The Five Stages of Sleeping With Peter


I own Nothing

I think this'll be the grand finale to the Frustration Series, the 3 previous stories can be found on FFN and are called "Best Cheese Steaks in the World", "What Not to Think When Examining Giant Shrimp", and "What Kind of Name is Astrid?"

Also, writing drunk speak is hard.


"Never let it be schaid I welch on my betsch." Peter muttered as he stumbled into the apartment placing the scented oil on the coffee table in front of the couch and taking another long draw out of the bottle of tequila. "I promisched you a massage and you'll get one."

"I toldsch you, I don't like cheesche schteaks." Olivia's words spilled from her mouth in a sloppy mess that only barely resembled English. "I'm taking my schirt owff, scho dwon't look." And then, as if completely ignoring the words she just said, Olivia began unbuttoning her shirt right in front of him to reveal a health chest unburned by undergarments. Peter paused for a moment, letting his drunken brain register that a barrier was about to be broken. "I schaid dwon't look!"

"I'm notsch!" Peter said as he continured to blatently leer at Olivia's naked chest. "If swe're doing thisch, you schould lie done." She complied, spreading a towel on the coffee table and spreading out in a long buffet of supple skin.

They were both drunk, a consequence from celebrating their first official non-Pattern related case (it turns out giant shrimp are a perfectly natural phenomenon with the right amount of pollution, experimental growth hormones, and sea water) and right now they were in no position to make responsible choices.

One thing had led to another. Dinner led to drinks, Drinks led to Peter telling her about a fairly wild party across town (god knows how he found out about it.), the party (and more drinks) led to…more drinks, which lead to an argument about keys or monks (or was it monkeys), that lead to a bet about more drinks which lead to Olivia complaining that she never got her massage and Peter remembering.

Now they were here, in Olivia's apartment on a night when her sister and niece were somewhere else. Hopefully 'somewhere' was far away because this was not a side of "Responsible Auntie Liv" Olivia wanted either of them to see. Peter was spreading the heated oils across her naked body, giving her the sensation of an inner fire boiling over deep with in her.

The drinking had killed the little voices, silenced all the terrible things that had been running through her head for weeks now and finally she had some level of inner peace. A wonderful oblivion where only the here and now was important. "Mmm…yer handsch feelz nische."

Peter let the oil glide under his fingers, alternating a light pressure with a hard push, giving pleasure and taking pain. He moved further and further up the skin on her, giving her a chance to feel every movement of his finger tips as they walked the length of her spine.

"You have…a lot of tenschion…in your, uh, back parts."

"Isch that a scien…a scien…a sciencey turm?"

"Nope." He whispered, "Maybe it's a law enforcey turm."


His hands had just barely met the top of her back when Olivia suddenly rolled over, revealing the beautiful sight of her naked chest. She was still drunk, they were both still drunk, but Peter didn't hear slurred words and inebriated speech. He just heard the wonderful sound of Olivia Dunham.

"Maybe you and I can come up with some new terms together." It was an illusion, of course, Olivia didn't sound like that after having six tequilas and a mixed drink of dubious quality but he didn't care. She leaned forward and thrust her naked chest against him until he could feel her flesh pressing into the fabric of his t-shirt.

A sick feeling brought Peter to the edge of quitting. He couldn't do this, this was Olivia, his 'Liv. She was still hurting from John, still in pain from being betrayed. Wouldn't this just make it hurt more? "Wait, waitsch…maybesch thisch isn't a gud eye-dea-"

But there wasn't time to complete the sentence. Her lips crushed against his and soon they didn't care what was and wasn't a good idea. They couldn't do anything but feel the cascade of feelings and smells and tastes and sweat. Peter had dreamed about this, wished on falling stars for something like this. Of all the women in the world, this one was perfect and never going anywhere.

Somewhere in the distance, Peter worried about the consequences but very close by, Olivia didn't care. They made love for hours, nearly to the point of physical collapse. Breathing became ragged, fingernails stratched across his back and teeth bit hard into the nape of her neck. They outlasted the coffee table, which shattered under the weight of their affection. They outlasted the couch, which tore a spring from motion it wasn't designed for.

Only the bed seemed made to hold them…and it did until they blacked out in a heap.

To Be Continued...