Post #1

Apr. 16th, 2011 07:02 pm
fringekink_mod: Olivia, in bed and naked under the sheets (what? Totally!), eyes closed, smiling blissfully, hair fanned out on pillow (Default)
[personal profile] fringekink_mod posting in [community profile] fringe_kinkmeme
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 [personal profile] 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).

Alt-Olivia/Olivia/Alt-Frank

Date: 2011-05-01 05:41 pm (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
Alt-Olivia/Olivia/Alt-Frank, ther are two of you?

Re: Alt-Olivia/Olivia/Alt-Frank

Date: 2011-06-12 06:19 am (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
this could be sooo hot!!!

Date: 2011-05-01 06:12 pm (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
peter/olivia, dirty talk and/or phone sex

Date: 2011-05-01 06:15 pm (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
cool!

(no subject)

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2011-05-01 07:47 pm (UTC) - Expand

blue walter/red elizabeth

Date: 2011-05-02 03:58 am (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
blue walter/red elizabeth, i'm so sorry my dear

Re: blue walter/red elizabeth

Date: 2011-06-15 05:08 am (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
I WANT THIS ONE, NOW!!!!!!

The Children's Rose

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2011-06-24 05:37 am (UTC) - Expand

Re: The Children's Rose

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2011-06-25 11:12 pm (UTC) - Expand

Re: The Children's Rose

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2011-07-03 02:45 am (UTC) - Expand

Date: 2011-05-05 01:52 am (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
Nina/Olivia, Olivia on her knees

Date: 2011-05-05 01:53 am (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
Olivia/Charlie, during S1, sex pollen

Afterward [porn!fail of the most dire kind]

Date: 2012-10-30 05:14 pm (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
This is not what you were looking for, OP. I'll try for better next time.

***

Sonia always knew when her husband had a particularly bad day. He got quiet(er) and more subtly attentive, like how he’d take out the garbage without being asked. She tried to fill the silences with terrible jokes and inconsequential news of the day, neighborhood gossip and chatter about a new recipe she wanted to try.

Her best effort wasn’t making a dent, tonight. Charlie barely ate, finally pushing his plate away with a sigh. Sonia put away the leftovers without comment; he’d tell her when he was ready.

Sure enough, after he’d finished helping clear the kitchen Charlie took her hand and pulled her into the living room, sitting her down in her favorite chair. So this was serious, then. Something about work, something significant--

“I need you to read this.” Charlie pulled a slim folder out of his briefcase. When he handed it over, she saw the “eyes only” stamp on its cover. She glanced at him, now really concerned--he’d never brought anything like this home before.

“I got permission. It’s okay, just-- it’s a case I was working the last few days.”

She opened the folder.

The report inside was-- it was weird, kind of like a science-fiction story. All about some strange chemical that the FBI had been tracing, at first they’d thought it was a new kind of meth, but the effects were all wrong. People were dying, but not of a traditional drug overdose. They were dying because--

Sonia’s eyes went wide as she got to the real point. Some crazy scientist had created an honest-to-God super-aphrodisiac. Not like oysters (didn’t work on her) or chocolate (sometimes did) or any of the usual suspects, which were really more about suggestion than anything else. This one sent people’s sex drives into overload, flooding their systems with hormones and basically--if she was reading all the technical double-speak correctly--making them want to fuck anything in sight. And if they didn’t, they died.

She blinked at the concluding paragraphs, and then up at Charlie. “Is this the kind of stuff you work on?”

“Sometimes,” Charlie said, and his voice sounded strange. Like he was...angry at himself? “I needed you to read that one because something happened today.”

That wasn’t anger, it was guilt. “Spit it out, babe.”

Charlie paced around their small living room for a moment, then stopped and faced her. “Yeah, well. We found the main lab of the freak making this stuff. Caught him, shut it down, all that good stuff. Only during the raid, one of the beakers broke. I got exposed.”

It didn’t register for a moment, and then it did. “But-- but this says--”

“Yeah,” Charlie said simply. “Olivia was there.”

He didn’t say anything else, didn’t offer any further explanation or defense. Because really, what else was there to say? It was all there in the report and in between his terse words. Her husband had been dosed with a sex-drug and screwed Olivia Dunham. Blonde, leggy Olivia Dunham who’d been over to their house for Sunday dinner and who Sonia had never, ever thought harbored even the slightest lustful thought toward her Charlie.

Sonia was furious.

For about two-point-five seconds.

Because the report had been very clear: victims hit by this stuff literally had to fuck or die. Which meant that Olivia-- well, basically, she’d saved Charlie’s life. Even if the method wasn’t approved by the AMA.

Sonia tossed the folder aside, not caring as the papers scattered everywhere. She stood up and went over to him, but Charlie flinched away from her outstretched hand.

That wasn’t gonna fly. “Babe, no, look at me.”

He did, his eyes full of apprehension. She hated that look. “Just tell me one thing: Were you safe?”

Charlie stared at her.

It wasn’t that she thought Olivia was disease-ridden, or anything. But if there were gonna be any little Charlie Francises running around, Sonia was damn sure she wanted them to be hers. She made a “hurry up” motion with her hand. “Well?”

He coughed, still looking dazed. “Uh, yeah, there were condoms--”

“Okay,” Sonia said, interrupting, because understanding or not, there were limits. “That’s-- that’s good. And I’m glad you told me. I’m glad you’re here to tell me.”

She stepped into his space, feeling absurdly relieved when his arms came up to hold her. Maybe he’d want to talk about it more later, and maybe he wouldn’t, and either way they’d deal with it and move on. Maybe it’d even be okay if she joked about it someday, like how it was lucky it’d been Olivia there with him and not that consultant they’d been working with, Peter something.

Or maybe not. But Charlie was here and he was alive. Anything else was just a detail.

Re: Afterward [porn!fail of the most dire kind]

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2012-10-30 09:45 pm (UTC) - Expand

previously....

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2012-11-06 09:56 pm (UTC) - Expand

Re: previously....

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2012-11-09 08:53 am (UTC) - Expand

Date: 2011-05-05 02:00 am (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
Brown Betty verse/DS9 sci-fi writers verse crossover; gen (or Olivia/Esther); Benny has the answers to a mystery, and Olivia can get him out.

Date: 2011-05-09 06:00 am (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
Olivia/Astrid, in the lab
From: (Anonymous)
She murmurs. “Breathe.”

“I am. A little too fast, like palpitations really, should my heartbeat be this quick?” Her fingers scramble against the buttons of her blouse, pushing two fingers in through the seam and stroking against the lace of her bra. “I could dance the flamenco to this.” The lights are too bright, her eyes wide, mouth dry. Astrid pushes her tongue against the back of her teeth, swallows, and then does it again until moisture forms. “I’m scared, like Rachel Marrens.”

“Forget about your heartbeat,” she soothes quietly. “Just concentrate on breathing.”

Knuckles press against Astrid’s heated cheek, caress down, drag against her skin until she sways forward. It’s tactile: she needs the grounding, nudges into it. Her curls are in her eyes, stinging the pupils, making them bright with unshed tears. “Her father used to see frogs.”

Olivia tilts her head. She tries with a degree of uncertainty. “It’s better than seeing dead people?”

“I hated that movie.” Astrid’s hungry, scared, her feet tripping a beat against twirling flamencos. “Everyone said there was a twist, and I guessed the end in the first five minutes. She never looked him in the eye at the restaurant.”

“You’d be a mean player at the poker table.”

“I was a better dancer.” She catches the look Olivia throws, warm, meditative, scanning over Astrid’s slight form, her hollow bones, her flushed cheeks. She concentrates on breathing. Astrid hooks her quick feet, their treacherous beat, under the stool to keep them from dancing away. “Olivia,” she says loudly, her voice ringing through the lab until she drops the volume in surprise. “I don’t mean to be a bother. You shouldn’t…you have other things to do. I can sit this out. I’ve seen Walter do it a hundred times. You shouldn’t waste time when you could be hunting Berrick.”

She’s inordinately proud she didn’t slur her words once. Astrid beams.

“I’m not wasting time,” Olivia says evenly. “Berrick can wait.” There’s a lengthy pause, dragging out until Astrid realises she isn’t going anywhere. “Why did Rachel’s father see frogs?”

“Schizophrenic. His wife left, things were tight at home, and sometimes he forgot his medication…or maybe he didn’t like it. Rachel took to sleeping on our couch when he skipped his meds. My dad’s couch, I mean. Have you met him?”

“No.”

“He’s awesome.” She says winningly.

She can see the smile creeping into Olivia’s eyes; her mouth slants, becomes generous. Olivia leans forward on her elbows and says seriously. “He would have to be, given his relations.”

Astrid hums. A burst of warmth catches in the back of her throat, tickles through her vocal chords. Olivia’s all golden hair and lioness eyes - her body still as a prairie in the fool’s light - filled with things that are hidden in the long grass.

“Walter’s good. Docile sometimes; sometimes frantic; but good: not violent. Rachel’s father attacked her with a knife because he thought her arms were covered in frogs.”

“You’re not schizophrenic.”

“I’m not in my right mind.”

“I’m right here.”

“I really want to dance.” Astrid confesses.

She has the feeling Olivia’s trying not to laugh. Her hand comes to rest on top of Astrid’s, one over the other, their fingers laced together. Astrid confesses. “Would you believe for all the times I’ve minded Walter, I’ve never once been high? Except for when I got my wisdom teeth out, I was high for a week then, but this is different. What if I forget to look after him, if I leave a Bunsen burner on? What if I turn violent, or hurt someone?”

“The flamenco can definitely look that way.”

Astrid pauses mid-flow, she says indignantly. “No it doesn’t.” Then she thinks in alarm, I really am high.

Olivia strokes a thumb over her wrist, tone thoughtful. “I never knew you could dance.”

Astrid regards the other woman, body at war between hot and cold, thoughts scattershot, but Olivia promised she wouldn’t leave for the duration and Astrid’s grateful there’s someone here, willing to stand sentinel and keep *Astrid* company for once, pressing bone against skin so she doesn’t fly away. “I’d tell you about me. If you’d like to hear?” she adds, uncertainly.

“My mother used to dance,” Olivia says out of the blue. Her body settles in its seat, becomes comfortable. “It was ballroom, though, not flamenco. I’ve seen photos of her and my dad in his dress uniform. They looked glamorous.” The hand on Astrid’s tightens, the smile in Olivia’s eyes becomes enveloping. It pierces through Walter’s drugs, the accidental dosage, worms into Astrid’s ribcage, its frantic heartbeat. She breathes out, suffused with warmth.

“I’d love to hear your stories.”


Re: Frogs, Drugs, and a discussion or Two - Olivia, Astrid, gen.

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2012-03-05 09:23 pm (UTC) - Expand

Date: 2011-05-09 06:00 am (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
Blueverse Olivia/redverse Charlie, something missing

Date: 2011-05-11 11:02 pm (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
Thomas Jerome Newton/Peter Bishop

It takes Walternate longer to arrive at that crappy motel than thought.

Extreme Prejudice.

Date: 2011-05-12 01:04 pm (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
“Peter… Uh-uh.”

Newton’s voice doesn’t sound like a villain, the admonishment to leave the weapon stopping Peter in his tracks. Krista’s mixed CD clatters to the floor, the headphones still looped around his neck, heart in throat. Peter’s vision blurs momentarily, too long without sleep, too high on caffeine.

He raises his hands.

Newton nods approvingly, weapon canted. Peter’s trying to shrug off the cloud of exhaustion, paranoia that’s kept him moving like a shark, never stopping. He thought, finally, that Mathis was right, looking for meaning where there was none, crazy as Walter, but the second Peter lowered his guard…

They were here all along, he thinks bitterly, in the forest too.

“If you’d lie back down, sir.” The shape-shifter’s voice remains pleasant, a warm undercurrent, like someone’s favorite uncle. When Peter obeys, Newton strips the clip from the automatic, clears the round from the chamber. He shuts the door behind him, drawing the chain for extra security and sits on a ratty chair in the corner.

“What now?” Peter inquires.

“We wait. We weren’t expecting you to leave Boston so quickly. Our visitor needs time to recuperate before he can join us; he sent me to ensure you didn’t travel too far.”

“A lot of effort for a chat,” Peter draws, emphasizing the last word in the same accent as the shape-shifter.

Newton’s mouth curves, his eyes the color of worn-out denim. “One might think so, yes.”

“For something not real, you pass well.”

“Not real?”

“Not human, a machine.” He’s needling Newton; it’s what Peter does when he’s uncertain, seeking out a reaction, a baseline to work from.

The curve on Newton’s mouth becomes pronounced, a crescent half-smile. “Don’t agitate the monkeys, Peter, it might not end so well for you.”

Peter stares up at the ceiling, thinks about the shotty under the bed, the knife in his back pocket. Newton stares at him, unblinking, his gaze heavy as a physical weight.

Agitated, Peter snaps, “What do you want from me?”

Newton was created for one thing; to obey orders, his personal god’s arriving soon, but this is the closest Newton can come to worshipping at his altar. The man on the bed is a sibling of sorts, designed if not from mercury then of blood. Keep Peter Bishop alive. But no order was passed on what state he had to be in. Newton stands, shrugs the long coat from his shoulders.

Peter, seemingly relaxed, launches from the bed like a tiger, the knife low, quick in his hand.

The first slash tears Newton’s belly from hipbone to breastplate while his arms are still trapped in the coat - the pain doesn’t register, the Secretary having deemed the sensation unimportant - Peter pivots, Newton echoes him, fluid as water; the coat drops to the floor like second skin. The weapon Newton holds flies up, ready to fire. It’s not any make or model Peter’s seen before; desperate, he clashes with the older man, they totter as drunkards, stagger across the floor, knife and gun crossed, their faces set with strain. Newton doesn’t have any body odor, the absence telling; the skin on his stomach knits back together, mercury smearing Peter’s jacket like stars in the night. The machine, and it’s what Newton is, avuncular voice or not, remains impossibly strong.

The gun slips down.

Peter flips the knife, angled along his own forearm, and takes one step back, he slashes Newton’s throat the same instant the weapon fires. Peter reverses direction, stabbing backward, impaling the neck from left ear to right. Newton chokes, eyes rolling, teeth bared. Peter glances down, where a blue vial is projecting from his hip, the result of the weapons discharge. Peter releases his hold as the light in the room begins to dim. He takes two steps toward the door when his muscles seize, dropping him to his knees, keeling over like a sailing mast in heavy storms. The last image Peter sees is Newton removing the blade from his own throat, head tilted thoughtfully, as if Peter’s an unruly, or troubling, houseguest.

“It’s a paralyzing agent,” Newton explains when Peter awakes. “It should keep you immobile and safe until the Secretary arrives.”

It feels too much like Tyler Carson, not being able to move his own body. Peter’s not claustrophobic, but there’s an imperative running through his veins like a fault line. He bites down on his tongue, feels his fingers twitch inward, but that’s it, no more freedom to move. The rise and fall of his chest is the only clue to his distress. Peter locks his emotions down tighter than a fortress under siege, regulates his breathing to the very second. The room has changed since the last time he was conscious. There’s a duffel bag on the chair, presumably from Newton’s car. As for the shape-shifter himself, he stands naked, the clothing that was torn, stained with mercury, bundled into plastic bags. He looks like a man in his early forties, once fit, fair skinned. He’s perfectly formed, not a single blemish from the knife wounds Peter inflicted. As for the other differences in the room, they have to do with location and his own state of dress, namely, back on the bed and none.

“Immobility is the only effect. You’ll see sensation; heat, cold, pain or even pleasure, are still interpreted by the neurons in your brain. Physical deprivation of course makes one more sensitive to touch, but I wouldn’t let that worry you, my kind aren’t real, remember?” Newton watches him, his gaze frank, assessing. He’s a truer child than Peter Bishop will ever be, his loyalties fixed, certain; Newton remembers the Secretary’s touch in the deserted warehouse, the fierce clasp of co-joined hands. He has a brother of sorts, but this flawed creation will always be more revered by the Secretary. Newton finds himself curious as to why.

There are scars on Peter’s body, stories with no context. Newton places one hand on the human’s torso, traces the marked border-zones of conflict. The skin pebbles under his touch. Peter’s eyes narrow to pinpricks. Newton corralled what the Secretary prized; he had a job and Newton achieved it. He presses down harder, rakes his nails across the spare fingers of Peter’s ribcage. The skin reddens into an upraised welt. Peter hisses, a quick expulsion of breath. The Secretary prizes family above all else.

Newton needs to be closer, peel the layers back, drape the claim of ownership across both their shoulders, Newton doesn’t feel attraction or desire for the man before him, his actions are guided by the desire for commonality. When he drops his hand further, skirting the hollows of the hip, the lower abdominal muscles that dip into a V, Peter swallows convulsively. “Don’t.”

It’s barely audible to the human ear, for Newton, it’s as clear as a microphone. The human’s penis (cock, dick, johnson, wily, the name’s vary, each as ridiculous as the last) lies quiescent, soft in muted shadow. Newton lays his hand over the vulnerability, flicks his thumb across the hood. Peter twitches, his eyes close, the eyelashes a dark fan obscuring emotion. His mouth becomes a thin line, the rise and fall of his chest even.

Newton calculates the time, how long ago Peter was exposed to the paralyzing agent, the finer muscle groups which are only just beginning to respond, (fingers, toes, facial tics), versus the heaviness of Peter’s limbs, his upper body, and swallows him to the root.

Peter makes a sound like he’s been punched.

The human’s cock (Newton decides) lies heavy on his tongue, the taste not unpleasant. Newton has no gag reflex and at present Peter’s body has no interest in the proceedings, it’s not difficult to take his entire measure, to press his mouth to soft hair, breath through his nose and swallow. A human body is hot-wired to stimuli, a firing of neurons geared toward pleasure, the outcome inevitable, reliable as a machine.

Newton swallows, presses his lips tight, and drags upward tortuously slow. When he does it for the fourth time, Peter’s breathing turns ragged, the flesh soft in his mouth hardens. Peter’s upper torso twists, one hand batters down toward Newton’s head. Newton captures the limb easily, presses the wrist into the mattress and pulls off, the sound obscenely wet. Where Peter’s face had been carefully blank earlier it’s now easily read, his teeth are showing, eyes glittering with hate; motor control hasn’t fully returned, his body remains malleable.

Calmly, Newton wraps both hands under Peter’s thighs and raises his hips, he licks a strip from anus to scrotum, nips the skin between the exposed balls. Peter bucks, sweat breaks out across his skin, both nipples drawing in tight with pain. Newton flips him onto his belly, makes himself comfortable between Peter’s legs, and uses the width of his shoulders to keep them widely spaced. He uses his tongue, plunges into the dark crevice without pause for mercy, slow undulations while Peter trembles, fists scrambling against the sheets. He stays there for long minutes, both hands tight on Peter’s hips, when Newton finally pulls his mouth away he pushes three fingers in, angled true. Peter isn’t silent, his cock a hard line pressed against his stomach, dripping pre-come. Newton was unique among the shape-shifters, one of a kind; he fucks Peter with his hand, playing the prostate relentlessly, quick stabbing motions that rock Peter forward, the left hand he wraps around Peter’s throat, fingers pushing into his mouth. When Peter snaps his mouth shut, bites down, Newton wrenches his hand away.

There are indentations on his forefinger, smiling, Newton places his teeth over the exact spot, tears the flesh until the mercury flows into a thin stream and hardens, tensile strong, whippet thin. He reaches between Peter’s leg, strokes the cock to the tip of the penis, then inserts the metal down the urethra, pre-come the only lubrication to ease the passage.

Peter freezes, plugged and filled, his body a perfect arch, a bridge between pleasure and pain. He sobs once, the sound broken, strangely young. Newton kisses his flank, careful now, no longer rocking him violently. “Move,” Newton suggests quietly, “the sooner you come the quicker it’s over.”

Fingers deep in his ass, metal down his cock, there’s no direction Peter wants to go, the fine tremors shaking his frame are almost too much. Sweat soaks his hair, his knees so widely spaced his belly’s barely off the mattress. If he looks down the length of his body he can see Newton’s hand wrapped around the tip of his cock, the ‘finger’ invading him. He shakes his head once and whispers, “I can’t.”

“Would you like some help?” Dulcet tones, the question voiced like Newton’s offering to help serve afternoon tea at the Palace. Peter blinks sweat from his eyes, feels his body go cold. “Peter, I asked you a question?”

He can’t voice the capitulation, terror and sheer rage chokes the words from his mouth, he nods once, sharply. The fingers in his ass flex, stretching to their widest point, then slide from his body. His cock pulses, scrotum pulled tight. He feels horribly empty for a moment, asshole gaping wide, he’s waiting to see if Newton will withdraw the spike as well, but when the second hand snakes around his body, joins the first, wrapping around the root instead, the terror rushes back in.

“Sssh,” Newton soothes, he pulls Peter back against his chest, easing him from doggy position to upright on his knees. “Brace your hands against the wall.” Peter can’t remember if he spoke aloud, heartbeat thundering in his ears, he watches wide-eyed as Newton pumps him. The hand with the spike remains steady, never moves forward nor back. Peter’s muscles are stone, his cock rigid. A slow jack up with a twist, then Newton slides his hand back down, he has his chin hooked over Peter’s shoulder, his expression meditative as he watches. A slow jack up with a twist, then slides his hand back down, recycle, repeat again. Peter flexes against the wall, head falling back, throat exposed, the trembling in his body becomes more pronounced. He comes with a sound like pain, shuddering, body flushing sweet rose. Newton holds him steady throughout it, when the ejaculation ends, he remains still. Newton refuses to remove the spike for almost five minutes, when he does, the come leaks out of Peter’s body like syrup, stringy thick, oozing white.

Peter collapses, quiet with shock.

Newton tilts his head, teeth showing. “Don’t feel bad, human, the body is but a machine.”

Peter kills his first shape-shifter one year later, he does it with a bullet to the skull, a knife to the spine, he does it with extreme prejudice. When Walter says it’s the machine who’s done this, Peter doesn’t begin to explain.

Re: Extreme Prejudice.

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2011-05-12 01:20 pm (UTC) - Expand

Re: Extreme Prejudice.

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2011-05-12 08:55 pm (UTC) - Expand

Date: 2011-05-12 10:00 pm (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
Peter Bishop/Charlie Francis

"I'm the guy to break the law for you".

Date: 2011-05-22 11:11 pm (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
Oh, that's an intriguing one...

Date: 2011-05-12 10:02 pm (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
Peter Bishop/OH Lincoln Lee; Domination

Peter decides to thank Lincoln for his help.

Date: 2011-05-12 10:48 pm (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
Quick clarification, OH is blue Lincoln, yes? From the OS ep?

(no subject)

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2011-05-12 11:08 pm (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2011-05-12 11:27 pm (UTC) - Expand

Unguarded Moment (Peter Bishop/Lincoln Lee)

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2011-05-18 04:08 am (UTC) - Expand

Re: Unguarded Moment (Peter Bishop/Lincoln Lee)

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2011-05-18 09:07 am (UTC) - Expand

Re: Unguarded Moment (Peter Bishop/Lincoln Lee)

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2011-05-18 02:33 pm (UTC) - Expand

Smut

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2011-11-10 06:25 am (UTC) - Expand

Re: Smut

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2011-11-10 08:20 am (UTC) - Expand

Re: Smut

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2011-11-12 01:24 am (UTC) - Expand

A matter of Restraint - kink - Lincoln/Peter

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2012-11-27 04:22 am (UTC) - Expand

Re: A matter of Restraint - kink - Lincoln/Peter

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2012-11-27 10:09 am (UTC) - Expand

Re: A matter of Restraint - kink - Lincoln/Peter

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2012-11-27 05:59 pm (UTC) - Expand

Re: A matter of Restraint - kink - Lincoln/Peter

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2012-11-28 11:50 am (UTC) - Expand

Date: 2011-05-12 10:39 pm (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
Peter/Peter

Peter and an alternate version of himself. Both of them want to go on top.

Peter/Peter

Date: 2011-05-13 09:47 pm (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
that would be soooo cool!

Olivia/Alt-Livia

Date: 2011-05-13 09:48 pm (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
Olivia/Alt-Livia, Hurt/Comfort

Red Olivia/Blue Ella

Date: 2011-05-13 10:00 pm (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
Red Olivia/Blue Ella, Protectiveness

Re: Red Olivia/Blue Ella - Bedtime Tales

Date: 2011-05-16 04:17 am (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
(Minor Spoiler for end of season three.)


The pub’s rowdy with the Thursday night crowd, Olivia pushes to the front, whistles sharply to gain the bartender’s attention. “Neat whiskey plus one coffee.”

He makes a face. “Cup?”

“In a mug.” Olivia stretches the kinks from her neck and turns around, back braced against the mahogany bar as she surveys the patrons. It’s been three months since their universes were linked, but it’s the first occasion Olivia’s been invited onto their soil. Her ‘sister’ approaches, drowning the whiskey and calling for another shot as Olivia grimaces. They work well together, even if FBI’s a little grim; they tracked a runner in less than a week, some scientist who discovered a more stable world on the other side of the bridge and pulled a Lewis Johnson act. Olivia bumps FBI with her hip, motions towards an empty booth. “I saved your life,” Olivia boasts when they’re seated.

FBI studies her. “And the price?”

“Twenty questions.”

They don’t talk about their personal lives, a near itch under Olivia’s skin because she *wants* to know where the branches occurred, how much of the other woman’s stillness is nature versus nurture.

FBI shrugs. “Have at it.”

“You have a sweetheart?” It’s an innocuous question. Frank proposed last week, a shiny new ring sits on Olivia’s dressing table. She doesn’t wear it to work for the same reason FBI doesn’t talk about her personal life; they’re both trying to maintain the illusion of uniqueness. But Olivia just blew the head off one of *her* citizens today, saving this double, and she’s owed a little curiosity.

FBI rubs a thumb along her jaw line. “Maybe,” she hedges.

“Lincoln?” Olivia tries to hide her smile.

The other woman startles, eyes darting up. “You too?”

“No. He’s too much like a puppy underfoot for my tastes.” Olivia prefers Frank’s steadiness to Lincoln’s crush, but it’s a relief knowing they have separate tastes in men; it’s a relief knowing she’s capable of loving more than one person period, that she has the ability inside of her.

The waiter drops another whiskey on the table. FBI turns the glass over in her hand and muses. “He’s not very puppyish over here.”

“I noticed.” Horn-rimmed glasses and buttoned up, Lincoln Lee larger than life, Olivia’s dying to take a photo of him, just so she can tease his double mercilessly. “You make a cute couple,” Olivia offers, already disinterested.

FBI leans into her booth, her expression flat.

Olivia motions toward her glass, “A toast then, a hokey night with a hokey sentiment, here’s to love.”

“Here’s to being able to find it at all,” FBI returns, and hokey sentiment or not, Olivia will drink to that. Olivia picks up FBI’s wallet, thumbing through the contents as the other woman watches. There are plastic cards everywhere, credit cards, ATM cards, discount cards, they haven’t developed a ShowMe system of their own, and Olivia doesn’t carry cash. There are photographs in the rear pocket, the first is of a little girl with dirty blonde hair, she has Rachel’s chin, Rachel’s eyes, and she couldn’t be more than seven years old, her limbs coltish, rail thin. Olivia feels her throat constrict, uninhibited, the child’s laughing into the camera, she has the frank confidence of a girl who’s never known a heavy hand.

“Ella,” FBI supplies. There’s grief in the name, in the way FBI’s fingers curl inward, dragging against wood.

She’s beautiful, Olivia thinks. The worst thing about the assignment isn’t consorting with the enemy; it’s being flooded with a constant echo of might-have-beens. This was supposed to be the safe world, the world that got away with it, with breaking into Olivia’s universe and rummaging through their belongings. They don’t suffer the rendered atmosphere, the gravity loss, and the wormholes that tear through scientific doctrine. It’s supposed to be safe here.

If what William Bell (aided by Walter Bishop) actually stole was worth it, Olivia might be able to forgive, but patented designs on amber, phase technology and biogenetics with *none* of it being used correctly, pisses Olivia off. The first time she read the file on how this world used amber as an act of terrorism, Olivia had wanted to follow the Secretary’s advice and destroy the lot of them.

She still does to some degree. The girl in the photograph though was a might have been, and Olivia’s worked enough cases to read the catch in FBI’s breathing, to know however she died, it wasn’t decent. “The Pattern?” she hazards.

“No, it had nothing to do with it.” There’s horror in FBI’s voice, disbelief at the ugliness of the world. “It was just some random computer programmer, out for revenge. We didn’t track him in time.”

Olivia smoothes her hand over the photograph, the ache a sharp stab-wound to her stomach, she’s been thinking about children lately, whether or not she would have been any good at it, whether or not it’s what Frank wants. She tucks the photograph back inside the wallet, pinches twenty dollars to pay the barman, and stands up. The little girl’s face follows her, as does the open wound of FBI's grief.

I would have written you a happy ending if I could, Olivia thinks.

Re: Red Olivia/Blue Ella - Bedtime Tales

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2011-05-16 07:48 am (UTC) - Expand

Re: Red Olivia/Blue Ella - Bedtime Tales

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2011-05-19 01:22 am (UTC) - Expand

Re: Red Olivia/Blue Ella - Bedtime Tales

From: [personal profile] yarngeek - Date: 2011-05-25 02:04 am (UTC) - Expand

Date: 2011-05-14 04:24 am (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
Olivia/Annie Sawyer (Being Human); spanking and/or breast play; they're both starved for physical contact

(Maybe Annie is ~out of phase~ instead of a ghost and Olivia's powers mean she can see and hear and touch her... I can't stop thinking about this.)

Date: 2011-05-14 05:15 pm (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
Bellivia; Bell explores Olivia's body in front of a mirror.

Date: 2011-05-15 01:34 am (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)

He let the clothes slide down her body because he enjoyed the sensation of soft fabric rubbing slowly against her breasts. Then he got rid of the bra, throwing the horrible garment aside. Bell smiled at the image on the mirror, Olivia’s freckled chest heaving slightly, breasts moving up and down with her breathing and let his gaze slowly fix on her breasts, the pink nipples hardening in arousal for what he felt for looking at her. He raised a delicate hand to touch it, the sensation immediately sending shots of pleasure between her legs. It was oddly exciting, he thought, now both hands teasing Olivia’s breasts, testing their weight, squeezing them and he moaned softly. They felt firm and round and everything he thought a young woman’s breast should be and he moved his gaze from the mirror to look down at the flesh and bone Olivia, sliding down one hand to caress her flat stomach, so deliciously smooth. He laughed quietly when he realized how ticklish she was because she squirmed immediately at the touch. Bell gasped, Olivia’s deep voice echoing, followed by a small moan. He smiled, trying to picture how her voice would sound when he came and a new wave of excitement rushed down to her core, making him shudder lightly at the new sensation.

Then he opened the buttons and zipper of her pants and let it slide down her legs and he admired Olivia’s beautiful and toned legs; he could feel she was fit, but how effortlessly he could do physical chores but he wasn’t prepared for the beauty of said legs and he smoothed her hands down her thighs, squeezing at her flesh. He slid her hands up to her hips and to Olivia’s narrow waist, once again caressing her stomach and fluttering her eyes shut at the delightful sensation.

The last piece of clothing to be removed were the simple cotton panties she was wearing. He removed it slowly, watching the image looking back at him at the mirror, brows furrowed in an adorable expression of curiosity. When she was finally naked in front of him, he couldn’t help a smile of wonder. Without taking his eyes off the image on the mirror, he walked backwards to the toilet and lowered the lid, sitting on it, raising a leg to the bathtub, keeping Olivia’s legs spread open to the mirror. He then could see her in her all the naked glory, the pink center of her pussy, glistening with arousal. Her cheeks were starting to flush as the wave of heat became more intense and spread through her body, as if from her clit. The first touch was nearly clinical, sliding her fingers over her folds, a tingling sensation making him shiver; he teased her opening, pushing a finger inside slowly. He felt her eyes closing involuntarily at the feeling, head lolling backwards to rest against the wall. He explored her for another minute, enjoying the heated arousal dripping against her hand and the silky flesh of her pussy. Bell then opened her eyes, watching her reactions on the mirror; Olivia’s mouth was agape, her breathing heavy and the soft sounds coming out of her made him more aroused and were making even more wetness to drip off her body. It was a beautiful sight, he thought, in wonder. He used the other hand to touch the already hard nub of nerves and couldn’t hold a moan that came out of her mouth in surprise because of the almost painful rush of arousal that went straight to her core.

Bell pushed another finger inside her, pumping lightly, as he rubbed her clit with her other hand. He felt her breathing becoming ragged, rapid, as the orgasm started building up inside her and he sped up her movements, pumping faster in and out of her, eyes wandering from her thin fingers working between her legs and her face, her expression changing as louder moans left her throat. It was a beautiful sound, he thought, so beautiful and arousing he got lost in them as the fist quivers shook her body, becoming harder as her orgasm hit her. He kept teasing her clit, rubbing hard, faster, merciless, riding the waves of her orgasm until it ached sharply, almost like an electrical shock.

He felt breathless, gasping for air, flushed hot, watching the image of Olivia, still spread open to the mirror. Bell moved the fingers that were inside her to her lips, tasting her juices in her tongue, tangy, delicious. The image was almost pornographic, deliciously sexy to him. Bell chuckled, amused, running a finger over her folds and clit again, a delightful shiver running up her spine at the sensation.

(no subject)

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2011-05-15 02:15 am (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2011-05-15 04:33 am (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2011-05-16 07:50 am (UTC) - Expand

blue olivia/red olivia

Date: 2011-05-15 03:14 am (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
blue olivia/red olivia, this game of make believe must come to an end

Re: blue olivia/red olivia

Date: 2011-06-12 06:51 am (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
fic please!!!!

Date: 2011-05-15 03:20 am (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
red Charlie//blue astrid/red Lincoln, they are the ones looking ate her with lust and distrust in there eyes

astrid/astrid

Date: 2011-05-15 03:26 am (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
astrid/astrid , hello my names astrid!

Re: astrid/astrid

Date: 2011-05-15 05:43 am (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
Aww. :D

Date: 2011-05-15 03:32 am (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
blue Lincoln/red Charlie hope and sadness in

Date: 2011-05-15 03:37 am (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
red Lincoln/blue olivia, need to understand and unable to forgive

Date: 2011-05-15 08:56 pm (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
Peter/Olivia; she loved giving him a blow job in public places

Date: 2011-05-15 08:57 pm (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
I meant she LOVES. she can't enough of his cock in her mouth.

Date: 2011-05-15 08:59 pm (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
Peter/Olivia, anal sex
(screened comment)

Re: A Matter of Trust

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2011-05-30 08:48 pm (UTC) - Expand

Re: A Matter of Trust

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2011-05-30 08:58 pm (UTC) - Expand

A Matter of Trust (Edited: Read this Version)

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2011-05-31 12:50 am (UTC) - Expand

Date: 2011-05-15 09:03 pm (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
Peter/Olivia, caught in the act!

Date: 2011-05-15 10:16 pm (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
Peter/Lincoln
Something happens to make Peter completely lose it (sad, mad, whatever) and Lincoln calms him down.

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