Post #1

[fringekink_mod]

This 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'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).

Comments

red olivia/gray ella

[(Anonymous)]

red olivia/gray ella, time travel hurt/confort and love

[(Anonymous)]

blue olivia/gray olivia/red olivia, time travel, we are the same

[(Anonymous)]

peter/red olivia/red Lincoln, mine, fight,need

Extension of a flawed Truth - red lincoln, red olivia, peter

[(Anonymous)]

When Olivia escorts Peter Bishop to his new apartment she doesn’t expect to see him again; it affords her the opportunity to be blunt, to ask what the other side’s like. When Peter provides an answer, voice husky with hidden emotion, Olivia excuses herself, returns to Lincoln and Charlie, the comfort of her team.

Her prediction of a media storm doesn’t occur. The next time Olivia meets the Secretary’s son, the ShowMe pinned to his shirt reads as Peter King. There can be no paparazzi if the prodigal son hasn’t returned.

Olivia, familiar with association, taps one nail against the ID pinned on Bishop’s chest and smirks. “Peter Pawn didn’t appeal?”

“It lacks a certain grandiose,” he retorts sarcastically.

Olivia brushes past him, amused, and follows Charlie and Lincoln to a class four event.

They come home dirty with sixty-eight civilians encased in amber. Olivia spots him near Astrid and she’s suddenly, inexplicably, pissed. “What’s Bishop even doing here?”

Lincoln shrugs noncommittally. “The Secretary’s indulging him.”

“Then indulge him at a playschool, he’ll be more useful there.”

Olivia strips her kit off in the change room, one arm braced against the tiles as the water skids off her shoulder, sloughs down the curve of her spine and tumbles off her ass. Sixty-eight civilians, thirty-eight males, seventeen females, thirteen children, their ages ranging from three to seventy-four respectively; there has to be an easier solution, she thinks wearily. Olivia doesn’t leave until Charlie hollers through the doorway about cold water, inconsiderate teammates, and his ailing muscles.

Peter returns the following day.

Olivia observes him out of the corner of her eye. Agent Farnsworth’s brittle in his presence, the staccato beat of her words rapid-fire, they divvy up the Orange computer system between them without conflict. It takes Olivia five hours to realize Peter’s actually *good* with Astrid, as if off-centre minds, poor social skills, are the norm by which he operates.

Peter never looks Astrid in the eye. He talks with his head bent, voice low until the vibration in Astrid’s demeanor levels. It takes Olivia longer to realize the tension Peter was holding (seen but not comprehended), has also diminished - as if Astrid’s presence were a harbor in a riptide ocean - floating safe above skeletal shipwrecks.

Thoughtful, Olivia returns to work.

The Orange O.S has the fastest random statistical program in America. Peter King apparently needs it and has his father’s blessing. Olivia decides as long as he’s out from underfoot, his presence in Fringe Division shouldn’t be too disruptive.





He doesn’t stay in the apartment. Peter stares at the line of comic book frames and feels it’s a mausoleum to a childhood he can’t remember. He’s not comfortable in the flat. Peter’s not comfortable anywhere. He walks the streets at night, braced against the cold, zigzagging from one corner of the city to the other; past Broadway, brothels, river-houses to the slums, he trails one finger over an amber breach, trying to find the pulse of a dying world, digging at the cyst where memory should reside. Inevitably, his journey ends at the Empire State building, forehead resting against cool glass as he watches the dirigibles float in. Sandy, twenty-two with a gap-toothed smile, a shy disposition, lets him be. The docking station never empties of people; their background buzz like the ramblings of a madman who talked all night. Soothed, Peter sleeps, knowing he’s nothing, nobody, to any of them.




The first time Olivia sees Agent Farnsworth smile she almost stumbles over her own feet.

Bishop’s reclined in a chair, legs stretched over the corner of the computer’s flat-screen as he talks; Astrid, per usual, has her eyes angled away. The smile on her face breaks like summer dawn, golden; breathtakingly warm. Asperger’s is a poor cousin to autism, sign-posted by social ineptness and higher mathematical reasoning; unlike its better known relative the emotions aren’t locked away but accessible, highly selective. It’s not unusual for a sufferer to converse with one person to the exclusion of everyone else. In Fringe Division, no one gave a damn what Astrid suffered from so long as she performed her assigned task; for that matter, no one tried to engage her either.

The beauty of Astrid’s smile is a revelation.

Olivia, halfway down the stairs comes to a complete stop, more tellingly, is the relief in Bishop’s eyes when he sees it.

Olivia meets with Lincoln and Charlie at Keggers (Lincoln’s choice) and they pass the night with round after round, their voices loud, rowdy with each outlandish story. Olivia nurses her drink while the boy’s knock theirs back, her stomach tight with laughter, with the joie de vivre she finds with these men. She walks home with Charlie’s arm tossed over her shoulder, with the memory of Lincoln boneless in his seat. Olivia would die for them without question, knows unequivocally they would do the same.


“What do you want with her?” Olivia might not drink with Astrid but she’s protective of anyone who might take advantage. Olivia doesn’t know Bishop, or King or whatever name he’s chosen, well enough to decide his game-plan (she’s actively avoided him since their conversation about the other reality), but where men and women mix there’s tension and she won’t see Astrid hurt.

Peter startles, the stubble dark on his cheeks. There are schematics laid out across the desk, hair standing on end as if he’s fisted it. “Good morning to you too,” he drawls.

“Are you trying to sleep with her?” It’s a natural extension, aggressive enough so Olivia can read his reaction. Peter’s expression flickers through half a dozen emotions before it turns ugly. Olivia regrets her choice of words, would snatch them back except the tone and accusation’s already out there.

“She was a friend on the other side, as for sleeping with this Astrid, Julie Henders might object.” The name means nothing to Olivia. Peter’s eyes are flint. “Anything else you’d like to know?”

She wants to know if the other Olivia has more tact, but she posed the question to gain an honest insight. Pandering to social niceties is a luxury Fringe, and Olivia, can’t afford. “Has anyone shown you the SOPs and evac procedures yet?”

Peter blinks. He leans back in his seat, motions toward the second window on his computer-screen. He’s doing his own research, trying to bridge the gap between the world he was raised in and the world he was taken from. The taste in Olivia’s mouth feels like ash, uncomfortable, because no one’s bothered to personally show him. Olivia shifts her stance. The Secretary may have given his son an ivory tower to live in, but he doesn’t spend every waking moment there.

“You have any questions, ask, immediately.”

Peter nods curtly. There’s thunder in his eyes, the earliest warning system known to mankind.

Olivia hesitates then walks away, unsettled as she slips into the pack-comfort of her team. He’s un-tethered, Olivia thinks and wonders briefly if her double would know how to settle him, take some of the wildness out of his runner’s frame. Peter’s an irritant, laced in the clothing beside Olivia’s skin. She finds herself watching him throughout the course of the day.

“Liv,” Lincoln greets, one hip propped against her desk.

“What is it?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing.”

She swivels her seat, eyebrow cocked. “You’re looking clear-eyed today, especially considering last night.”

“You can thank my good looking charms to the wonders of Cold n’ Sobers.”

Olivia laughs. “Better than an espresso shot?”

“If I could remember what espresso tastes like I would agree.” Lincoln smiles disarmingly, and Olivia agrees, Lee’s charming and heartbreakingly young. He angles his head toward Peter. “How’s our kidnap victim?”

“Prickly.”

Lee drums his heel against the desk. “Out-fit him with an air canister and ear-comm, Astrid says the power usage in his apartment’s zilch.”

Olivia meets Lincoln’s eyes, an entire conversation in the space of a second, and nods.

tbc

[(Anonymous)]

Gen, an alternate, angry take on the LSD ep. Olivia isn't her own worst enemy; Bell is.

blue sonia/red charlie

[(Anonymous)]

blue sonia/red Charlie, oh my love please stay

Re: blue sonia/red charlie

[(Anonymous)]

Ow, my heart.

red olivia/blue charlie

[(Anonymous)]

red olivia/blue Charlie, au Charlie wasn't murdered too.
hey Charlie whats up!

gray astrid/red olivia

[(Anonymous)]

gray astrid/red olivia, time travel

astrids

[(Anonymous)]

blue astrid/red astrid/gray astrid, astrid we need to talk

red lincoln/peter

[(Anonymous)]

red Lincoln/peter, inferior

henry/ella

[(Anonymous)]

Henry/ella, we are family

Re: henry/ella

[(Anonymous)]

that would be soo cute

red olivia/blue rachel

[(Anonymous)]

red olivia/blue Rachel, post season 3 Hi rachel, its nice to meet you

[(Anonymous)]

red Lincoln/blue Rachel, post season 3 there's something about him that she can't ignore!

red charlie/blue charile

[(Anonymous)]

red Charlie/blue charlie,au your not what I expected

olivia/olivia

[(Anonymous)]

olivia/olivia, we need to work together now, so I'm asking you do you trust me?

blue olivia/red lincoln

[(Anonymous)]

blue olivia/red Lincoln,3 final, powers, he doesn't hqave a single idea what she is capable of.

[(Anonymous)]

Anyone/Olivia, non-con.

[(Anonymous)]

Olivia Dunham/Peter Bishop/OH Lincoln Lee; Threesome

Olivia and Peter invite Bi-Lincoln to their bed.

Concentric

[(Anonymous)]

There’s too many knees, elbows that stab into exposed ribs, and if Olivia gets a cock in her eye she’s calling the whole thing off...

It’s slick skin, jostling for position, hands cupping her breast, mouth at her throat; it’s fingers deep in her cunt, a tongue lapping between folds of silken skin. It’s stubble and porcupine chin, there’s nothing dignified about it. Push, pull, sweat and teeth.

It’s the breath Olivia holds as Lincoln breaches from behind, inescapable pressure that grinds her pelvis into Peter, a thin membrane of skin and two cocks rubbing between the divider.

It’s a paean because Olivia can hold this, hold them.

It’s orgasm slow as syrup, caused more from overwhelming pressure than pleasure; it’s solid and immutable, and there, there, there. Lincoln thrusts, gentle, and the aftershocks trickle down, running from Lincoln to Olivia to Peter. Peter catches her, muscles locked under the weight of two people, and rocks back – eyes blown wide – movement ponderous, quiet as a sailboat. It’s a thumb rubbing concentric circles over her clit, guiding her from one peak to another, never letting pain take center stage - until it’s a shadowy ghost pacing Olivia’s awareness.

She comes.

[(Anonymous)]

Astrid Farnsworth/Peter Bishop; domination & keeping it secret.

Either Astrid wants it rough from Peter, or Peter wants Astrid to dominate him (a hidden side of her, perhaps?)

Both keeping it secret.

Matanawa - (warnings - dirty, filthy, nasty sex)

[(Anonymous)]

The head professor of Marine biology is a redhead with more letters following her surname than Astrid can count, she buys her lunch from Harvard cafeteria at exactly 1:15 in the afternoon, hair tied in a loose braid, the pale line of her neck delicate as a swan; Astrid has seen her once or twice and on both occasions she asked after Peter. If Astrid had to hazard a guess, she would put Doctor Shelton in her early forties, body slim, face rounded soft, she’s been blessed with Hollywood genes if not Hollywood money; Shelton walks with the confidence of a woman who’s accepted age gracefully, who isn’t ashamed of the laugh lines that pattern her skin. Peter flirts with Dr. Shelton shamelessly for the first month after returning to the States. He heads out for lunch at 12:45 and doesn’t return until an hour later; Astrid gets the feeling its harmless fun, that Peter’s keeping himself in practice rather than serious intent, he comes back loose, a little more mischievous, better able to deal with Walter. Olivia’s a festering wound after John, re-working events in her head and Peter has no intention of dipping his toe in her direction, doesn’t want to screw Olivia up any more than she already is. Which leaves the faculty staff to flirt with on one side… and Astrid on the other. For the first month Shelton is good for Peter, it’s not until she meets Walter Bishop that Shelton’s cock-blocked all the way back to Yale. “She’s a hussy,” Walter spits venomously, “and smells like fish.”

“She’s lovely!” Astrid defends, “And she’s a Marine biologist, Walter, not a fishmonger.”

“He deserves someone better,” Walter mutters under his breath and walks away.

Astrid thinks she knows who Walter’s referring to when he says ‘someone better’ and tries to hide her smile, but it doesn’t take into account Olivia’s not ready for another relationship, and Peter’s version of stress relief becomes severely hampered by Walter’s growing notoriety among the faculty members.

By the time the second month rolls by everyone at Harvard knows Walter Bishop (who took a sudden liking to Marine biology and their collection of exotic fishes *after* Shelton fled in terror), and his son, who it’s known wide and far, is strictly off limits. Peter, who’s irascible and charming, who can make Astrid snort with laughter and who can catch Olivia’s undivided attention, develops a mean streak a mile wide. Things come to a head when they meet the Observer. Astrid knows Peter’s mentally if not physically left the building, one foot out the door to never returning. He comes back to the lab, to Olivia, to his father, with a mountain of unanswered questions. He comes back bruised.

Post-torture, Peter plays the piano, fingers dexterous, nimble quick, but the songs are half finished melodies that flirt with questing sadness, fading before the finale’s revealed. Astrid finds herself missing the jazz, the ragtime tunes Peter would belt out while Astrid serenaded Gene - the zany moments of absolute boredom they shared - when Olivia was confiding with Charlie and Walter was buried in work. Astrid starts bringing her IPod to work. Peter’s taste in music is eclectic, borderless; they sit together, the ear-buds stretched between them, one apiece, his warmth seeps into Astrid, heating one side of her body like a furnace, sharing space, intimate as lovers. The next time he steals her IPod, Astrid has it paused on the rendition of The Dialogues of Luisa Siegea (circa 1660) in the original Latin. She sees the moment when Peter pauses, utterly perplexed, head cocked to one side as he tries his best to translate the dead language. Astrid also sees the moment when Peter realises he’s listening to porn and hears him snort, scrubbing the back of his neck as his eyes seek her out.

Astrid raises an eyebrow. “It’s a valuable studying tool.”

“And here I was thinking you’d already graduated.”

His smile is impish, turning one corner of his mouth up, he doesn’t relinquish the IPod but makes himself comfortable, feet on the desk, eyes half lidded as he listens. Astrid returns her attention to the computer, hiding her amusement. “How’s your Latin?”

“Admittedly it’s terrible, but lucky for me I know all the dirty words.” Astrid shakes her head and laughs, stretching her arms behind her back, Peter watches her intently. “This is about the lesbians, yeah? The older whore who passes along her skills to the younger girl?”

Astrid considers him. “You’ve read it?”

“Heard of it, and now apparently *hearing* it.”

“You don’t seem to be offended.”

Peter rolls his eyes sceptically. “Please, I’m a thirty-one year old male living with his father in a motel room with a single bed. Astrid, this is as close to ‘getting some’ as I’ll ever see.”

Astrid does laugh this time and suggests mournfully. “Poor Peter?”

“Poor Peter,” he agrees. Peter swings his chair idly from side to side; Astrid decides he’s not the type to stay still, some part of him constantly in motion. “It’s weird, though, listening to porn instead of seeing it on the TV screen.”

“Differences between the sexes, men prefer visual stimulation, women prefer mental stimulation, reading or…” she motions to the IPod.

“I prefer doing it myself,” Peter says straightforwardly then shrugs candidly when Astrid turns her head to stare at him. “Honestly, it’s *much* more fun.”

“Hopefully for both parties.”

It’s Peter’s turn to laugh, his fingers drumming against denim, his tone lazy. “Bite your tongue.”

Astrid stands. Things are easy between Peter and her - they always have been - he’s handsome enough and it doesn’t take forethought. Astrid plucks the speaker from his ear, leans down low, face brushing dark stubble and speaks into the fragile shell of his ear. “If Agent Dunham didn’t give you enough time to pack your porn from Bagdad, I’ll show you my collection instead.” Peter goes preternaturally still, head tilted back a fraction, his smile fixed. Astrid backs off, gives him room to consider, her mouth curving with invitation. “But be warned, I work for Walter Bishop.”

“Translation,” Peter says considering, “you’re not a pushover.”

“Who needs Latin?”

The smile is challenging this time. “You won’t be able to remember a single language by the time I’m done.”


***

There’s kinbaku, shibari and shibaru.

Astrid never learnt Japanese but the words roll off her tongue, naked with want, Peter is very, very talented with his hands. The asanawa is eight meters long, two singular pieces of jute no more than six millimetres in diameter. It’s dishonourable to knot separate ropes together - but a knot inside a singular rope is permissible - Peter explains this as he weaves intricate patterns against her skin. Jute is inflexible, no give permitted, it holds Astrid immobile effectively as chains, arms folded high behind her back, the rope coiled from elbow joint to opposite hand, a criss-cross/down pattern that keeps her spine arched into an excruciating posture, breasts bared and thrust forward, her nipples drawn tight.

Peter coils the excess rope into a fixed loop over her neck, running down the front of her chest like a tie, dividing her breasts into arbitrary states. It traverses beneath her cups then creeps behind, connects back to her elbows and hands. The jute’s pale white against Astrid’s skin, a coffee and cream contrast. Peter doesn’t need to knot the jute to secure it but tucks the loose strands into the bindings. “Ushiro takate kote shibari,” Peter says softly, his hands resting on her hips, keeping Astrid balanced.

Astrid sways, knees spaced widely on the bed.

Peter doesn’t rush his kisses, every stroke languid, a quiet exploration of language and tongue. She can feel the sweat gathering in her hair, resting her weight against his chest, letting the fibres of rope scratch his torso. Peter lowers her. It puts further pressure on Astrid’s shoulders, arms trapped under her own weight. Peter kisses her stomach, nuzzles her naval, he rubs a thumb against Astrid’s pubic bone and licks deep, his thumb pulling the skin back to keep the clit fully exposed. Astrid squirms, feels her body flush incendiary hot, quick as a firestorm. Peter doesn’t rush this either. She can feel the curve of his smile before he turns his face sideways and slides down, letting porcupine skin drag against sensitive folds. Astrid cries out, the sound sharply aborted, her legs trying to flutter shut and stopped by the bulk of his shoulders. Peter moves his hand from her pubic bone, palm smoothing over her stomach until Astrid’s body stops quaking.

There’s silence for a moment before he lifts his head, hair dishevelled, eyes striking blue. “Alright?” Astrid nods. Her lower body pulses once, a contraction of internal muscles as wetness gathers between her legs, she swallows to take the rasp from her voice.

“Yes.”

He kisses her thigh in response, lets his tongue seek her out, by turns shy and sinuous, seeking the shadows between her legs until something hard pushes in. The vibrator remains inert, still as a dildo, hard and unyielding, stretching Astrid wide until her body swallows it whole. She groans, tries to readjust to the intrusion, to arch her spine off the bed, elevate the growing ache of discomfit between her shoulder blades and arms. Peter slips off the bed and returns to the jute, he’s as naked as she is, lean and well formed. He places two knots in the second piece of rope, half a hand-span in distance and says, “Matanawa.”

Astrid remembers the word, knows the meaning, she shudders once, lets her legs fall open. Peter winds one end of the jute into the rope circling her bust and tugs it down firmly; pulls it down between her legs, the knot placed exactly on the cleft of her vulva. With one hand on her hip the other on her thigh, Peter urges Astrid onto her stomach. The relief is short lived, the fire between her shoulder blades easing - only to be replaced with the pressure of the knot against her labia; Peter flicks the vibrator on and Astrid jerks forward, grinding against the sheets. Pleasure sparks behind her eyes, toes curling as her breathing hitches. Peter kisses the small of her back, parts her cheeks and pulls the rope tight until it curves with the half-moon of her body, tight against clit and anus both, the knots perfectly aligned, digging into exposed orifices and female genitalia.

She’s rocking helplessly against the stimulation, arms immobile, all movement restricted. Peter jerks the rope high, secures it to the ushiro takate kote shibari that binds her hands. There’s a high whine in the room and it takes Astrid long moments to realise it’s coming from her, shuddering like a spastic as everything clenches, tightens, vibrates. Her first orgasm rolls over her like a freight train, open mouthed, face buried against bed-sheets. Astrid’s gasping incoherently because nothing stops or relents; the pleasure is so intense her mind whitens out.

When Astrid comes back to herself she’s in no-man’s-territory - when orgasm’s been achieved and the body’s ready to quit - except none of the stimulation does. She’s caught blind on the cusp of conflicting data; electrical misfires between discomfit and pleasure, eyes squeezed shut. Peter tugs her from the bed, sets Astrid on the floor on her knees. The rope keeps the vibrator in place. His hands find her face, fingers gentle on her jaw-line, brushing by her cheekbones, sweeping through her hair; grounding and real, drawing Astrid into the here and now. Her mind turns the flip, switching back to pleasure, pleasure, pleasure, until Astrid realises she’ll come again, and will keep coming until Peter’s done.

She tilts forward and sucks him down, lets salt and heat fill her throat, to stop herself from begging. Peter’s taste is strong on her tongue, not unpleasant, his thigh rubs between Astrid’s legs, shattering her concentration; she has to pull off to gather breath and comes again between exhalations. “P-pe,” Astrid tries to curl down, to loosen the rope against her clit, to let the vibrator ease from her body, but the movement only pulls her arms further up, tightens the rope around her neck, hinders her breathing until the deprivation of oxygen floats her body into another orgasm.

There’s wetness on her cheeks, body juddering. Peter straightens Astrid gently, eases the rope around her neck until she can breathe freely, untangles the jute binding the crotch rope to her arms and drags it from her vulva, the slickness of her come easing the passage of fibre against skin. Distantly, Astrid thinks she comes a third time, the waves quick and unrelenting. Gravity lets the vibrator fall from her body and Astrid sags as the rope binding her arms is uncoiled. She falls against Peter, holding onto his thighs for support. He doesn’t ask for anything in return but drops into a squat, lifting her chin to make eye contact. Astrid doesn’t have any words she realises; her mind swept clean, her body close to shock. He strokes her cheek, kisses her soft and pulls the quilt down over them both.

Astrid doesn’t move, when her body stops trembling she nuzzles Peter's throat, and says warningly, “It’s my turn, next time.”

[(Anonymous)]

Peter/Olivia; Oral sex; 69.

Both performing oral sex with each other at the same time. ("69")

[(Anonymous)]

Oliva Dunham; female ejaculation

Either masturbation or from receiving oral sex from Peter.

[(Anonymous)]

“Oh, God!” she exclaimed, covering her face with both hands.

“Olivia…”

“Oh, God…”

Olivia turned her face to the side, trying to avoid his eyes. She wanted to turn on her side and lock herself in the bathroom but he crawled up her body, laughing.

“Olivia, c’mon, baby, it’s cool.”

“That is so embarrassing!”

“That is so not embarrassing! No big deal.”

She groaned, her hair now covering her face.

“Ok, it is a big deal. It’s actually awesome,” he replied, laughing.

Peter started kissing her belly and the way to her breasts, rubbing his face against her skin and spreading her own fluids over her. He licked her juices off her skin, licking his way until he was facing her.

They haven’t been dating for longer than two months now and he was still mapping her body, what turned her on and what she liked. That night in particular, he was determined to give her the best orgasm of her life. Mostly because he had a big ego and also because he couldn’t get enough of her. He would easily spend the whole night between her legs, until he drove her to exhaustion.

What neither of them expected was her new-found ability to squirt. And right onto his face.

Peter honestly didn’t mind. He was actually finding the whole situation really amusing, that he could get her that turned on and relaxed with him. Not to mention that he was capable of bringing her to such a powerful orgasm. Olivia, on the other hand, seemed to find it embarrassing and humiliating.

“Hey, look at me,” he said, holding her shoulders, making her meet his gaze “there’s no need for you to embarrassed, ok? This has never happened to you before?”

Olivia hesitantly looked at him, face red with shame, and shook her head. Peter laughed out loud, cupping her face with both hands.

“So that makes it even more special. C’mon, babe, that is awesome!” he pulled her closer to him for a kiss and she tasted herself on his mouth, on his tongue; she could actually smell herself on him. “Not to mention that I love the taste of your pussy, your smell… how many men can be that lucky, to be covered in Olivia-scented juices?”

She snorted, rolling her eyes. The joy in his expression was so genuine that she couldn't help but smile back at him, trusting his words. He pulled her for another kiss at the same time sliding down his fingers to touch her pussy again. Olivia groaned against his mouth, knowing exactly what he was planning…

[(Anonymous)]

Peter Bishop; gay; wildland firefighter; death; grief

Peter has a secret: for a short amount of time, before he joined Fringe Division, he had a boyfriend. They were firefighters together. Peter's b/f is killed by flashfire.

blue olivia/red lincoln

[(Anonymous)]

blue olivia/red lincoln, can't have the one you love,love the one your with

olivia/rachel/olivia

[(Anonymous)]

olivia/rachel/olivia, I always wanted two of you.

Re: olivia/rachel/olivia

[(Anonymous)]

good kink

red olivia/peter

[(Anonymous)]

red olivia/peter, I'v been careless with a delicate man.

blue astrid/red charlie

[(Anonymous)]

blue astrid/red Charlie,
Charlie comes to the other side and is ordered to work with astrid and starts treating her like his astrid but shes not taking any BS from a "dead man"