Title: You’ll Never Know
Pairing: O² (Olivia/Liv)
Spoilers: None. Also, this is a re-post.
Summary: Two Dunhams, one small, out of order elevator, and plenty of unresolved tension. Things happen as they are wont to happen.
Links: FF.NET // OTHER BLOG
You don’t know if it’s your combat training paying off or just your skill with women or if you’ve managed to find a weak spot in her defense, but you have her pressed against the elevator wall. The thing that surprises you isn’t that you have her pressed against the wall – it’s the fact that she let you. You’d like to believe that you’re better than her, stronger, but you know that isn’t really the truth. You know that if she hadn’t let you, the two of you wouldn’t be standing like this, your body pressing hers into the elevator wall, holding her prisoner. That she hasn’t thrown you off, that she’s still there, trapped between you and the steel wall behind her, is a feat in itself. So you decide to concentrate on other things.
For example, how you’re close enough to feel the rapid thump-thump-thump of her heart vibrating in your own torso, see the tiny, rippling contractions in her throat as she swallows hard, the pulse point at the base of her neck, jumping with her heartbeat. Close enough to count every little freckle on her face – and the little brown mole towards the right at the edge of her lower lip – like a little smudge of chocolate. Such a feisty place for a mole to be. You can think of many interesting things that can be done to that mole, preferably by you – starting immediately with a feather-light kiss.
Right here, this close you can do a lot of things – like count every stray hair in her eyebrows that grows in the opposite direction – six, no, eight – or the gold flecks that pepper her eyes – they are a little darker than yours, you notice, her eyes. Or look for hours at the little dip at the tip of her nose, or the soft shadows cast by her eyelashes on her cheekbones. Your eyes move all over her face and then settle on her lips. And that mole. You want to nibble at it to see if it would come off.
“Let go of me,” her voice is a soft, hoarse whisper.
“Yeah?” You breathe out just as softly, put a hand on her shoulder to steady yourself, anchor your body, and slide it up slowly, your touch light, teasing – fingers curling around her neck, palm on her clavicle. Your thumb softly grazes the hollow at the base of her neck. “Go on,” you tell her. “Push me away, why don’t you?”
She breathes out, breathes in, chest heaving with each breath. Looks at you, looks away.
You slip the other arm around her waist, pull her close, press down with your hips. “Tell me,” you breathe out to her. “Tell me you don’t want this, don’t want me here. Tell me you don’t want me.”
Her eyes flick up to yours for the briefest of seconds before she looks away again. She licks her lips.
“I –” she says, bites down on her lower lip as you press harder into her. “I don’t …”
She never finishes the sentence, mainly because your arm just made its way under her jacket and her shirt is thin cotton. You let out a laugh and feel a shiver run through her body. You press your hips down again, slow, deliberate.
“Go on, head-butt me,” you flash her your cocky half-smile. “Clock me on the head with your gun.”
She doesn’t say anything for the longest moment, just looks at you.
“I don’t …” Finally she breathes out. “…want …” She trails away followed by a sharp intake of breath as you grind against her, and you feel her fingers thread through the belt hoops of your cargo pants, as she pulls you into her. It’s more of a reflex action, really, you know. You can feel her slumping slightly, leaning into you, as her legs grow weak.
You chuckle softly, head bent, breathing out on the hollow beneath her neck. “That’s a funny way you’ve got, of not wanting.” You let your lips brush against it softly, lightly, feel the warm jumping pulse beneath her skin. “Do all the people in your universe not want like that, Olivia Dunham?”
She lets an incomprehensible noise out of the back of her throat as your lips land on her pulse point, and you smile into her skin, worry it with your teeth, soothing the bites with your tongue. It’s warm, her skin, warm, salty and something else, something entirely different. She moans softly, you can tell she’s really trying not to; her fingers, threaded through your belt loops, clutch at the bottom of your shirt, make forceful little fists, half pulling it out of your pants. When you finally lift your lips off her skin, you’ve left several interesting red marks and she’s breathing hard.
“Stop it,” she says weakly, and you could’ve sworn, almost half-heartedly.
In reply you trace a line of butterfly soft kisses along her clavicle, feel her heartbeat thudding fast, irregular, yet in sync with your own; her breath hitches. Your hand slips to the nape of her neck, fingers sinking into the hair at the base, pulling softly, burrowing inside, until the bun gives in. Soft, blond hair spills from its bounds, framing her face, curling at the edges. You thread your fingers through it, wonder how incredibly soft it is, catch a whiff of something fruity, flowery, and breathe it in. It’s the most intoxicating scent you’ve ever smelled.
“Oh, God, Olivia,” you breathe out, and you can feel her breath catch in her throat as your fingernails dig deep, scraping her scalp, fingers yanking lightly on her hair.
Your lips trace the line of her jaw, find a point beneath her ear which makes her close her eyes and moan, and the sound is like fire on your already heightened senses. You want more, you need more, and then your hand is out of her hair and fumbling at her shirt buttons. There aren’t many left to open, and by the time she opens her eyes and figures out what you’re doing, you’ve popped open the last button and yanked half her shirt out of the waistband of pants.
“What’re you–” she begins, and then gasps as your hand slides beneath her shirt, cool over her warm, bare skin, raising goose-bumps, coming to rest over the curve of her abdomen. It sort of fits there perfectly, which pleases you.
“Stop this!” she manages to get out in a strangled whisper before you run your fingertips in a demanding caress over the underside of her breast, making her shut up and trail off in an incomprehensible moaning sound. You can feel her sagging against you as her knees grow weak. Your fingers trace lines and patterns on her bare skin, her body heat warming your cold fingertips.
Before she can recover, you’re undoing her belt buckle. She’s shaking her head like she’s trying to clear it but now you’re too far gone to make yourself stop, sheer need, lust and instinct taking over all logic and reason. So before she can do anything further, you’ve popped the button and unzipped her fly and your fingers are sliding lower.
“No, no, no, no,” words fall from her lips like a hurried prayer.
And you’re almost there, but then there’s a light pressure on your abdomen pushing you away, her arm is between the two of you and her hand grabs yours, stopping it from inching its way further south.
“No,” she says, firmly this time.
You look at her, confused. The expression on her face, blown pupils, irregular breathing, her drumming heartbeat – all tell you clearly that she wants this just as much as you do, that you’re not the only one.
“What’s the matter?” you ask her, perplexed. “I know – I can tell you want this – let me…” You trail off, unable to divert your mind any more from the course of action it was bent upon, your fingers once again slipping and sliding on her bare skin, forcing their way out of her grip, on their way down to…
“No!” she says, grabbing your hand again. “No, stop!”
Your mind is so lost in a haze of longing, of having wanted this for so long, needing this so much right now that you don’t even register what she’s saying. You don’t stop and she struggles against you.
“No! Liv, stop–”
“But you want thi–”
“Liv,” she says in a softer, gentler tone. “Not like – this, okay? Later, when we get – later, okay? Not like this.”
And in the end what stills your hand most of all is the way she spoke, and the fact that for the first time since you’ve known each other, she’s called you Liv. A happy bubble forms inside your chest, swells, floats to the surface. It’s ridiculous, you know that, but you can’t help it.
“Later?” you ask her.
She just nods, squeezes your hand gently before loosening her grip.
“Promise?” You don’t even care that at that moment you sound like a little girl, you just want to hear her answer.
She smiles for the first time that evening. “Yes. Promise.”
So you still your hands, steer them away from the course they were bent upon, and smile back, looking at her, taking her in – all of her: hair wild, spilling carelessly from their bounds, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, pupils dilated, suit jacket dangling from her shoulders, the once crisp white shirt wrinkled, unbuttoned all the way and half out of the waistband of her pants which are unzipped, open just the right, tantalizingly little amount, love bites along her neck and collar-bone – now this here’s a sight you’ll remember till the day you die. And you know that you have that cocky, crooked, more-smirk-than-grin smile of yours, the Liv Dunham special, on your face when you realize that you are the cause of her being so déshabillée.
You open your mouth, not sure what you’re going to say when there’s a beep in your ear – the comm links are working again. Relief surges through you as you raise a hand to press the button and answer the call.
“Liv?” The slightly hoarse voice of Charlie Francis brings you back to earth, making you realize you’re stuck in an elevator with your alternate from another universe. It’s unreal.
“Liv? Can you hear me?”
Your grin widens as you press her to the wall, molding your body to hers.
“Yes, Charlie,” you say, your breath ruffling her hair lightly as you press yourself closer, nudge her cheek with the tip of your nose and watch as she closes her eyes, bites her lip and exhales.
“Are you alright?” His voice is tight with panic. “Are you hurt? Are there any inju–”
“Whoa, slow down, grandma,” you interrupt him, while settling over her. “I’m fine. We’re fine.”
“Agent Dunham is fine?”
“Oh, she’s very fine,” you tell him, a wild urge to giggle rising inside you.
“Oh,” he seems slightly taken aback by your enthusiastic reply.
“You seem disappointed,” you don’t even realize your voice has dropped an octave as you run your hands up her arms lightly, press your lips to into a soft point beneath her ear. She stops herself from moaning, barely, but you can feel the sound thrumming in her throat.
“Wha – no, oh, no. I’m glad you guys are okay.”
“Mm-hm,” you breathe out, nuzzling into her neck, smiling as she tries to push you back again.
“I really am,” he sounds a little flustered now.
“Okay,” you say. She opens her mouth to speak but you press a finger to her lips, shake your head, replace the finger with your thumb, drag it across her lower lip once, twice, feel her shudder.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Charlie says, concerned.
“Yes.” The word is a dragged whisper, falling from your lips like a lover’s long-drawn sigh, your fingernails rake lightly at her back, she shudders again and you can feel the slight ripples as the muscles of her back shift under your fingers, responding to your touch.
“Oookay,” Charlie’s voice is tinged with skepticism, but thankfully he chooses not to comment on your reply. “Hey, we’re working to get you guys out, hang in there, okay? The elevator’s main cable snapped and the emergency generator crashed. But they’re working on it, it’d be fixed soon, and you’d be out in no time at all–”
“Oh, that isn’t a problem,” you tell him, purring against the shell of her ear, biting the earlobe softly. “You take your time. Nice and slow.”
“You’re being – patient?” he sounds awed for a moment, and then he snorts. “Aha, you’re showing off in front of her, aren’t you, Liv?”
“Mayyyybe,” you’ve moved on to the corner of her jaw now.
He lets out a guffaw. “Alright then, hang on. We’re getting you out soon.”
“You do that,” you say and press the button to end the call. “So – where were we?”
“Get off,” she tells you, trying to sound stern but her voice wavers in the end as you continue to trace patterns on her back. “Liv, I don’t want them to find me like this!”
You leer at her. “But what a shame, sweetheart! You look delectable.”
She rolls her eyes and tries to push you away again. You chuckle, not moving.
“Oh, okay. But on one condition.”
“Kiss me.” You see the incredulous look on her face. “You know, the act of endearment involving lips, and more often than not, tongue, wherein two people lean their faces towards each other–”
“I know what a kiss is!”
“Well, then, I suppose you will have no problem demonstrating–”
“I said later, okay?”
“Later it is,” you say, not moving.
“So let me go now!”
“I’m telling you–”
“This is ridiculous–”
“You’re not going to budge, are you?”
“Gah!” she lets out a scream of frustration, and then, before you can finish saying it, her hands are cupping your face and her lips are upon yours, demanding, insistent, unrelenting, and then her tongue is melting against yours, wild, sweet, all-consuming. You’ve forgotten basic things like breathing, and forming coherent, logical thoughts and – she’s kissing you and well, damn!
You can’t tell if that kiss lasted a few seconds or a few minutes or an eternity. The next thing you know is that she’s pushed you away and you’ve staggered back a step, lips tingling, breath hitched, knees weak.
“That was–” your voice is a hoarse whisper as you exhale. “…enlightening.”
She snorts, buttoning her shirt right to the top, smoothing it down, tucking it in.
You let out a deep, heavy breath, trying to calm your heartbeat. “Whoa.”
“Two can play at this game, Dunham.”
“Gosh, I hope so,” you grin at her.
She shakes her head at your cheekiness, runs fingers through her hair, gathering it into a bun.
And pretty soon, the display screen blinks back into life, the gears revv up, the buttons blink and beep, and the elevator is moving again, up towards the ground floor. The doors open to reveal Charlie pacing outside. He stops when he sees you, opens his mouth to speak but ends up staring at you, giving you the weirdest look as you bend down to pick your out-of-shape jacket.
“Later,” you whisper, as you stride past her.
She follows, prim and silent.
“So, Dunham,” says Broyles, after listening to your report on the shapeshifters’ case for the day, detailing the progress you made in some cases. “I trust that you’re pleased with the results of the ongoing investigation, and the cooperation of the Other Side?”
You nod, biting your lip. “Yes, sir, she’s certainly very … pleasurable.”
“You mean pleasant.”
You bite back a smile.
“That’s exactly what I meant, sir.”