Fic: To the Victor Go the Spoils (AltOlivia/Lincoln)
Title: To the Victor Go the Spoils
Fandom: Fringe
Author:
chichuri
Characters/Pairing: AltOlivia/Lincoln
Word Count: 1926
Rating: NC-17
Summary: By the time they reach the door to her apartment they can barely keep their hands off each other.
Contents: Sex, use of handcuffs and a riding crop
Spoilers: Through Season 2.
Disclaimer: I don't own Fringe or its characters.
Author's Note: Written for
kink_bingo. Prompt: bondage (wrist/ankle restraints).
To the Victor Go the Spoils
By the time they reach the door to her apartment they can barely keep their hands off each other. As soon as the deadbolt slides into place, Lincoln has Olivia in his arms, skimming her shirt off and unhooking her bra while she's working on his belt and the button of his pants. She nips gently at his lips, her tongue tracing along them before darting between. He pauses in his goal of getting her naked and switches focus to savoring the feel of her mouth against his.
"I've needed this," she murmurs when she draws back.
He nibbles at her jaw, works his way up to her earlobe. "You always need this."
"You're such a romantic."
"You didn't want romance." He removes her holster and places it on the side table, then does the same for his. "That was one of your requirements, remember? No romance, no strings attached."
She drops her forehead to his shoulder, her thumbs toying with his belt loops. "It was, wasn't it."
He pauses, studying the top of her head. There's something in her voice he doesn't recognize. She'd insisted this was the only way to navigate the sort of relationship that, if they were caught, could get them both censured and her reassigned, and he'd agreed. Back then, it seemed like a good idea. "You saying you want to change the deal?" he asks with studied carelessness.
She glances up and shakes her head. Her hands drift teasingly under his waistband before getting down to the business of ridding him of clothing. He kicks his pants away and she pushes him toward the bedroom, lifting up the handcuffs she must have pulled from his back pocket.
He shakes off his worry and grins. "You want to play?"
"Always."
"That's one of the things I've always liked about you: your can-do attitude."
"And my ability to give mind-blowing blowjobs?"
"Yeah, that one doesn't translate into the workplace well."
"But you know you like it."
He raises his eyebrows and sprawls back on her bed, propping himself up with the pillows and lacing his fingers behind his head while she rummages in the bottom drawer of her dresser. When she turns, she's brandishing a black leather riding crop.
His eyebrows go higher. "Why do you have a riding crop?"
"Because I always appreciate a good ride and sometimes my mount needs... encouragement."
"Nice, Liv. Glad to know my place in your world." A riding crop. Hell, he shouldn't be surprised. She grins down at him, looking ridiculously hot as she stands there, naked from the waist up with handcuffs in one hand and a riding crop in the other. When she's staring at him with that glint in her eye he's not about to deny her anything. "You're wearing too much clothing," he says.
"You like giving orders, don't you?"
"I am kind of good at it."
Her grin widens and she shucks off pants and underwear. She surveys him for a moment before crawling over the bed toward him, straddling his waist as she twirls the handcuffs around her finger. Leaning down, she teases his mouth with hers while running the back of her hands along his arms. Three seconds, and she has both his wrists in the cuffs, the chain between them looped around the top bar of the headboard.
"Shit." The metal bites into his wrists as he tugs, first lightly, then harder. The handcuffs don't give, not that he expects them to; he made damned sure they were top of the line. The headboard is equally sturdy. "Liv, get these off me."
Olivia holds up the key and places it on the nightstand, then settles back on her haunches and grins as she taps the riding crop lightly against her knee. "You said you wanted to play with handcuffs."
"Yeah," Lincoln mutters, "but I was thinking of you in the cuffs."
"But I think they're so much prettier on you."
He snorts and narrows his eyes. "Fuck you."
"We're getting to that part." She smirks, running the riding crop along his hip. "If you're good." She flicks her wrist; he yelps at the sting as the leather smacks his thigh. He glares up at her and her smile widens.
He really should have seen this one coming.
She doesn't move, holding herself back with the same quivering anticipation as when she's in the field waiting for his go-ahead. He considers and discards half a dozen ways to get the key and extract himself from this situation. He could probably do it. And she'd sit back and laugh while watching the show. Eyeing the crop warily, he pulls at the handcuffs again. "So if you hurt me, are you going to kiss it and make it better?"
She grins wickedly and tilts her head. "If you don't like it, I'll kiss away all your pain."
He rolls one shoulder back, then the other, shifting to change the angle of his arms. The position is not really that uncomfortable, just awkward, and if he's careful the cuffs won't hurt his wrists. And she wants this. That probably shouldn't count for as much as it does, and probably shouldn't be making him half-hard all by itself. He thumps his head against the headboard and sighs, giving in to the unexpected anticipation thrumming down his spine. "If anyone else did this, I'd be pissed," he finally says. It's as much of a concession as he's going to give.
She nods in acknowledgement, running the end of the crop gently up his chest, coming to rest at his throat, before dragging it slowly back down to brush his cock. He twitches. The leather tickles, and he braces himself for the sting that doesn't come. Her eyes flick up to his wrists, and down along his body. She nods again, her grip on the crop shifting as she leans forward and follows the path of the leather with her mouth, pressing gentle kisses into his skin. When she reaches his cock, she hovers close enough that he can feel the puff of her breath against the head and lifts her eyes to his. The fingers of her empty hand dig into his hip as she steadies herself, but she doesn't move.
He holds himself still, refusing to take the bait. "Waiting for something?"
"Savoring the moment."
"Let me know when you're ready to get on with it."
He spots movement out of the corner of his eye but doesn't have time to brace himself before the crop smacks against his thigh. As he jerks up at the sting, she lowers her head and takes his cock into her mouth. "Shit," he gasps, wrapping his fingers around the bar to keep from hurting his wrists. The metal is cool against his palms, a sharp contrast to the heat of her mouth. She flicks the crop against him again, and as he arches he closes his eyes, losing himself in the swirl of her tongue and the slick heat of her mouth. "Shit," he repeats, and it comes out as a groan.
He's shuddering on the edge when she swirls her tongue around the head of his cock one last time and sits up. He drags his eyes open and tries to catch his breath. Her cheeks are flushed, her pupils huge in wide and feral eyes. He wants to bury his hands in her hair and drag her mouth against his, but he's stopped by the sharp pain in his wrists. The cuffs clang against the headboard as he tugs at them in annoyance.
"Ah, ah. No hands." She taps at his wrists with the crop, and he returns his hands to the headboard.
Her game, her rules. "You have me at your mercy," he says, his voice rough.
"Don't worry." She runs her fingernails lightly up his side, the tips of her fingers along his collarbone and his neck; he can't help but shiver. He tilts his head back and she cups his jaw. "I'm a benevolent dictator," she breathes against his throat, and she nips at his Adam's apple before retreating.
She straddles him, her hand warm against his cock as she guides him into her. As she sinks down she hisses, her head falling back and her eyes closing. He forgets himself again and reaches for her hips to steady her. Her eyes flick open at the scrape of the chain and his low growl. Keeping her gaze steady on his, she clamps her knees against him and stops moving. She sucks two of her fingers into her mouth, releasing them with a pop to trail down her throat and along her breastbone, to trace tighter and tighter circles around each breast. By the time her thumb flicks across her nipples, his mouth is dry.
He swallows and tilts his hips, pushing deeper into her. Her hand drifts down to the place where their bodies meet, touching him as he moves in and out of her then drifting forward to rub at her clit. She rubs in time to his thrusts and as her eyes go half-lidded, her breathing unsteady, she increases the pace, moving her hips to meet his.
He still wants to feel her skin under his hands and he still can't, so he focuses all of his energy into the only place he can touch her. Clutching the headboard so hard it hurts, he finds the rhythm and the angle that will leave her shuddering. She meets his pace, whispers encouragement, then a sharp crack of the crop against his thigh that's as much pleasure as pain has him shouting, his body arching off the bed and his vision blurring. As the last of the tremors jerk through him, she breaths in sharply, her own back arching as she comes.
Chest heaving, she leans forward and plants hands on either side of him to brace herself, her hair falling around her face and brushing against his skin. She shoves the hair out of her eyes and collapses on his chest, tucking her head under his chin. Her skin is hot and sticky, and she smells like musk and sex and contentment. He kisses the top of her head, savoring the feeling her against him.
Her breathing slows but she still doesn't move. He rattles the cuffs against the headboard. "Forgetting something?"
"Nope," she says, her voice muffled against his collarbone. "Thought I'd leave you there as a trophy." She stretches, her joints popping, and tosses the riding crop behind her, then scrabbles at the nightstand and reaches up to unlock the cuffs.
He drops his arms with a groan, rotating the ache out of his shoulders. Her hands linger on his wrists, fingers gentle against the red marks. She glances up, eyes questioning. He just shrugs. His wrists hurt a little, and his shoulders still burn, but he gets worse from the job on a regular basis. Besides, the look in her eyes as she rode him make it worth every ache.
After giving his hands one last pat, she slides off him and thumps down on the bed. She raises her eyebrows and smiles. "See, that wasn't so bad, was it?"
He laughs and rolls to his side to appreciate her sprawling loose-limbed in the sated doze of the victor. Shaking his head, he wraps his arms around her and whispers into her ear, "Next time, I'm going to make you beg."
"Next time," she murmurs, lazily reaching up to tug at his hair, "you can try."
This entry was originally posted at http://chichuri-fic.dreamwidth.org/22642.html.
Fandom: Fringe
Author:
chichuri
Characters/Pairing: AltOlivia/Lincoln
Word Count: 1926
Rating: NC-17
Summary: By the time they reach the door to her apartment they can barely keep their hands off each other.
Contents: Sex, use of handcuffs and a riding crop
Spoilers: Through Season 2.
Disclaimer: I don't own Fringe or its characters.
Author's Note: Written for
kink_bingo. Prompt: bondage (wrist/ankle restraints).
To the Victor Go the Spoils
By the time they reach the door to her apartment they can barely keep their hands off each other. As soon as the deadbolt slides into place, Lincoln has Olivia in his arms, skimming her shirt off and unhooking her bra while she's working on his belt and the button of his pants. She nips gently at his lips, her tongue tracing along them before darting between. He pauses in his goal of getting her naked and switches focus to savoring the feel of her mouth against his.
"I've needed this," she murmurs when she draws back.
He nibbles at her jaw, works his way up to her earlobe. "You always need this."
"You're such a romantic."
"You didn't want romance." He removes her holster and places it on the side table, then does the same for his. "That was one of your requirements, remember? No romance, no strings attached."
She drops her forehead to his shoulder, her thumbs toying with his belt loops. "It was, wasn't it."
He pauses, studying the top of her head. There's something in her voice he doesn't recognize. She'd insisted this was the only way to navigate the sort of relationship that, if they were caught, could get them both censured and her reassigned, and he'd agreed. Back then, it seemed like a good idea. "You saying you want to change the deal?" he asks with studied carelessness.
She glances up and shakes her head. Her hands drift teasingly under his waistband before getting down to the business of ridding him of clothing. He kicks his pants away and she pushes him toward the bedroom, lifting up the handcuffs she must have pulled from his back pocket.
He shakes off his worry and grins. "You want to play?"
"Always."
"That's one of the things I've always liked about you: your can-do attitude."
"And my ability to give mind-blowing blowjobs?"
"Yeah, that one doesn't translate into the workplace well."
"But you know you like it."
He raises his eyebrows and sprawls back on her bed, propping himself up with the pillows and lacing his fingers behind his head while she rummages in the bottom drawer of her dresser. When she turns, she's brandishing a black leather riding crop.
His eyebrows go higher. "Why do you have a riding crop?"
"Because I always appreciate a good ride and sometimes my mount needs... encouragement."
"Nice, Liv. Glad to know my place in your world." A riding crop. Hell, he shouldn't be surprised. She grins down at him, looking ridiculously hot as she stands there, naked from the waist up with handcuffs in one hand and a riding crop in the other. When she's staring at him with that glint in her eye he's not about to deny her anything. "You're wearing too much clothing," he says.
"You like giving orders, don't you?"
"I am kind of good at it."
Her grin widens and she shucks off pants and underwear. She surveys him for a moment before crawling over the bed toward him, straddling his waist as she twirls the handcuffs around her finger. Leaning down, she teases his mouth with hers while running the back of her hands along his arms. Three seconds, and she has both his wrists in the cuffs, the chain between them looped around the top bar of the headboard.
"Shit." The metal bites into his wrists as he tugs, first lightly, then harder. The handcuffs don't give, not that he expects them to; he made damned sure they were top of the line. The headboard is equally sturdy. "Liv, get these off me."
Olivia holds up the key and places it on the nightstand, then settles back on her haunches and grins as she taps the riding crop lightly against her knee. "You said you wanted to play with handcuffs."
"Yeah," Lincoln mutters, "but I was thinking of you in the cuffs."
"But I think they're so much prettier on you."
He snorts and narrows his eyes. "Fuck you."
"We're getting to that part." She smirks, running the riding crop along his hip. "If you're good." She flicks her wrist; he yelps at the sting as the leather smacks his thigh. He glares up at her and her smile widens.
He really should have seen this one coming.
She doesn't move, holding herself back with the same quivering anticipation as when she's in the field waiting for his go-ahead. He considers and discards half a dozen ways to get the key and extract himself from this situation. He could probably do it. And she'd sit back and laugh while watching the show. Eyeing the crop warily, he pulls at the handcuffs again. "So if you hurt me, are you going to kiss it and make it better?"
She grins wickedly and tilts her head. "If you don't like it, I'll kiss away all your pain."
He rolls one shoulder back, then the other, shifting to change the angle of his arms. The position is not really that uncomfortable, just awkward, and if he's careful the cuffs won't hurt his wrists. And she wants this. That probably shouldn't count for as much as it does, and probably shouldn't be making him half-hard all by itself. He thumps his head against the headboard and sighs, giving in to the unexpected anticipation thrumming down his spine. "If anyone else did this, I'd be pissed," he finally says. It's as much of a concession as he's going to give.
She nods in acknowledgement, running the end of the crop gently up his chest, coming to rest at his throat, before dragging it slowly back down to brush his cock. He twitches. The leather tickles, and he braces himself for the sting that doesn't come. Her eyes flick up to his wrists, and down along his body. She nods again, her grip on the crop shifting as she leans forward and follows the path of the leather with her mouth, pressing gentle kisses into his skin. When she reaches his cock, she hovers close enough that he can feel the puff of her breath against the head and lifts her eyes to his. The fingers of her empty hand dig into his hip as she steadies herself, but she doesn't move.
He holds himself still, refusing to take the bait. "Waiting for something?"
"Savoring the moment."
"Let me know when you're ready to get on with it."
He spots movement out of the corner of his eye but doesn't have time to brace himself before the crop smacks against his thigh. As he jerks up at the sting, she lowers her head and takes his cock into her mouth. "Shit," he gasps, wrapping his fingers around the bar to keep from hurting his wrists. The metal is cool against his palms, a sharp contrast to the heat of her mouth. She flicks the crop against him again, and as he arches he closes his eyes, losing himself in the swirl of her tongue and the slick heat of her mouth. "Shit," he repeats, and it comes out as a groan.
He's shuddering on the edge when she swirls her tongue around the head of his cock one last time and sits up. He drags his eyes open and tries to catch his breath. Her cheeks are flushed, her pupils huge in wide and feral eyes. He wants to bury his hands in her hair and drag her mouth against his, but he's stopped by the sharp pain in his wrists. The cuffs clang against the headboard as he tugs at them in annoyance.
"Ah, ah. No hands." She taps at his wrists with the crop, and he returns his hands to the headboard.
Her game, her rules. "You have me at your mercy," he says, his voice rough.
"Don't worry." She runs her fingernails lightly up his side, the tips of her fingers along his collarbone and his neck; he can't help but shiver. He tilts his head back and she cups his jaw. "I'm a benevolent dictator," she breathes against his throat, and she nips at his Adam's apple before retreating.
She straddles him, her hand warm against his cock as she guides him into her. As she sinks down she hisses, her head falling back and her eyes closing. He forgets himself again and reaches for her hips to steady her. Her eyes flick open at the scrape of the chain and his low growl. Keeping her gaze steady on his, she clamps her knees against him and stops moving. She sucks two of her fingers into her mouth, releasing them with a pop to trail down her throat and along her breastbone, to trace tighter and tighter circles around each breast. By the time her thumb flicks across her nipples, his mouth is dry.
He swallows and tilts his hips, pushing deeper into her. Her hand drifts down to the place where their bodies meet, touching him as he moves in and out of her then drifting forward to rub at her clit. She rubs in time to his thrusts and as her eyes go half-lidded, her breathing unsteady, she increases the pace, moving her hips to meet his.
He still wants to feel her skin under his hands and he still can't, so he focuses all of his energy into the only place he can touch her. Clutching the headboard so hard it hurts, he finds the rhythm and the angle that will leave her shuddering. She meets his pace, whispers encouragement, then a sharp crack of the crop against his thigh that's as much pleasure as pain has him shouting, his body arching off the bed and his vision blurring. As the last of the tremors jerk through him, she breaths in sharply, her own back arching as she comes.
Chest heaving, she leans forward and plants hands on either side of him to brace herself, her hair falling around her face and brushing against his skin. She shoves the hair out of her eyes and collapses on his chest, tucking her head under his chin. Her skin is hot and sticky, and she smells like musk and sex and contentment. He kisses the top of her head, savoring the feeling her against him.
Her breathing slows but she still doesn't move. He rattles the cuffs against the headboard. "Forgetting something?"
"Nope," she says, her voice muffled against his collarbone. "Thought I'd leave you there as a trophy." She stretches, her joints popping, and tosses the riding crop behind her, then scrabbles at the nightstand and reaches up to unlock the cuffs.
He drops his arms with a groan, rotating the ache out of his shoulders. Her hands linger on his wrists, fingers gentle against the red marks. She glances up, eyes questioning. He just shrugs. His wrists hurt a little, and his shoulders still burn, but he gets worse from the job on a regular basis. Besides, the look in her eyes as she rode him make it worth every ache.
After giving his hands one last pat, she slides off him and thumps down on the bed. She raises her eyebrows and smiles. "See, that wasn't so bad, was it?"
He laughs and rolls to his side to appreciate her sprawling loose-limbed in the sated doze of the victor. Shaking his head, he wraps his arms around her and whispers into her ear, "Next time, I'm going to make you beg."
"Next time," she murmurs, lazily reaching up to tug at his hair, "you can try."
This entry was originally posted at http://chichuri-fic.dreamwidth.org/22642.html.