Title: your love is life piled tight and high
Pairing(s): Peter/Olivia
Fandom: Fringe
Rating: R
Words: 824
Spoilers: Post-ep for 6B
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I own nothing

In a house saturated with broken relationships and barren of a history, they begin to mend and write their own.

In a way she feels as though she's writing over the pages someone has already inscribed, a speck of redundancy in a relationship he's already had, but she will make him forget what he thought he had, once. Make him forget her, and force him to begin anew.

She can feel her stomach kink slightly as his thumb brushes against the pulse point on her wrist. His footsteps follow hers, echoing tellingly against the wood; they're ascension up the stairs is ripe with a quiet anticipation.

The landing is light. She flips the switch. Along the hallway the moonlight cuts geometric patterns across the floor, flooding in from the small window at the far wall.

Darkness invades them. His hands move to her hips. The Velvet Underground drums softly in the background.

"Olivia…we don't have to…" but even as he speaks his fingers flick away at the buttons of her shirt and the material begins to fall away, the skin of her lower torso appearing bit by bit.

She rests her forehead against his and he swallows the rest of his words. "I want to," she murmurs. "I'm tired of over-thinking every little thing I do." She pulls lightly at his lower lip with her teeth and a small noise escapes his throat.

She thinks of the way Walter described the cracks in the universe. Cracks begetting new cracks. Exponential. Her self-restraint crumbles quicker than she can reassemble the pieces.

These things are new to her. She has forgotten disinhibition, forgotten recklessness. His fingers burn patterns into her back, lips brushing along her collarbone. She remembers happy birthdays and reflexive hand holds and her brain tells her the wait was good but her heart mourns for two wasted years.

He's possessive. She likes it.

At two in the morning he wrenches her from her sleep — she awakens to him lying flush on top of her, pulling his teeth across her collarbone, kissing his way down the valley between her breasts. Her immediate drowsiness mingles with a low, pulsing arousal as she feels him harden against her bare thigh.

His fingers dig tightly into her hips as he pins her farther down onto the bed.

She had always been a beat off from everyone else — in a constant battle to prove to the world she could function at a distance from those around her; that she could run parallel to those she cared about. She never allowed anyone to rule sovereign over her body, her life; never allowed anyone to slip under her skin.

Except now. Peter is very much under her skin.

Under, against, around, on top.

The other side seemed to her like a deviation from the laws of physics — it built her up and broke her down, all at once. She came back hardened, but almost as a shell of anything real and breathing. She had felt exposed, unlovable, naked in the worst possible way. Right now, she finds herself incredibly malleable in his hands — a vulnerable, exhausted, content mass of skin and bone and lust.

His lips find her nipple, and his fingers find her folds. She jerks against him and she can feel him grin, his stubble brushing against her breast.

"I couldn't sleep," he mutters into her skin — almost apologetically, as though he has no control over his roving lips and hands.

Wide awake now, she takes note that the room is cold, but the little space between them is heated by their hot, slick forms. The sheet hangs limply over their lower bodies, and she digs her nails into the soft dip in his lower back, letting out a low moan as he tugs on her nipple with his teeth.

Things are much faster this time around: primal and raw, hurried and almost angry as he pushes roughly into her. The first time he took agonizingly long, mapping every inch of her skin and proving to her that they were as real and honest and beautiful as they had been from the moment she stood in the living room of an unfamiliar apartment in an unfamiliar world and laid it all on the line.

She can see the guilt in his eyes, can feel it everywhere on his tightened body, wants nothing more to soothe him and tell him he's forgiven, that it's okay, that they're okay; but he knows she's forgiven him — he needs to forgive himself.

He finishes before her, pulling slowly out and pressing a chaste kiss to her raw lips before dragging his mouth down the center of her body. When he reaches her navel his fingers curl tightly around her warm thigh.

His tongue curls up into her; her moan cuts through the sharp silence of the room.

She never really had a choice. Before universes collide, their elements do.