The rasp isn’t his voice, as if Lincoln smokes ten packets a day. It sounds needy and he’d take it back except he’s exposed here, all of his scars on display, sick of feeling the chill. 'I’m right here' would be the trite answer, 'I never left' would be downright laughable. Olivia rocks forward on her knees, and Lincoln has memories she doesn’t.
“I want you.” Never featured in the previous encounters. It's said softly, with the undercurrent of belief.
He remembers how Peter found him in the snow, emptying his clip at the Sasquatch except for a single bullet, saving Lincoln’s life for the second time in so many weeks. He remembers Peter’s scent when he was buried under the man’s coat in the SUV, letting Olivia keep his body temperature warm, shoring off shock, and propositioning his girlfriend probably *isn’t* the way to say thank you for running eight miles, except those words encompass them both equally. Lincoln *wants*.
He hasn’t wanted anything for the longest time – selfishly and selflessly, the need of it leaves him breathless – Olivia's answer drumming through his veins like wildfire. He’s not sure if he can string any more words together, doesn’t know how to turn his confession into seduction, or if it’s possible. Caught between ice and fire, embarrassment and relief, Lincoln only knows for certain both extremes burn. Helplessly, he turns to look at Peter.
Olivia kisses him, open mouthed, teeth dragging against Lincoln's bottom lip, her fingers splayed against his jaw. He’s startled into immobility before Lincoln gets with the program. His tongue finds her lips, traces the contours of her mouth. He pushes in without hesitancy when she groans, tries to keep his upper body still, except he wants to twist, to wrap his hand in her hair, cant his hips, rock against the solidity of her person.
“I want to watch,” he gasps out when they break apart, because he’s lost blood, dehydrated, coming back from the brink of hyperthermia and there are some things the human body can’t manage all at once. “Please, I want to watch you together.”
He spent so much time trying to avoid them, and it's ridiculous when it's blatantly clear how beautiful they are.
Lincoln’s naked under the sleeping bag, half-hard, he wouldn’t be able to keep himself still, and coming, he knows, would hurt like a son of a bitch. Watching, wouldn't be so bad.
Peter considers him, bright and interested, he rubs his thumb against his bottom lip once, eyes dilated glossy black, a thin rim of blue as he looks between Olivia and Lincoln. “What if I guaranteed you wouldn’t move?”
Lincoln blinks. Olivia passes a sport’s drink over, he takes it with his left hand, gulps half of it down, the slow curl of want in his belly fanning into flames. Neither of them presses Lincoln any further, and he realises ultimately it’s his choice. “Are there cameras in this place?” He asks uncertainly.
Peter grins. “I’ll be sure to check when we’re finished.”
“You’re not keeping them for prosperity.” Olivia says, exasperated, but her eyes are bright, her mouth soft as he urges Lincoln to finish the rest of the bottle.
His choice to watch them, turned on, hard, and left out - or not be left out at all. To trust Peter to keep him motionless. “What did you have in mind?”
“We’re going to need to buy some of this equipment tomorrow,” Peter says cryptically, and starts hunting through the travelling racks.
They move to the centre of the store where a wooden beam, wide, round as a small tree, supports the ceiling. Peter drops two sleeping bags, unzipped, on the floorboards and urges Lincoln to sit. Lincoln still has his own sleeping bag draped over his shoulders, ass naked and distracted by Olivia, who kisses the side of his ear, runs her fingers down his quivering flank. Peter vanishes and comes back with a collection of Korjo travelling straps, wide-framed, and tent cord, placing them carefully on the ground. “Get comfortable,” he encourages softly.
Lincoln hesitates, shifting on the sleeping bag until he finds a portion of beam suitably flat, moulding to his spine. He eases down, splaying his legs out until they're long on the ground, and leans against the beam. His wounded shoulder, upper torso, pulses once. Peter takes the sleeping bag from his shoulders, folds it, folds it again, and then once more, until it’s puffy and three layers thick, padded and thick as gauze. He wraps it around the beam and Lincoln’s torso, circling it around them both a number of times until he runs out of length, then uses the Korjo straps to hold it in place - three of them, below Lincoln’s collarbone, mid-chest, and low waist, cinching it tight around the sleeping bag and beam, holding Lincoln immobile against the wood. The sensation of the straps – the only thing that could cause Lincoln discomfit - is smothered by the layered sleeping bag, and his upper torso turns warm, toasty in its confines, within seconds. Lincoln takes a breath, stares down at his toes, pale legs stretched out in the open, his cock and balls on full display, none of it covered by the folded sleeping bag.
“Okay?” Peter asks.
He can’t thrash, turn, strain, or reopen his injury. He can’t find his nonchalance either, heart pounding. There’s a stain on his cheekbones.
Peter runs a hand down his cock, gentle, pulling the hood back with his index finger, getting his hand wet. “I can tie this off too, if you want?” His hand lingers at the base of Lincoln’s dick, presses against the vein teasingly before slipping further back, cradling his scrotum protectively. “Maybe later,” he adds thoughtfully, “A ball separator or a sling, tie you up from scrotum to crown?” When Lincoln twitches frantically, growing long, impossibly hard, Peter arches an eyebrow at Olivia musingly, before stepping back.
He feels ridiculous, but secure. He’s blinking too rapidly, because he wants all of what Peter said and more besides. He’s thinking about fingers buried deep in his body, sounds pushed into his cock, grotesque, penetration so deep it's all he can feel; his thinking about Olivia’s warmth, Peter’s lazy regard, of being split upon and claimed.
“I want you,” she whispers against his jaw, hands buried in his groin, pressure inescapable, tugging him into the here and now, where Lincoln’s certain Peter’s ropes won’t let him go, where he has Olivia's full attention,and there are no secrets between them. “I want you. Just like this.”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
Just like That - 2/2 Lincoln/Olivia/Peter
Date: 2012-06-14 07:03 am (UTC)“I want you.” Never featured in the previous encounters. It's said softly, with the undercurrent of belief.
He remembers how Peter found him in the snow, emptying his clip at the Sasquatch except for a single bullet, saving Lincoln’s life for the second time in so many weeks. He remembers Peter’s scent when he was buried under the man’s coat in the SUV, letting Olivia keep his body temperature warm, shoring off shock, and propositioning his girlfriend probably *isn’t* the way to say thank you for running eight miles, except those words encompass them both equally. Lincoln *wants*.
He hasn’t wanted anything for the longest time – selfishly and selflessly, the need of it leaves him breathless – Olivia's answer drumming through his veins like wildfire. He’s not sure if he can string any more words together, doesn’t know how to turn his confession into seduction, or if it’s possible. Caught between ice and fire, embarrassment and relief, Lincoln only knows for certain both extremes burn. Helplessly, he turns to look at Peter.
Olivia kisses him, open mouthed, teeth dragging against Lincoln's bottom lip, her fingers splayed against his jaw. He’s startled into immobility before Lincoln gets with the program. His tongue finds her lips, traces the contours of her mouth. He pushes in without hesitancy when she groans, tries to keep his upper body still, except he wants to twist, to wrap his hand in her hair, cant his hips, rock against the solidity of her person.
“I want to watch,” he gasps out when they break apart, because he’s lost blood, dehydrated, coming back from the brink of hyperthermia and there are some things the human body can’t manage all at once. “Please, I want to watch you together.”
He spent so much time trying to avoid them, and it's ridiculous when it's blatantly clear how beautiful they are.
Lincoln’s naked under the sleeping bag, half-hard, he wouldn’t be able to keep himself still, and coming, he knows, would hurt like a son of a bitch. Watching, wouldn't be so bad.
Peter considers him, bright and interested, he rubs his thumb against his bottom lip once, eyes dilated glossy black, a thin rim of blue as he looks between Olivia and Lincoln. “What if I guaranteed you wouldn’t move?”
Lincoln blinks. Olivia passes a sport’s drink over, he takes it with his left hand, gulps half of it down, the slow curl of want in his belly fanning into flames. Neither of them presses Lincoln any further, and he realises ultimately it’s his choice. “Are there cameras in this place?” He asks uncertainly.
Peter grins. “I’ll be sure to check when we’re finished.”
“You’re not keeping them for prosperity.” Olivia says, exasperated, but her eyes are bright, her mouth soft as he urges Lincoln to finish the rest of the bottle.
His choice to watch them, turned on, hard, and left out - or not be left out at all. To trust Peter to keep him motionless. “What did you have in mind?”
“We’re going to need to buy some of this equipment tomorrow,” Peter says cryptically, and starts hunting through the travelling racks.
They move to the centre of the store where a wooden beam, wide, round as a small tree, supports the ceiling. Peter drops two sleeping bags, unzipped, on the floorboards and urges Lincoln to sit. Lincoln still has his own sleeping bag draped over his shoulders, ass naked and distracted by Olivia, who kisses the side of his ear, runs her fingers down his quivering flank. Peter vanishes and comes back with a collection of Korjo travelling straps, wide-framed, and tent cord, placing them carefully on the ground. “Get comfortable,” he encourages softly.
Lincoln hesitates, shifting on the sleeping bag until he finds a portion of beam suitably flat, moulding to his spine. He eases down, splaying his legs out until they're long on the ground, and leans against the beam. His wounded shoulder, upper torso, pulses once. Peter takes the sleeping bag from his shoulders, folds it, folds it again, and then once more, until it’s puffy and three layers thick, padded and thick as gauze. He wraps it around the beam and Lincoln’s torso, circling it around them both a number of times until he runs out of length, then uses the Korjo straps to hold it in place - three of them, below Lincoln’s collarbone, mid-chest, and low waist, cinching it tight around the sleeping bag and beam, holding Lincoln immobile against the wood. The sensation of the straps – the only thing that could cause Lincoln discomfit - is smothered by the layered sleeping bag, and his upper torso turns warm, toasty in its confines, within seconds. Lincoln takes a breath, stares down at his toes, pale legs stretched out in the open, his cock and balls on full display, none of it covered by the folded sleeping bag.
“Okay?” Peter asks.
He can’t thrash, turn, strain, or reopen his injury. He can’t find his nonchalance either, heart pounding. There’s a stain on his cheekbones.
Peter runs a hand down his cock, gentle, pulling the hood back with his index finger, getting his hand wet. “I can tie this off too, if you want?” His hand lingers at the base of Lincoln’s dick, presses against the vein teasingly before slipping further back, cradling his scrotum protectively. “Maybe later,” he adds thoughtfully, “A ball separator or a sling, tie you up from scrotum to crown?” When Lincoln twitches frantically, growing long, impossibly hard, Peter arches an eyebrow at Olivia musingly, before stepping back.
He feels ridiculous, but secure. He’s blinking too rapidly, because he wants all of what Peter said and more besides. He’s thinking about fingers buried deep in his body, sounds pushed into his cock, grotesque, penetration so deep it's all he can feel; his thinking about Olivia’s warmth, Peter’s lazy regard, of being split upon and claimed.
“I want you,” she whispers against his jaw, hands buried in his groin, pressure inescapable, tugging him into the here and now, where Lincoln’s certain Peter’s ropes won’t let him go, where he has Olivia's full attention,and there are no secrets between them. “I want you. Just like this.”