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fringe_kinkmemeThis 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'seliade'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).
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).
Olivia/Peter, D/s
Date: 2011-04-22 07:30 am (UTC)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.
Re: Olivia/Peter, D/s
Date: 2011-04-25 06:59 am (UTC)Re: Olivia/Peter, D/s
Date: 2011-04-25 12:36 pm (UTC)Re: Olivia/Peter, D/s
Date: 2011-04-25 03:04 pm (UTC)If I were to quote favourite lines, I'd re-post your story, but this in particular
“Was she aggressive?”
Peter arches his neck to follow her progress, wariness warring against the promise of honesty. “Assertive,” he corrects, quietly.
strikes me as pitch-perfect on both parts.
Whoever you are, I hope you write more. This is exactly what such a meme is for: to draw good writers out, or maybe: drawn them in. *g*