In You Everything Sank… - A Fringe Fanfic
Title: In You Everything Sank…
Fandom: Fringe
Pairing: Olivia Dunham/Alt!livia
Warnings or Spoilers: Nope
Summary: You run a finger down her spine. They're tiny, tiny hills. Up and down, up and down you go.
Rating: NC-15ish? I don't know, I suck with this.
I’m a little ambivalent about posting this, I don’t know why. It started as a smut!fic, but I can’t write smut to save my life. Sighs. There is no plot here, it’s just an account of a half-hour or something in The Os world. Again from Liv’s POV. The title is from a poem by Pablo Neruda. Any feedback would be rewarded with hugs and cookies.
In You Everything Sank…
You swallowed everything, like distance.
Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank!
It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss.
The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse.
~Pablo Neruda - A Song of Despair
You run a finger down her spine. They're tiny, tiny hills. Up and down, up and down you go. She sighs, bends her head down, and for a moment you want to turn her around, make her face you, but instead you count the little moles and freckles on her back. Like little clusters of stars. Galaxies and galaxies of them. You trace them with your fingertips first, so lightly. You always treat her like she'd break, even though you know she's stronger than that. Maybe you’re over-compensating. Then you find a little cluster at the small of her back - join the dots with your eyes, make a star, make a wish. You bend your head to fulfill it, and your lips land on it - triumphant, anticipating, like the first man on the moon - and she arches her back, breathes in sharply, and you place dozens of tiny, chaste, open-mouthed, biting, soothing kisses on it, around it until you watch her fingers clutch at the bedspread, trying to anchor on to something. You wonder if you have the same little cluster of freckles down at your small of the back. Maybe you’ll ask her later. But the thought leaves your mind as your lips trace the galaxies and shooting stars up her back, arms slipping around her waist, gathering her to you, holding her closer, hands sliding across her stomach and breasts, gentle, caressing. She arches into you. Your wandering lips find the slope where her neck and shoulder meet, and stay there. You breathe in all that she is; early morning sunshine and wild flowers that bloom in secret reaches of spring, mingled with the musky, earthy scent of her body. You close your eyes and it makes you think of bright summer sunlight and pure winter snow, blue spring skies and cool, red autumn days.
Her hair is all in golden tangles, wild, yellow silk as you sweep it aside with the tip of your nose, planting soft kisses on her skin all the time. And there’s the tattoo. Your tattoo on her body. It’s probably wrong on so many levels, but every time you look at that tattoo, all you feel is glad, and sort of proud. And possessive. Happy that she wears a part of you on her body. There’s also the fact that you find tattoos a big turn on. You settle down, pull her closer, sweep one leg forward, hooking it over and around her leg, anchoring her, and let your hands wander. And soon her hands leave the bedspread to clutch at your legs, and when she falls over that edge into blissful oblivion, her nails leave deep, stinging scratches on your thighs.
You watch her after, as she takes deep breaths, chest heaving, eyes closed, lips parted. It’s your own face, yes, but still so different. Her tongue darts out across her lower lip, and you can’t help it. You tilt her head a little, bend down and capture her lower lip in a kiss, and you can feel her smile against your lips as she kisses you back, raises a hand to cup your face. And then her hand is holding your face in place, her other arm slips around your shoulder and she flips the two of you, coming out on top without breaking the kiss. Her FBI agent is showing, you want to tell her, but her lips are upon yours, and you can’t talk, but you must have made a noise because she raises her head away from yours, chuckling. Her green eyes have little golden stars in them from the lamplight, your breath catches in your throat and you can’t look away. Her hair is a golden halo around her head, curling at the edges, wild and tangled, and glorious. But the expression on her face is far from angelic. Your hand makes its way to her hip, and from there you slide it up her back, slowly, softly. It ends with your fingers curled at the nape of her neck, buried deep in her hair, tangling it further, as you bring her head down to kiss her. She kisses you hard, deep, but breaks it off and leans back to sit up, straddling you. You bite your lips and let your head fall back. Watch her as lamplight washes over her. A magnificent, golden, naked goddess. You’re such a narcissist!
You raise your hand, reach out to bring her back to you, she catches it in her hand, brings it, palm up, to her lips, traces a line of feather-soft kisses from your fingertips to your wrist. And you’re sure she can feel the drumbeats that are making your pulse jump, making your blood sing, your nerves jangle. You feel like a tightly wound ball of liquid sensations, ready to explode. She traces a finger from your neck to the valley between your breasts, and down to your navel, and your hips buck against her, involuntarily, out of your control. You watch the smile tug at the corner of her mouth, and a protesting moan escapes your throat. She laughs, hands splayed on your stomach, and bends down over you. And then everything is her hands and her arms and her lips, and you don’t even know what to do with the flood of emotions and sensations overwhelming your body except to give in, and you call out her name, your own name - feels like a hundred times you call it out - as you give in to the inevitable leap, down to ecstasy.
Fandom: Fringe
Pairing: Olivia Dunham/Alt!livia
Warnings or Spoilers: Nope
Summary: You run a finger down her spine. They're tiny, tiny hills. Up and down, up and down you go.
Rating: NC-15ish? I don't know, I suck with this.
I’m a little ambivalent about posting this, I don’t know why. It started as a smut!fic, but I can’t write smut to save my life. Sighs. There is no plot here, it’s just an account of a half-hour or something in The Os world. Again from Liv’s POV. The title is from a poem by Pablo Neruda. Any feedback would be rewarded with hugs and cookies.
In You Everything Sank…
You swallowed everything, like distance.
Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank!
It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss.
The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse.
~Pablo Neruda - A Song of Despair
You run a finger down her spine. They're tiny, tiny hills. Up and down, up and down you go. She sighs, bends her head down, and for a moment you want to turn her around, make her face you, but instead you count the little moles and freckles on her back. Like little clusters of stars. Galaxies and galaxies of them. You trace them with your fingertips first, so lightly. You always treat her like she'd break, even though you know she's stronger than that. Maybe you’re over-compensating. Then you find a little cluster at the small of her back - join the dots with your eyes, make a star, make a wish. You bend your head to fulfill it, and your lips land on it - triumphant, anticipating, like the first man on the moon - and she arches her back, breathes in sharply, and you place dozens of tiny, chaste, open-mouthed, biting, soothing kisses on it, around it until you watch her fingers clutch at the bedspread, trying to anchor on to something. You wonder if you have the same little cluster of freckles down at your small of the back. Maybe you’ll ask her later. But the thought leaves your mind as your lips trace the galaxies and shooting stars up her back, arms slipping around her waist, gathering her to you, holding her closer, hands sliding across her stomach and breasts, gentle, caressing. She arches into you. Your wandering lips find the slope where her neck and shoulder meet, and stay there. You breathe in all that she is; early morning sunshine and wild flowers that bloom in secret reaches of spring, mingled with the musky, earthy scent of her body. You close your eyes and it makes you think of bright summer sunlight and pure winter snow, blue spring skies and cool, red autumn days.
Her hair is all in golden tangles, wild, yellow silk as you sweep it aside with the tip of your nose, planting soft kisses on her skin all the time. And there’s the tattoo. Your tattoo on her body. It’s probably wrong on so many levels, but every time you look at that tattoo, all you feel is glad, and sort of proud. And possessive. Happy that she wears a part of you on her body. There’s also the fact that you find tattoos a big turn on. You settle down, pull her closer, sweep one leg forward, hooking it over and around her leg, anchoring her, and let your hands wander. And soon her hands leave the bedspread to clutch at your legs, and when she falls over that edge into blissful oblivion, her nails leave deep, stinging scratches on your thighs.
You watch her after, as she takes deep breaths, chest heaving, eyes closed, lips parted. It’s your own face, yes, but still so different. Her tongue darts out across her lower lip, and you can’t help it. You tilt her head a little, bend down and capture her lower lip in a kiss, and you can feel her smile against your lips as she kisses you back, raises a hand to cup your face. And then her hand is holding your face in place, her other arm slips around your shoulder and she flips the two of you, coming out on top without breaking the kiss. Her FBI agent is showing, you want to tell her, but her lips are upon yours, and you can’t talk, but you must have made a noise because she raises her head away from yours, chuckling. Her green eyes have little golden stars in them from the lamplight, your breath catches in your throat and you can’t look away. Her hair is a golden halo around her head, curling at the edges, wild and tangled, and glorious. But the expression on her face is far from angelic. Your hand makes its way to her hip, and from there you slide it up her back, slowly, softly. It ends with your fingers curled at the nape of her neck, buried deep in her hair, tangling it further, as you bring her head down to kiss her. She kisses you hard, deep, but breaks it off and leans back to sit up, straddling you. You bite your lips and let your head fall back. Watch her as lamplight washes over her. A magnificent, golden, naked goddess. You’re such a narcissist!
You raise your hand, reach out to bring her back to you, she catches it in her hand, brings it, palm up, to her lips, traces a line of feather-soft kisses from your fingertips to your wrist. And you’re sure she can feel the drumbeats that are making your pulse jump, making your blood sing, your nerves jangle. You feel like a tightly wound ball of liquid sensations, ready to explode. She traces a finger from your neck to the valley between your breasts, and down to your navel, and your hips buck against her, involuntarily, out of your control. You watch the smile tug at the corner of her mouth, and a protesting moan escapes your throat. She laughs, hands splayed on your stomach, and bends down over you. And then everything is her hands and her arms and her lips, and you don’t even know what to do with the flood of emotions and sensations overwhelming your body except to give in, and you call out her name, your own name - feels like a hundred times you call it out - as you give in to the inevitable leap, down to ecstasy.