?”

“Mmhmm.”

“You know what would make Daddy really happy?” he said, opening his pants and pushing it down slightly, freeing his cock. Olivia slipped to the floor, kneeling between his legs, resting her elbows over his thighs “Do you want to make me happy?”

“Yes, I do. I want to make you really happy,” she replied softly. Peter chuckled lightly, cupping her face. He chuckled at her almost innocent smile and how good at it she was. He thought the CIA was missing a wonderful spy.

[(Anonymous)]

Olivia/Astrid: after a long day of dealing with grossout body horror at work, they come home to some nice neat play with urine (or other bodily fluids) that is/are coming out of living people for a change.

Olivia/Astrid, urine play

[(Anonymous)]

Astrid shrieks and giggles when Olivia catches her in the narrow hallway in her apartment, arms around her waist and lips on her neck. She leans back into Olivia's arms, twists to meet her lips. After a long moment she squirms in Olivia's arms, tries to pull away.

"Going somewhere?"

"Trying to."

Astrid shivers when Olivia sucks her earlobe into her mouth, tugs on the little silver ring with her teeth. Olivia's breath is hot on her skin, low vibrations against her ear when she whispers, "Need some help with that?"

Astrid starts walking towards the bathroom again, dragging Olivia along with her. By the time they're through the door Olivia has Astrid's slacks unzipped, hand in her panties. Astrid groans out Olivia's name and kicks the door closed, giving them space to stand in the tiny room. She feels Olivia grin against her neck.

Astrid turns and loops her arm around Olivia's neck, pulling the taller woman down for a kiss that turns wet and sloppy after a few seconds. Olivia licks at Astrid's mouth, slides her hands under Astrid's shirt and pushes it up. They break for air, for room to get her shirt over her head, and Olivia grins at her, raises an eyebrow.

Astrid grins back and pushes her pants down, kicks her shoes away. Olivia starts on her own clothing, adding them to the pile at Astrid's feet. When she's naked, Astrid steps backwards into the little shower, crooking her finger at Olivia.

Olivia's across the room in two long steps, crowding against her, running her hands over Astrid's body. Astrid leans back against the cold tile and hums, tangles her fingers in Olivia's hair. She still tastes faintly of chapstick and coffee when Astrid sucks her tongue into her mouth. Olivia leans her forehead against Astrid's and looks down between them. Her fingers flex, just slightly against Astrid's folds. She lets her eyes flutter closed, sighs as she relaxes.

The sound of liquid splattering in the tub seems loud, unnervingly loud, but it's tempered by the content little sound Olivia makes. The way her fingers are cupped holds the piss against Astrid's folds before it spills out of Olivia's hand. It's hot, scorching on her skin, cooling rapidly as it runs down her legs. The smell is bitter - too much coffee over the course of the day. It's not unpleasant, though, especially not mixed with the faint musk of Olivia's skin, the spicy shampoo she uses. It's a sharp, healthy scent.

Astrid sighs again as she finishes, drops her hands to Olivia's hips and pulls her until she's straddling one of Astrid's legs. The heat hits her and Astrid's fingers tighten as the liquid courses over her leg, tracing hot paths to the floor. Olivia ducks her head, lips slick and open against Astrid's. Astrid hums into Olivia's mouth, gasps when she rubs herself on Astrid's slick thigh. Soon she'll reach for the water, wash away the piss that pools at their feet, the remnants of the day that cling to them. They'll stand under the water until it runs cold then they'll chase away their shivers in Astrid's bed. Now though, Astrid kisses Olivia until she's breathless and holds their slick bodies together.

[(Anonymous)]

Walter/William, set anytime you like: Walter likes being Belly's test subject.

[(Anonymous)]

alt-Charlie Francis/alt-Lincoln Lee: Lincoln wonders if he can feel the worms from the outside.

[(Anonymous)]

Olivia, solofic. What does she do with her sex toys, after she's gotten back from the altverse and done her laundry?

[(Anonymous)]

Olivia/Olivia, pairing is kink enough?

Everything's fallen apart and all they have left is each other.

Ring of Posies - Olivia/Olivia - shades of peter

[(Anonymous)]

He awakes at 2:15, the smell of sex and cheap cigarettes rank on his skin. Her body’s stretched out beside him, silk hair obscuring her features; the slope of her spine painted delicate blue with streetlight.

A sixth sense drives him to pull jeans on, stuffing his feet into boots and tying the laces haphazardly. He’s pulling the Henley over his shoulders when the light under the door flickers - shadows interrupting the narrow beam from the hallway – and it’s the only warning Peter needs. One hand on his hoodie the other on his weapon, he takes the fire-escape, both legs swinging over the rusty banister to drop ten feet to the ground. The impact jars his knees together, teeth clacking. From above, a door’s kicked in. “FBI! Freeze!”

Peter doesn’t know about the first. But freezing only implies you’re standing still when the bus hits. He hears Jess scream, startled, half awake. Peter takes a second to memorise them – two women, one blond the other red, similar size, similar shape, standing blurred in front of the bedroom window – then melts into the shadows.

***


It starts like this:

After three months of the Walter’s tearing their hair out and being talked from the brink of ‘self’ suicide they drum out a solution. It’s highly theoretical; it makes Olivia wonder why she never paid attention in science class, makes her curious if her double can actually parse this shit or if Dunham perfected a look of knowing out of self-preservation.

Olivia isn’t a scientist, she’s a soldier, and three months of twiddling her thumbs waiting for someone to find a solution has left her ratty, snide with boredom. To implement the solution they need to separate the worlds again, dismantle the bridge; and while Olivia’s double is a wunderkind - able to manipulate force-fields and catch objects with her mind - the Machine is not and never has been tailored to her particular brand of magic.

It leaves everyone in the bridge-room decidedly irritable.

“Picard!” Walter snaps his fingers, seemingly unaware of how Broyle’s jaw tightens at the moniker. “It’s a repeating DNA sequence, seen here, here, and here. The Machine is designed for a specific individual, it’s a map of the genome if you will.”

“That doesn’t tell us who the individual is,” Broyles says succinctly.

Astrid raises an eyebrow. “Did this individual create the bridge to begin with?”

Walternate’s supposition said the bridge formed when both realities finished assembling the Machine – that it was automated - a theory not as valid as they first assumed. “Good question with no answer, my dear, let’s move on shall we?” Walter rubs his hands together. “Do you suppose we could grow the specimen out of a vat, we have the DNA sequence if not the genetic sample?”

“No,” Dunham says flatly.

“But…” Dunham turns her head to stare at him, buttoned down pea-coat and golden wisps escaping the braid down her back.

Walter vibrates.

Olivia doesn’t think Walter’s afraid of Dunham but there’s a give and take to their relationship she finds hard to define. Olivia’s seen Walter’s arm; the flesh corrugated rough like melted plastic, withered from wrist to forearm. Olivia’s world has the technology to remove the scarring, but the Secretary’s failed to offer it to his double, and Olivia doesn’t think Walter would accept. He wears long sleeves for the most part; writes with his left hand, Olivia’s seen Dunham trail her fingers down his forearm, a soft caress over third degree burns. Walter’s not afraid of Dunham but there are certain boundaries he knows not to test; apparently growing a test-tube baby out of a vat is one of them.

“He’s got to exist *somewhere*,” Walter says.

The Secretary glances over, eyes hooded. “What do you propose to do? Set your infernal contraption up yet again, and tear apart more realities?”

“No,” Walter counters, his hand reaching for Dunham blindly. “Olivia can slip between realities without adverse effects, it’s how the cortexiphan gifted her.”

It’s been three months and Olivia’s not immune to the comparison syndrome.

Olivia comes from a team she loves, a mother she adores, she can hit a moving target from 1500 meters and she’s a qualified sharpshooter. None of these abilities ought to be sniffed at. None of them compare to a woman who can literally reach into her world from another dimension. Everyone on the bridge-team has done the inevitable self-comparison; eyed their double and thought what if? Olivia feels like her skin’s been rubbed raw; it makes her louder, cocky, more impatient. In opposition, Dunham’s locked down tighter than an oil drum. On the few occasions Olivia’s seen her angry or frustrated, the woman’s eyes flare amber green, bright as a forest fire. Walter might not be afraid of her but Olivia *is* and it makes her want to front up. She thinks Walter’s assistant summed it best, quiet, unassuming Astrid.

“It’s like the worst case of anorexia known to mankind, we’re all staring in the mirror and hating ourselves.”

*Dunham* is the one with the super-powers. The one with Walter Bishop’s unwavering belief, she’s the one with the stable world and the sister and niece to match. Olivia has better looking cargo pants and a cheerier disposition; she’s still weighing the pros and cons of this particular argument. Dunham’s eyes fix on the wall and Olivia wonders idly if she got the better deal after all.

***

“It’s like a rolodex of images,” Dunham tries to explain.

Intrigued, Walter asks, “The same image?”

“No.”

“And only when you approach the Machine?”

“From the first step onwards.”

“Always the same man?”

“Yes.”

Walter taps his pen against a pad, a rat-a-tat-tat as he keeps beat with the music. “You’ve never seen him before?”

“No,” Dunham replies evenly.

Olivia watches them, her arms folded. Walter’s desk is buried under snow-globes, the Doors playing so loudly Olivia can feel the bass in her chest. The older man slaps his hands against his knees, eyes bright as a child as he leans forward.

“Alright then. Imagine one of these worlds, Olivia, self-contained in its glass bubble. Now concentrate dear. Imagine what it is you wish to see, try to feel its location…” Dunham’s face washes blank, pale as a statue, kinetic energy replaced by something older, fundamentally still.

Olivia finds herself staring, and wants…

She wants to bring some animation back into those features; she wishes there was someone other than a madman for Dunham to confide in, to watch her back. She wants these things for her double because they’re things Olivia wants for herself and Dunham’s her, the mirror darkly. Olivia steps near, the decision simple, and hooks her finger into Dunham’s coat…

They materialise on a grassy knoll with the sky burnt sierra orange. Dunham stumbles, swinging around sharp and furious.

Olivia jumps back, voice terse, louder than she wants. “You don’t do this alone. It’s what team’s for, you understand?” Her hand rests against her hip, close to her weapon, a form of habit, and Olivia’s already scanning the new environment. “Besides, if you get to jump across universes so do I. Fair’s fair.” It’s competitive, childish, it doesn’t even scratch the surface of what Olivia’s trying to say.

Dunham looks away. “Trust me, being the sole focus of Walter Bishop’s regard isn’t a good thing.”

“And you envisioned a graveyard as the perfect getaway?”

Dunham turns a slow circuit. The place is dishevelled, over-run by weeds. The gravestones run in a jagged line like teeth; it’s eerily quiet, devoid of noise, unattended for years. Olivia leaves Dunham to rummage through the tombstones, hands brushing against masonry, crumbled stone, and walks to the nearest bluff, staring down at a quiet town nestled between mountain hilltops, the leaves turning red and gold and autumn brown.

“Here,” Dunham calls presently, her tone cautious. “Did the Secretary have a nephew or a son?”

Olivia turns away. “No. He’s a state official, the public bio’s pretty extensive and there was no mention of either.” She squats down beside the other woman, touches her fingertip against stone. “Peter Bishop. 1978-1985.”

There’s no further inscription, no sentiment or expulsion of grief. The words look bereft, terribly alone.

“I don’t think we’ll find anything here,” Dunham says quietly.

Olivia glances at her, the other woman’s face gilded by dying light, and wants to place her hand on her cheek, map the unwritten sorrows.

They rematerialise in the bridge-room. Olivia takes a breath, expands her lungs and chest then does it again. It occurs to her belatedly if Dunham actually hated her it was the perfect opportunity, to leave her behind, to abandon her, a less messy form of murder.

Dunham works her neck from side to side; she picks up the snow-globe she was previously studying and drops it in the bin.

***

He’s nearly at the end of the alleyway when the high whine of a bullet catches his forearm. He drops to his knees then scrambles upright, hurtling over the road and down a ditch. He uses his hands to claw up the other side, feet skidding in soft dirt and hears one of the woman yell out.

“No! Don’t!”

The second bullet kicks the dirt into his face and if Peter wasn’t impressed before he’s fucking alarmed now. That’s not a rifle the redhead’s wielding and they’re not exactly close.

He drops to his belly and rolls into the foliage. Know thy exits, Peter takes a second to orient himself and checks the clip in his gun. There’s blood leaking down his forearm, tacky and hot, but the pain won’t register until his body dumps the adrenalin surge. The blonde’s closest to him. Last Peter saw she was sprinting down the alleyway ahead of her partner. He slips through the trees, circling toward the waterways, trying to figure out just who the hell he’s pissed off now and what they want. Two against one, the available evidence suggesting the redhead’s a sharp-shooter – he hopes that makes the blonde the easier m

[(Anonymous)]

Alt-Olivia/Alt-Lincoln/Alt-Charlie, Lincoln's a mouthy bottom and Charlie and Olivia are pretty okay with that.

[(Anonymous)]

They're not *that* late, but Charlie couldn't tell that by the plaintive voice drifting from the bedroom to the front door, where he and Olivia have just come in.

"About time, you guys."

Olivia looks at him and rolls her eyes. "He's started without us again."

"Yep," Charlie agrees. "Might as well go see what the fuss is about."

They shed their coats, walking toward the back room, and both stop dead in their tracks at the doorway. Lincoln's--

Lincoln's on the bed, kneeling and naked, cock already bobbing and leaving wet smears on his stomach. Charlie can see the drawer next to the bed hanging open and half-squashed tube on the bed, and now that he looks closer he sees that Lincoln's arm is stretched behind him and he wonders how many fingers he's got shoved up his own ass already.

"Wow," Liv says, sauntering in for a better look and sounding nonchalant, although Charlie appreciates the way her nipples have come to full attention. "We could have been anyone. Robbers come to take your stuff."

Lincoln glares, a hilarious expression given his current position. "Someone needs to fuck me *right now.*"

Charlie just tsks and moves into the room, starting to wrestle with his clothes. "Someone's in too much of a rush. The rest of us need to catch up."

"I can help with that." Lincoln's fingers emerge from behind him with a wet sound, which sends even more of Charlie's blood flowing south, as if it hadn't been already. He slides off the bed, landing on his knees, and Charlie can't help the reflexive wince as he contemplates the rug burn.

Charlie's pants and underwear get pulled down with one swift motion and Lincoln's leaning in when Charlie gets a metaphorical hold of himself and says, "Condom."

Lincoln sighs. "C'mon, seriously? You have about eighteen tests a week, the doctors say the bugs aren't--"

"*Condom,*" Charlie growls, and is grateful when Liv tosses him one from the drawer without comment. What the hell do the docs know, he's the one with bugs in his blood, and he can never know for sure if the little fuckers will mutate and take up residence in his balls. They say it's impossible but he's the one who wakes up with the night sweats after a nightmare that he's infected his partners. Anything he can do to keep that from happening, it's worth any aggravation.

Lincoln rolls the condom on him without further argument and Charlie's out of objections. Lincoln takes him in like a porn star, swallowing smoothly. He's good at this, too good, and Charlie starts to feel his balls start to tighten when Lincoln pulls away with a wet pop of his mouth. "You're ready, let's go."

"You'd better do it, Charlie." Olivia manages to sound bored and he kind of loves her a lot for that. "Otherwise he'll whine all night."

"I don't--" Lincoln starts to protest, but Charlie and Liv cut him off simultaneously.

"Whine!"

"Fine," he says, doing just that. But it's easy to forgive when he scrambles up on the bed and puts himself face down, ass up. Like a cat in heat, Charlie thinks--no, what's the male version? In rut.

He follows, grabbing at the tube of slick--Lincoln's clearly already been at it, but he wants to be sure--and lining himself up. He rubs the tip of his cock over Lincoln's entrance. "Ready?"

"jesusfuckingchristyes," Lincoln hisses, one long blasphemous swear word. Charlie takes him at the word and shoves in with one long push, no finesse at all.

Lincoln yells, scrabbling at the sheet, and then he braces his arms and pushes back, impaling himself further. Charlie's eyes cross a little and he feels like swearing too, but he grits his teeth instead. He glances over at Liv, who's stripped naked and fished something out of the drawer for herself. She's got one foot up on the bed and is running the slender device over her folds. As he watches, she flicks the button and a low buzz fills the air. She presses it in and breathes out, sharply. "Ahhh."

"You-- want some of this?" Charlie asks, trying to be civilized about it, and Liv grins.

"Save the last piece for me."

"Talking...about me...behind my back," Lincoln mutters, and Charlie thrusts hard again. Lincoln groans and Charlie doubles his effort, trying to wring more of those porn sounds out of him. Lincoln obliges, moans turning to a babbling litany. "*Fuck,* yes, fuck!"

"All right," Olivia says, low, and Charlie slaps Lincoln's flank, not gently.

"You're neglecting your other guest."

Lincoln's head comes up slowly, as if he's coming out of a daze. "Can't...have that."

"Edge of the bed," Charlie says, and reluctantly withdraws. He's not as acrobatic as he used to be and moving them into position together is a little beyond his capabilities. But Lincoln is more agile and as soon as Charlie sits on the edge, Lincoln positions himself facing away on Charlie's lap and slides down on his cock again, easy as anything.

With the same lack of hesitation--or caution--Olivia clambers over them, long legs folding around them both as she sinks down on Lincoln's erection. It's not Charlie's favorite position, he can't move and his thighs will begin to ache before long, but it doesn't take long either before Liv's weight and movement and Lincoln's ass squeezing at him get him close again. Liv reaches around to pinch at his earlobe, not as good as a bite but safer, and Charlie buries his face in Lincoln's shoulder and empties himself into his partner.

Lincoln's writhing against him and with a last push he comes too, arching into Liv with a shout. She laughs and looks inclined to keep going but Charlie glances at her and she slides off, sideways onto the bed. Lincoln pries himself off as well, panting and finally quiet.

Charlie flops backward, too drained to tell the kid to follow up, but Lincoln is on it and flips around, diving between Olivia's legs face first. He licks her clean and then wet again, keeping his hands on her thighs to push them apart. Neither of them has forgotten the woman's got a grip like a vise if she gets her legs around your ears. Charlie reaches out to roll her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Olivia gasps, thrusting against Lincoln's face, and comes with a sharp cry.

They curl up together in one sticky pile and it's Lincoln, as usual, who finds the energy to talk first. "Next time," he says in a dreamy, unfocused tone, "it's Liv. With the strap-on. Over the couch."

[(Anonymous)]

Alt!Lincoln Lee; body alteration/sensation play; the doctors keep telling him that his new skin is just the same as his old skin, but it doesn't *feel* the same

[(Anonymous)]

The water sluices down Lincoln's back, a gentle current pulling downwards. He shifts and leans forward, resting his head against the tiles under the showerhead, letting the water pepper his back with more force. He stays in the shower longer than he needs to — longer than he should given the water rationing, but he's waiting for the crawling feeling to wash away. The skittery feeling that leaves him rubbing absently at his skin all the time. The feeling that makes him want to dig his fingers into his skin and scratch until it feels right again.

He thinks it would be easier if there were scars, some marker that something has changed but even the old scars are gone. The one from when he was nine and his dumbass brother threw a baseball at his head. The one from the first case he and Liv worked together.

He towels off quickly when he steps out of the shower, getting the water off of his body as quickly as possible. He leaves the mirror fogged up. As Liv's so fond of pointing out, he doesn't exactly use it to comb his hair or anything. He hates looking at himself now. He looks exactly the same. He isn't exactly the same.

He stares at the skin on the back of his wrist and runs one finger over the back of his hand.

He scrapes his fingernails lightly over the skin on the inside of his arm, up and down until he's covered with goosebumps.

He rubs at the skin on his chest, just above his sternum where it's stretched thin over the bone. He knows the skin is red, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the cloudy surface of the mirror. The trails his fingers down his stomach, and the shape of the muscle there is the same, same curve and dip of his bellybutton, but he feels like he's touching someone else, like someone else is touching him. There's some fundamental disconnect between the skin that's supposed to be his and what's underneath it.

He shudders and glares at the fuzzy image of himself, visible now that the steam's clearing off.

He wants to ask Liv what it was like when she thought she was someone else.

He wants to ask Charlie what it's like to have something else living under his skin.

He pulls on his clothing and ignores the way the fabric settles against him and brushes his skin. He jokes with Liv and tries to not flinch away when she touches the back of his hand. He keeps his face neutral when Charlie slaps his shoulder.

He dreams about fire, and scrubs his skin until it hurts, and waits to feel whole again.

[(Anonymous)]

Olivia Dunham/Dana Scully; guns, hot for teacher; Dana supervised Olivia's class in marksmanship (or physical training or paperwork or forensics, basically anything would be hot)

[(Anonymous)]

“Straighten your back,” she said sternly, walking behind Olivia. She placed her hand at the small of the blonde’s back and over her shoulder to help her find the adequate position, making Olivia gasp in surprise.

She watched as the young agent positioned the gun, holding it in position and aiming at the target, almost perfectly, and smiled quietly; continuing her inspection of the other students in line next to the blonde.

Scully enjoyed being back to the Quantico academy and teaching again, helping other young FBI agents become the future of the nation. As she walked around, inspecting their positions and adjusting the adequate way to hold their fire guns and to stand, her heels clicked on the tiled floor of the room, echoing loudly. Olivia turned her head slightly to observe the petit redhead’s figure, as she graciously moved around, hands resting behind the small of her back, the same place she has touched her seconds before. She turned just in time to see the junior agent staring, before Olivia had the time to turn back her head.

She had noticed the blonde girl staring at her with curiosity, wondering what could have piqued her interest in her: maybe the young agent read her file or had heard her reputation – lord knows she had become a legend in the FBI, not only because of her work in The X-Files and being Mrs Spooky but for being part of The X-Files herself. She could still feel the old imaginary prickling on the base of her neck every time the thought came to her mind.

“That’s it for us today. I hope you had found your first class useful. You’re dismissed now.”

Scully turned to her desk to collect her personal objects, as the other junior agents gathered their things and left the room, leaving behind the lean blonde, fumbling with her gun, as if she could fool Scully. She knew the second the laid eyes on the girl that she was familiar to guns prior to her class.

“Is there anything I can do for you, agent…”

“Dunham. Olivia Dunham, ma’am.”

“Right. Dunham. Is there anything I can do for you, agent Dunham?”

“Well, I…” she said, as she walked closer to Scully, a shy smile on her lips. “I just wanted to tell you I admire your work. I attended some of your lectures here in Quantico on forensics and I’m really glad to have this opportunity to learn from you. I really admire your work on The X-Files.”

“I see,” Scully answered. She was getting weary of it, young agents coming to her, curious to know all sort of things about The X-Files and her experience on it. It’s not that Scully would renegade those years she experienced, she was just tired of living with them as a burden on her shoulders. And now this twenty-something junior agent was attending her class because of it.

She sighed, the wrinkles on her freckled face more evident now, and felt tired. She nodded and gave Olivia a small smile before uttering a low ‘thank you’ and leaving the room and the girl behind her.

* * *
The next day she headed to her regular coffee shop for her caffeine fix of the morning and found her again, sitting alone on a booth, reading the classified ads of the newspaper, a mug of coffee in front of her, burning hot. There was something about her that reminded Scully of a better version of herself: the quietness and the aura of broken innocence that surrounded the young agent; there was a beauty in the blonde hair cascading down her shoulders and around her face like a halo and the freckled skin made her look like a fallen angel. It wasn’t something she would see every day in her students; every day she got very excited albeit serious young FBI agents, who were eager to perform their duty and save the country. Apart from the seriousness, she didn’t see the same in Olivia; instead, it was as if she knew her place in the world and just waited for her moment to be called in to participate.

Olivia noticed her stare, as she raised her eyes to call the waitress, and held it for a moment, wondering what could possibly be going on on the redhead’s mind. She watched as Olivia ordered her coffee to go – black with no sugar, as she could read in her lips, as Scully talked to the cashier – and left the store as gracefully as she had entered.

Later that week she had yet another marksmanship class with agent Scully, but now she would teach her students how to set up their guns before loading them. Olivia watched attentively as Scully talked in her serious voice, almost a monotone, each step of the setting up procedure. Her small hands followed in action as the words rolled from her lips, earnestly moving around the revolver, fingers curling around it. Olivia found herself captivated by the scene and to her it was utterly erotic, the mixture of confidence and femininity she exuded: a sharp contrast in her stern voice, explaining the procedures, the make up on her face and the high heels; Olivia knew that Scully was the kind of woman that, even in her child-like stature and delicate figure, would impose herself and earn everybody’s respect.

Olivia lost track of the senior agent’s explanations as her eyes drifted down her over her mouth, observing the way it curled around the words she knew perfectly well, after so many lectures. The blue eyes not focused on the gun in her hands but in each and every agent in the room, listening attentive to her every word and they stopped on Olivia, fixing themselves at her longer than they should have. She could swear she saw a small knowing smile on the corner of Scully’s mind.

She went to her one-bedroom apartment that evening with weird thoughts in her mind,

[(Anonymous)]

any characters; full body bondage; they're sure they know how to break out of amber, but they want to know how it feels

[(Anonymous)]

Astrid/Olivia; tentacles

[(Anonymous)]

Broyles/anyone, d/s or authority figure kink

Broyles/Lincoln, authority figure kink

[(Anonymous)]

--the truth is, Lincoln's always had a thing for his boss.

Okay, to be fair, Lincoln's got a thing for just about anyone. (And by "thing" he means--Joss Whedon has a lot to answer for across two universes.) But seeing Phillip Broyles day after day, especially in those tight t-shirts that leave nothing to the imagination, gives Lincoln far too much opportunity to indulge his already active fantasy life.

But the images remain purely in the realm of fantasy. Lincoln is a Fringe agent and (if he can say so himself) an excellent one, and there's no way he's going to risk his career by flinging himself--probably hopelessly--at his commanding officer. Broyles is happily married, he's got a kid who needs his father coming home every day, and Lincoln would rather shoot off his own dick than mess with that.

Well. Definitely not that far. But Colonel Broyles is a no-go zone and it's not like Lincoln doesn't have plenty of other diversions to keep himself occupied.

That's the state of affairs for a good long stretch until the bridge to the alternate universe opens, and suddenly Lincoln is shaking hands with *another* Phillip Broyles. One who's in an equal position to his own Broyles, but not his direct superior. And who, Lincoln discovers after a little surreptitious investigation, has been divorced for a couple of years and isn't currently involved with anyone as far as the division gossip knows.

That still doesn't mean anything's really possible; Lincoln's never heard any scuttlebutt about Broyles (either one) being involved with men.

But there'll never be another opportunity, and what's the worst that can happen? He gets kicked out of another universe? Possibly with a black eye, but Lincoln can take a punch if that's the price for finding out if he's got any shot at all.

Lincoln makes himself useful and efficient and helpful to the other Fringe team, all the things he'd be doing anyway without an ulterior motive, but with even more enthusiasm. He volunteers to debrief Agent Broyles on the operations of the larger Fringe Division, laying out protocols they both truly hope this world will never need. He bugs the hell out of Broyles' admin for his supervisor's likes and dislikes, claiming need-to-know in the name of interdimensional relations.

All in the name of relations of another sort, of course. But valuable effort regardless.

After a few weeks it's started to feel like he's throwing himself at a brick wall. Broyles is appreciative of Lincoln's work, thanking him as he would any other agent. He's still never seen the man relax; the tie and suit jacket come off during late night discussions, but that's as far as it goes. Suggestions of a drink after hours go unanswered, which is frustrating because even Colonel Broyles is willing to unwind that much.

It's another late evening going over protocols when Broyles finally stands, stretches, and calls it a night. The larger room outside his office is long-deserted of other agents, and Lincoln decides it's got to be now or never.

He *tries* for subtle. "Anything else I can do for you...sir?"

Lincoln finds himself spun around, arm yanked up behind his back in a hold that threatens shoulder dislocation or worse if he struggles.

He doesn't struggle.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Mister Lee," Broyles rumbles in his ear, and oh, God, he's just been stripped down to basics with a word. Not "Captain," not "Agent," and Lincoln already feels naked even with all his clothes still on.

"Not a game. Sir." He lets himself lean back a little against Broyles' chest, the tension in his shoulder adding to his excitement. "I'm willing to take this as far as you want to go. Or you can order me out the door and it'll be forgotten."

"What do you *want*?" Broyles asks, sounding honestly bewildered, and Lincoln's heart breaks a little. If he's been that lonely--

"Whatever you're willing to give me," he says, knowing how it sounds, knowing how vulnerable he's made himself. But he's trusted Phillip Broyles for years and this man hasn't done anything to contradict that trust.

The hand holding his arm lets go. Lincoln rolls his shoulder once to loosen it and then stands, waiting, not turning around.

"Your discretion is...in question," Broyles finally says, very low, and Lincoln winces. Apparently he's not the only one indulging in the gossip pool, and his inability to keep secrets has evidently crossed the dimensional barrier.

The only option is to cop to it and move on. "It's true, I sometimes...over-share. But not when it really matters. I respect your privacy." He leaves the "sir" implicit this time, because he already feels like he's going to explode.

There's a sound that sounds like an abrupt snort of amusement, and a thoughtful pause before Broyles says, "That drink might be in order. I have a 16-year-old Lagavulin in the cabinet at home. Or Johnny Walker Black, if you prefer."

It's a test, maybe. "If I say 'I'll have what you're having'...."

This time Phillip does laugh, and his broad warm hand settles briefly on the back of Lincoln's neck. He refrains from moaning, just. "It sounds like you're up to the challenge."

Lincoln doesn't actually *say* "I'm up for anything" as he follows Phillip down to his car. He's already made that clear enough, and Broyles, like the perceptive agent he is, has obviously gotten the message.



The Lagavulin is smoky, with enough sweetness underneath to balance it out. It's an interesting flavor, and tastes even better when Lincoln licks the last drops of Scotch out of Phillip's mouth. He's bad at keeping secrets, it's true. But for this one time, this one opportunity, it's worth any effort to keep his silence.

[(Anonymous)]

Broyles/Astrid, anything

"call for hands of above to lean on", Broyles/Astrid, SPOILERS FOR 3x19 "Lysergic Acid Diethylamide"

[(Anonymous)]

On the third day, Broyles seeks her out.

Astrid lets out a soft breath she didn't even know she'd been holding. "Sir," she says and doesn't make it a question.

He holds her eyes. "Agent Farnsworth. About the retrieval of Agent Dunham." Which clearly is one way of putting it -- into the official FBI report. "I apologize for having shouldered you with the responsibility of taking care of me in addition to overseeing the experiment."

"Oh, no" she says, and she can't quite keep the emotion out of her voice; she's just not like that, "it wasn't an imposition, it was --" more like a revelation. His large, elegant hand wrapped in hers. The stunning sweetness of his smile. Such a powerful personality at all times; to have all of it directed at her? "a nice thing, really." Astrid closes her eyes and internalizes her wince. Really, Miss Farnsworth? 'A nice thing?'

His voice is soft, makes her open them again. "Well, I appreciate it anyway, appreciate that you went out of your way to make me...comfortable."

Comfort is what she aimed for (what she aims for all the time with them, because she loves them and they need it), but it's not all he felt, then. She remembers his vision, she's read the report. Astrid doesn't need drugs to know that perceiving -- beyond mere mortality -- your actual death is not an experience a human being wants to make. "I'm just glad you're okay."

"I am, thanks to you. Farnsworth --" and now he hesitates; in all her time with Philipp Broyles, she's never once seen him do that. "It was a very intense experience, and I have since read up on the substance. You're probably what kept me sane." Now his lips actually curl into a smile she's never seen before either: not as luminous and innocent as the one before but gentle and self-deprecating, making something in her chest feel tight and too-loose at once. "Not that it seemed so at the moment, I imagine."

He looks down at the table. "Is it safe to touch this?"

She almost laughs, giddy for no reason, no reason at all. "Yes, yes the table surface is fine."

When Broyles puts his hands down and leans in, he's carefully leaving the table between them. But the distance to her across to the side where she's standing is much smaller now. "I won't forget this."

She meets his eyes. Maybe, just maybe, he isn't just talking about her doing her job.

"Me neither," she says and doesn't look away.

And the smile he gives her is almost as luminous as the one that very day, if less innocent than promising.

[(Anonymous)]

alt!Broyles (aka HardBroyles)/alt!Astrid (aka KickAsstrid) - Astrid's done the math on Broyles. She knows the history and source of every twitch, the angle of every motion, the probability of every word choice. She just isn't sure why she's focused her analysis in this way. Perhaps leading to hot Astrid-pov kink or sex or play that's very very cool and analytical.

[(Anonymous)]

aka KickAsstrid

By the way, I absolutely, fiercely love you for that.

[(Anonymous)]

Astrid/alt!Astrid: anything you like. Maybe something to do with trust, sameness/not-the-sameness, etc?

[(Anonymous)]

Olivia/Peter, D/s: Olivia makes Peter tell her everything he did with FauxLivia. Peter's ashamed and humiliated and shivery and turned on while she (holds him down? ravishes him?) and makes him cover every detail.

Olivia/Peter, D/s

[(Anonymous)]

They spend most of their time at Walter’s home. The exterior is built in angular points, like stab wounds, varnished wood and an internal design that spells masculine. Olivia feels safe, warm in her nest of blankets. She wakes to the sound of rickety stairs, Walter’s surprising baritone, the music of a waking household, something she’s missed desperately since Rachel and Ella’s departure.

Olivia thinks exclusive sex in the Bishop household is an unspoken deference, to not push at bruises, the sub-dermal injuries that lie beneath her skin. Where even Walter’s awkward presence is better than the ghosts who lurk too close.

But the night she brings Peter back to her apartment and he *stops*, bids her goodnight from the steps gives Olivia pause. She watches him as he ambles down the street, a tall figure in a pea-coat, hands shoved inside his pockets.

Her house is bright, where the Bishop’s has a closed in feel. Olivia didn’t lie. She brought a new bed, changed the sheets, rearranged her bedroom. Her anger didn’t extend to buying a new home but she’s reclaiming her territory piece by solitary piece.

The second time, Olivia manages to draw Peter inside. Her hand is a loose bracelet around his wrist, an insistent tug to come. They have case-files scattered around the low coffee table, a half empty bottle of single malt, and their conversation is the electric charge of insane ideas, completing one another’s sentences, and the odd non sequitur. She’s loose-limbed with alcohol, warm with unexpected happiness. The smile curves the edges of her mouth. “Come to bed with me.”

He does. He acts the perfect gentleman, a somnolent question mark curled close to her body. Peter doesn’t touch her inappropriately and god, god, this won’t do.

***

Peter’s not gracious when waking up. Olivia, he knows, sleeps in short bursts, three hours at a time, cat quick and instantly awake. As a teenager, Peter was the type of kid that buried his head under the pillowcase and groaned. Pins and needles stir him to consciousness, the deadened feeling when limbs have been stretched too long.

The handcuff would go a long way to explain that.

It’s not the fluffy kind, tight on his wrists and heavy duty, if he struggles, there will be ligature marks, Peter will spend the next week wearing long sleeves and trying to dodge Walter. In truth, he’s worn enough handcuffs to *not* find this particularly erotic. That’s something Olivia would know, one more link in the chain of commonality. She’s watching him, her arms folded across his chest and her chin resting on top. Their legs remain tangled together and Peter’s instantly, alarmingly, awake.

The chain is looped between the iron wrought bars; seventeen years of on-the-spot lying keeps his tone civil. “That’s misappropriation of FBI equipment, sweetheart.”

Olivia’s mouth twitches, because in the personal lexicon of Peter Bishop that endearment means anything but. Peter’s a tense line beneath her body, and Olivia doesn’t want to turn this into something it’s not. She sits up, thighs pressed against his flanks, sliding back until she straddles his lower abdomen. “Did the two of you only sleep here?”

“Olivia.” The chain clinks against the bars. Peter blinks rapidly. “This isn’t…”

“Full disclosure, remember?” Olivia leans forward, hair brushing against his torso, warm breath and a whisper into his ear. “I *like* this game.”

“We need to redraft the rules.” He says flatly. He can feel her smile, the sharp impression of teeth against his earlobe before she moves upward.

“Was she aggressive?”

Peter arches his neck to follow her progress, wariness warring against the promise of honesty. “Assertive,” he corrects, quietly.

He doesn’t think anything good can come from this line of questioning, stomach coiling into knots, his fists clenching. Olivia smoothes his fingers out, her face curiously unlined. She unlocks his right hand from the bracelet and snaps it closed just as quickly - fastened around the bars - keeping his left hand chained to the bedpost.

It’s a compromise of sorts; some of the desperate tension eases. Peter takes a breath, studies her more intently. Olivia rubs circles into his palm, fingers flirting up his arm and into his collarbone, easing the ache from his right shoulder. She’s kept his dominant side, the left side, restrained, but Peter will take the extra freedom. “Liv,” he drawls. Olivia turns her head, kisses the palm of his hand. Peter extends his arm until he can cup her cheek, until he can draw her down, the fragility of human flesh and the clean scent of her pressed beside him. “What are you doing?”

The prickliness has gone from his voice. The first time they had sex it was awkward, a little hesitant, more in common with fumbling teenagers than two adults in their early thirties; a sweetness that Olivia associates with childhood. The second time was a comedy of errors until Peter thumped his head against the wall and said fuck it. And the transition was pure gold, *joyous*, until her stomach muscles were a quivering mess, and Olivia couldn’t say if it was from the multiple orgasms or the laughter that bubbled through their encounter. Peter knows her body, learnt about it in this very room, she thinks.

The decision to forgive didn’t come easily - but it was her decision. She’s heard Peter’s reasons; that he thought Olivia was different because the status of their relationship changed, that he was now privy to different aspects of her emotions. Olivia might have called bullshit bullshit but the truth is – Peter was different too, no longer boarded up and guarded – him opening up to her was foreign territory. I feel like Rip Van Winkle. She thought the other Olivia wrought those changes; but in hindsight, she thinks that’s how Peter chooses to love. Once the decision’s made, he lets the walls drop.

He thought she was the same.

If their conversations were awkward, blunt, it was because Peter refused to raise the barriers - he didn’t have the luxury to obfuscate. And if Olivia chose to forgive him, then part of that reason was Walternate, still married to Elizabeth, and neither sharing the same bed; a man not capable of forgiving his wife, not for the theft of his son, or the thrift-store outfit that should have alerted her. Peter’s free arm curls around her spine.

“Getting acquainted,” Olivia answers, belatedly. “Did you have sex in the shower?”

“Swung from the chandeliers like monkeys.”

She rubs her thumb down his forehead, smoothes the line out, kisses him soft. “I’m flexible. Gymnastics in high school,” she gifts. Peter’s hungry for information, soaks up her offerings like a sponge, some of the worry’s being supplanted, humor leaking into his eyes. He can play her body like a maestros, the highs and lows of her personal orchestra. Olivia’s not interested in hurting him, she holds herself proudly aloof from the dynamics of her childhood. She does want the freedom to explore, though, to gather up lost ground.

Unlike his father, Peter doesn’t sleep naked, but he raises his hips when she tugs the boxers down, his mouth quirked, interested. He’s a male, healthy, it doesn’t take long for that interest to shift downward, and if Olivia uses her teeth, the crescent of her nails, it’s to punctuate the silence, to listen to his quiet hiss or the hitch of his breath.

[(Anonymous)]

Nina Sharp/William Bell; phone sex, but straddling the divide of different universes

[(Anonymous)]

Nina Sharp/William Bell; Bell searches for Alt!Nina in a sexual longing sort of way and either is crushed when he discovers that she's dead in red!verse or has a one night stand with alt!Nina when he finds her, but is still upset that she's not his Nina who's all ambitious and badass

[(Anonymous)]

SPOILERS FOR 3x17 STOWAWAY

Peter/Lincoln, (selective?) amnesia, hero worship

Could not shake the impression that whoa, Lincoln thought Peter was peanut butter and jelly at once. Of course, Peter loves Olivia more than life itself, so no slashing in canon or anytime ever as long as they're both around.

But...

[(Anonymous)]

Alt!Olivia/Olivia, Mirror Images

Besides playing with that idea, an emphasis on cunnilingus would be much appreciated.

[(Anonymous)]

Olivia blinked, not really sure how they went from fighting to kissing so quick. Their kissing was agressive, full of anger and competitiveness, one trying to test the other, yet it was delicious; maybe it was the way the other Olivia tugged at her hair as she pushed her tongue into her mouth pressing her body against the other. Alternate Olivia pushed her down onto the sofa, making the blonde fall with a huff. She took no time before straddling her nemesis, pining her to the cushions and dominating her, the green in her eyes firing with lust.

Olivia tried not to think of the craziness of the situation she found herself into and just stared at the mirror on the opposite wall, bemused, as the other version of herself opened her belt and pants, pulling them down her legs in one fast movement, leaving her bare and open, vulnerable. Coherent thinking left her brain as the woman lavished her belly with wet kisses while Olivia watched from the mirror, the weird image of her going down on herself. She moaned as the other Olivia pulled her legs apart and didn't waste time before running an earnest tongue over her folds, going straight to her most sensitive area. She gasped, amazed how she knew it. How could she not know it, she was herself, Olivia thought, before the other woman engaged in a steady pace that sent her close to an orgasm. Olivia let out a loud moan as she threw her head back, the image from the mirror still within her view. The sensations that were flowing through her body were too intense to focus on anything else but the redhead between her legs. She ran her fingers over the red hair of the other version of her, a mixture of wonder and excitement, as the redhead ran her tongue over clit in earnest, hitting the exact spot that sent her body trembling and quivering in an orgasm. It was perfect, from how she kissed her to how she pinned her to the bed.

Olivia closed her eyes as she saw a tiny explosion of fireworks in front of her eyes.

[(Anonymous)]

Alt-Olivia/Alt-Charlie/Alt-Lincoln, Poly, protectiveness/possessiveness.

In my canon, I like to think the trio from the alt!verse are/were lovers. They'll go to any means to protect each other... + the baby! ALL/ANY KINKS WELCOME!

In Thirds (post-Immortality)

[(Anonymous)]

In Thirds

Charlie leaves Lincoln to deal with the paperwork. Boss’ prerogative and all. That’s why Charlie never wanted to be in charge. He’s wound up, twitchy with spent adrenaline, so he makes his way to Lincoln’s apartment and lets himself in, if for no other reason than he figures (hopes?) both Lincoln and Liv will end up there eventually.

With Lincoln, he has no doubt. They caught the bug guy and nobody else died. There’s no reason to burn the candle at both ends tonight.

Liv, he’s not so sure about.

He’d used his Fringe Agent status to bully the hospital admissions clerk into confirming that, yes, an Agent Dunham had been admitted, and that she was listed as stable. Aside from the brief message from Frank (they gotta do something about the crappy reception on those earpieces) telling him that she hadn’t been dosed with beetle larvae after all, that’s all he knows.

Actually, Charlie thinks, there’s a lot of things about Liv he doesn’t know lately.

He hadn’t bothered bringing it up with Lincoln again, but something still feels off. He knows that this thing they have shouldn't work, should be tenuous at best, but somehow they're actually stronger for all it's quirks and jagged puzzle-piece edges. They need each other. Charlie worries that when Liv broke and Lincoln got burnt, a few few pieces were put back crooked. None of them have actually recovered, even though the shrinks have said otherwise.

Charlie’s in the fridge, reaching past the near-empty jar of mayo and looking for something a little stronger than water or flat 7-Up when the front door slams shut.

“It’s in the freezer.” Lincoln tosses his jacket at the back of the couch, misses, and doesn’t seem to care. The guy looks wound up tight enough to herniate himself.

“Read my mind.” Charlie pulls the clear bottle from underneath a bag of frozen French fries, and grabs a pair of spotty tumblers from the dish rack. “Any news?” he asks, pouring them each a generous couple of fingers.

Lincoln fills him in and Charlie slops the rum over the back of his hand. “Shit," is all he has to say.

Charlie’s always insisted on being careful, (even went as far as using his spiders as an excuse; they all knew it was bullshit but they never called him on it) always knowing that if something happened between the three of them, it would be Liv who'd pay the highest price.

He wonders which one of them she’s going to shoot first.

Turns out, neither of them.

Her key scrapes in the lock sometime after midnight. Charlie rubs the grit from his eyes and drops his feet from the coffee table. He’s slower than Lincoln, who’s on his feet already. He doesn’t think Lincoln’s sat for more than thirty seconds straight since he got home, but Charlie’s head was getting heavy after the third drink. This isn’t the first all-nighter for him this week.

“Liv-“

“Hey,” he says before Lincoln can get another word in. His throat feels all scratchy and rough from the drink and not enough sleep, but he figures it’s nothing compared to the day she’s had. “Let her take her jacket off before you pounce.” Though he can’t blame Lincoln for being worried.

She plasters on a smile because she thinks that’s what’s expected of her, but the smart-ass comeback isn’t there. She sheds her jacket, lets her bag and keys land where they land, and sinks down into the sofa beside him with a “Hey Charlie”. Charlie watches her, tries to pick up the clues he’s been missing, the signs that something about her is different, but all he sees right now is how stiffly she’s moving. Liv fell almost a story and a half through that rotten floor; it’s a miracle that all she’s got are a few bruises. She’s going to be hurting tomorrow if she isn’t already.

“What are you doing here Livvy?”

She rolls her head towards him. “What are you doing here?” She looks tired, red-eyed, and he knows her better than to ask why she’s not at home with Frank right now.

But Lincoln can’t help himself. The guy can’t not ask questions. It’s what makes him a good investigator; but it also makes Charlie want to cuff him sometimes. Charlie’s always found that the answers come easier when he’s listening for them. He just has to find the quiet.

“I convinced the docs I’d get more rest at home in my own bed,” Liv tells him, not exactly dodging the question. Charlie stretches an arm across the back of the sofa and doesn’t point out that this isn’t technically her own bed. She uses the opportunity to weasel her way closer and sinks heavily against his ribs. Lincoln plants himself in the space she’s just freed up.

She stretches her legs across Lincoln’s lap and Charlie feels her sag, like she’s finally letting go of the last of the tension that’s been keeping her upright. Lincoln rubs a thumb up and down her calf and seems to come down from that high-pitched vibration that’s been driving him since he pulled a gun on the bug guy, to something closer to a sub-sonic oscillation, soothed somewhat by their pieces all falling into the right places.

This stillness feels easy, like a long, slow breathe. Charlie finally stops thinking about what they would’ve done if they hadn’t been in time, if they’d lost Liv, but that just opens the door on a whole other set of concerns.

“You can stop worrying,” she says sleepily, as if she’s read his mind. Or Lincoln’s. “It’s not yours.”

Lincoln’s hand stills and Charlie swears the guy’s face falls just a bit. He glances over at Charlie, but Charlie just gives him a slow headshake that he hopes comes across as ‘don’t push it right now’. They’ve all got their issues and Lincoln’s crush is no secret, not to Charlie, but they make this work, keep each other checked and balanced.

Lincoln gets the hint. He pulls a blanket from the armchair and drapes it across Liv as her eyes slip shut. Charlie lets his hand drop to her hip, feels her shift once more, then settle.

“Wasn’t worried,” Lincoln says as his hand finds her leg again, but she’s already breathing deeply. Asleep.

Charlie’s got questions, lots of them. Like what really happened after her break and why she’s keeping secrets from them, but he’s not going to get answers tonight. Maybe, not at all. Doesn’t matter. As long as they still fit together somehow.

[(Anonymous)]

Olivia/Peter; lingerie shopping

She needs something Fauxlivia hasn't touched and Peter just wants to touch her

[(Anonymous)]

There are two things Olivia never skimps on: shoes and underwear.

The former because there’s nothing more embarrassing than losing a suspect during a foot chase to a turned ankle, and the latter because one never knows when one is going to need to strip down their skivvies and submerge themselves in a tank of saltwater.

It happens more often than she’d like to admit.

Like a good Boy Scout, she likes to be prepared.

She's pretty sure there isn’t a chapter in the handbook on this.

'How the hell we’re going to explain this to mall security if we get caught?' is front and center in her mind at the moment. She doesn’t think flashing her FBI identification would work in their favor right now.

Okay, it’s not entirely front and center. More like brief and fleeting. And then Peter does something with his mouth and her ear and that thought is completely gone.

It started like this: Peter let himself into her apartment, takeout coffee and bakery box in hand, just as Olivia was staring down the pile of cotton and Lycra on the floor in front of her lingerie drawer.

“Problems?” he’d asked as he put the box and the cups on the counter and came to lean against her bedroom doorjamb with his arms crossed like he was getting ready to talk Walter down from some harebrained scheme. She’d turned, at once taken aback at his familiarity in her home, and annoyed at herself for forgetting that this wasn’t his first visit to her bedroom.

Actually, everything seemed to be annoying her this morning.

“I feel like the three bears,” she’d snapped back. Then huffed and grabbed the offending pile of clothes.

“Somebody’s been eating your oatmeal?” he answered, very careful, she noted, not to mention anything about sleeping or her bed.

“It’s porridge, not oatmeal.” Olivia stuffed the armload of straps, clasps, and ever-practical racing backs into their drawer and stalked past Peter, zeroing in on the waiting coffee. She might have let her arms brush his as she purposely strayed into his space, almost daring him to react.

She felt prickly, like somebody had waltzed into her apartment and shifted everything three inches to the left and she was still bumping her shins in the dark. And it wasn’t that the other person had worn her clothes... her shoes... even her underwear. Hell, she’d done the exact same thing over there, after all. Intentional, or not. No big deal. She and Rachel used to share clothes all the time. This wasn’t that weird.

No, it was that all the little differences she’d so carefully catalogued and analyzed (and that everybody else had missed) didn’t bother her nearly as much as all the ways she’d realized that she and the other Olivia were exactly alike.

They even wore the same brand of underwear, for crying out loud. Really, what were the chances? Did Fruit of the Loom have that much of a market share across universes?

Peter was just an easy target for her frustration. For obvious reasons.

“You know,” he’d offered, all cool and smooth. “We could always go shopping.” He leaned back against her kitchen counter with a casualness she tried hard to ignore and sipped his coffee while he waited for her to turn over the suggestion and come up with excuses why they couldn’t just play hooky today.

Frankly, she couldn’t think of any. Walter had gotten to be more self-sufficient lately, and their caseload was quiet. Besides, skipping work is something she never did. Which made the idea all the more attractive.

Olivia grabbed a doughnut, one of the messy ones with the jam inside which she usually avoided because there was no way to eat them without looking like she’d tried to wear one. “Okay,” she said after a few bites. “Let’s go.”

“Right now?” Peter quirked an eyebrow. If he was surprised at her complete lack of argument, or her suddenly absent sense of responsibility, that was the only clue.

She couldn’t help herself. Maybe it was his Mr. Calm, Cool, and Collected act, maybe it was his refusal to play to her frustration that was annoying her, but whatever the cause, she could feel the tension building inside her, boiling and spitting, looking for an excuse to spill over and singe them both.

She licked the powdered doughnut sugar off her index finger, slowly, knowing full-well that he was watching her do it. Hoping for some sort of reaction from him.

All she got was, “Are you driving or am I?”

So that’s how she ended up with her leg wrapped around his waist and her mouth buried against his neck in the Victoria’s Secret fitting room on a Thursday morning.

Well, no, that part could be blamed entirely on the stuck bra clasp.

Mostly.

Sort of. In a roundabout way.

She’s feeling kind of bold by the time she’d made a circuit of the store with an armload of lace and satin, and not a stitch of spandex in sight. Peter had dutifully followed her around, making suggestions and pointing things out with that patently bland expression of his, the one that says he’s counting the cards played and waiting for the ace to fall, the other shoe to drop.

“How about this?” Olivia holds up a slinky little number that’s more frills and plastic hanger than actual garment. There’s no way she’d be caught dead in Walter’s lab wearing it. (The risk of impromptu nudity is just way too high) The thing is, neither would the other Olivia.

And that’s what makes it appealing.

Peter tilts his head, giving the excuse for a bra close consideration. “I don’t know,” he looks her straight in the eye. “I’d have to see you try it on.” He doesn’t even blink.

They’re like kids playing at a dare and he’s just upped the ante.

He’s not the first boyfriend dragged along lingerie shopping, so Phyllis, the saleslady with the prim and proper silver perm doesn’t say anything when Peter follows Olivia into the tiny cubicle and just pulls the floor-length curtain shut.

“If you need a different size dear, just shout.” Her voice fades towards the front of the store.

Olivia doesn’t bother answering. It’s warm in here with the tiny halogen spotlights beating down from every angle and the heavy velvet curtain muffling the noise from the mall. Peter has staked his claim on the single chair in the corner, and he’s sitting like some bored lord-of-the manor with his chin propped on his knuckles and a lap full of silk panties and lacey bras. Watching her.

Daring her to see the bet and raise him one.

She turns away from him, towards one of the mirrors and watches his reflection. She undoes the top button of her blouse and he shifts slightly, tilts his head for a better angle.

She takes her time with the second button, then the third, and when Peter moves again, she realizes that he’s watching her reflection in the second mirror as well. He’s got a full one hundred eighty degree show.

He realizes she’s stopped undressing, and drags his heavy-lidded baby-blues up towards hers. It’s at that moment that she knows, if they’d been at the poker table, now would have been the time to call his bluff. She undoes the final button and lets her blouse fall, watching him run his index finger along his bottom lip as he watches her.

The air is still in the tiny room and it feels like the temperature has gone up about ten degrees. She can smell his aftershave now and it makes her stomach dip. Peter holds up a mess of lace. “Try this one first.”

Olivia reaches behind her back and undoes the first hook on her own ever-practical black bra. It’s the second hook that sticks.

“Need help?” Peter drawls, always the gentleman.

She doesn’t want to admit that she’s losing the upper hand, so she just shrugs. Minor setback. Change of strategy. She’s always been good at thinking on her feet. “If you’d like.” It almost comes out sounding casual.

Apparently he does like. He takes advantage of the opening and lets the backs of his fingers brush along her spine as he works the clasp. He’s not the only one who can take advantage of the mirror, she decides as she watches him. He leans in and she can feel his breath as it stirs the fine hairs on her neck.

Peter knows the effect he’s having on her and takes a step closer until he’s pressed against the bare skin of her back. He’s warm, even through the fabric of his shirt, and she can feel him breathing, his heart pounding.

He lets his hand drop, clasp forgotten, lets his fingers slides down her spine until they rest lightly on her hip. She shivers, just a bit, but it’s enough. His reflection smiles back at her, and then as she watches, he brings his lips down to the angle of her collarbone and dots her skin with light kisses.

Her breath catches as he makes his way up her neck and nips at her earlobe with his teeth. She leans back into him, lets her head rest against his shoulder and searches back through borrowed memories. Her alternate was bold, showy sometimes, and proud of the fact, but Olivia is certain that she’s never done this.

It’s enough.

A fire ignites, low in her gut, and she reaches up, behind her, and runs her fingers through Peter’s hair. She catches a handful and turns, twisting into him so she can pull him closer. Captures his lips in hers. He gasps, surprised at the turn in play and takes a step closer, backing her into the angle of the corner. Her hands are not still either, roaming up under the hem of his shirt, sometimes slipping down to graze the skin just below his waistband.

Their breathing seems loud in the tight space. He dips his head so he can trail his lips down her neck to the V of her bra. She turns her head so she can watch him in the mirror, see him push aside the cotton and explore her breast with his tongue. She gasps and feels him chuckle low in his throat. She pulls his mouth back up to hers, arches into his body and finds he’s hard against her.

As he presses his thigh between hers and pulls her knee up, trying for a better angle, she forgets why she was annoyed with him in the first place.

“Everything okay in there?” Phyllis the saleslady calls from the other side of the curtain.

Peter freezes with his hand halfway down the front of her pants and she bites into the fabric of his shirt to keep from gasping too loud. “You’d better answer her,” Peter mumbles into the skin just below her jaw. “She might think she needs to come in and check.”

Olivia swallows hard. “Fine,” she manages, barely. “Almost done.”

Phyllis seems satisfied. “Sure thing dear. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Will do.” Olivia’s sure it comes out as a squeak.

“So what’s next?” Peter breathes against her flushed skin. She can feel the suggestion in the way his lips curve against her neck.

“Well,” she licks her lips and catches her breath. “I really could use a new pair of boots.”

Peter pulls back a bit with a smirk. “Now that might be an interesting challenge.”

[(Anonymous)]

Nina/Bellivia - quick, dirty, morally ambiguous reunion sex. All kinks welcome, the rougher the better!

[(Anonymous)]

Olivia/anyone, crossdressing, genderplay

[(Anonymous)]

Olivia pushed him down onto the sofa with her high-heeled shoes and Peter let his body fall with a huff, as she looked up at her, bemused at the sight. If there was anyone he would trust for something like that, this person would be Olivia Dunham.

He didn’t take her seriously when she said she would do that but now that she was there he silently prayed Walter would take his time to return from the lab.

“So, Peter, this might not be exactly what you wanted but it’s what you have. Deal with it,” she said, straightening the tie around her neck.

Olivia looked arousing, in a tight-fitting black suit and red tie, dark eye shadow on her eyelids and mascara, deep red lipstick tinting her perfect mouth, in which she wore in a lopsided grin that almost seemed cynical on her. It was in harsh contrast to how she poised in front of him, masculine and indifferent, as if she could actually ooze testosterone right now.

Peter groaned lowly, feeling a surge of blood straight to his penis. She caught his reaction and walked closer to him on the sofa, straddling him.

“So, last chance to give up,” she said, caressing his throat and his Adam’s Apple in a slow movement. She pressed closer to him and Peter felt the bulge between her legs from the extra accessory she was wearing for the occasion. He let out a throaty laughter.

“I never give up a challenge, sweetheart,” he whispered.