Disclaimer: Not now, nor have I ever owned any of the plots, characters or subjects related to Fringe. This is a work of pure, unadulterated fun.

A/N: This is set after the episode "What Lies Below" and before "Jacksonville". After watching that fight scene with Peter and Olivia – yeah, the plotbunnies, they did fornicate. I'm sure others have written this scenario a lot better than I, but the idea wouldn't leave me alone. This is dedicated to Chichuri, who is and always will be a super-beta. Everyone needs a little porn now and then.

WARNING: Explicit language and descriptions of sex.

Seether's "FMLYHM" (Fuck Me like You Hate Me) song has a lot to do with the origins of this plotbunny. Highly recommended song.

Undone

If he looks her way with that dark, brooding glare once more, she's going to do it. She's going to punch him. Right in his fucking mouth.

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It was supposed to be easy: set up a meet and pose as potential buyers for a new drug on the black market. A neat little cocktail militaries all over the world would kill to get their hands on, that, as Walter explained it, brings out the most primal emotions in a person and focuses them. Specifically aggression, strength, endurance and speed. Basically "super soldier in a can" – though Walter suspected there were side effects to trying to bring out the Cro-Magnon in a person. From the film footage of a guy at a club picking a fight with three other men and subsequently tearing them limb from limb, Olivia didn't doubt those side effects.

Peter used some of his…more questionable contacts to set up the meet between them and a guy named Rosseti, who obviously had mob connections himself. Walter cooked up a preliminary vaccine based off the blood samples sent from the infected night-club victim. And since she and Peter were going to be in close contact with a guy not known for his patience or scruples – who also happened to have the drug on his person – Walter thought it best to give them the vaccine, just in case. Olivia took the lead for the actual operation, something that didn't seem sit well with Peter. As usual, it all went to hell from there.

Olivia had been playing the seller like a pro, leading him on through the negotiations. A flirtatious wink here – "no, that price is too high, can't we find a way to compromise" – a lick of the lips there. Guy likes some leg, so she hikes her silky little skirt up a notch or two. Anything to get this drug off the street.

Peter is seated beside her, but far enough apart to let the sellers know that she is the one in charge. She feels him shifting uncomfortably in his chair every time Rosseti leans in and strokes her cheek, or toys with a strand of her hair. She's doing a damn good job managing to give him flashes of skin in between negotiations. He keeps reaching out to grasp her hands, and Olivia's skin crawls. But the show's gotta go on, and she laughs at his innuendo.

One of Rosseti's goons keeps eyeballing Peter in a way that's most distracting, and when Rosseti turns to retrieve the product, she steals a glance at Peter. He's grinding his jaw, eyes intense, telling her he isn't happy with the setup, the negotiations and most definitely not with the way Rosseti and his pals are eyeing Olivia like a succulent dessert. She doesn't get a chance to ask him what's up because Rosseti has proposed a toast to the deal. She and Peter down their scotch in one draw – she has to grin when he nearly chokes on his, while she proves, yet again, she could drink his ass under the table.

There's an odd tang to the liquor, she thinks. When she looks up at Rosseti and his head goon… oh, she knows they're fucked.

Guns are drawn and she and Peter are left with their hands up, feeling like prize idiots, while Rosseti goes into a monologue of how his head goon recognized Peter from some scam years back. And that it is divine providence that he is able to level a little pay-back Peter's way. In other words, they've just been dosed. Rosseti says that's he's always loved to 'watch' – Olivia figures that since they've just been dosed with something that will either turn them into super-strong gladiators or mindless killing machines, Rosseti must have a kink for blood and gore. More likely, he wants to watch Peter try to take her apart piece by piece. He probably has a cage somewhere set up to watch his own private fight club. Pitting them against each other takes care of all Rosseti's problems, really.

Before rage darkens the blue-green of Peter's eyes, he has the grace to look embarrassed. And if a gun wasn't pointed at her head, Olivia would have shot him herself. Figures his past would come back to bite them both in the ass like this. Luckily, Broyles had insisted on hidden mics, and sends in the cavalry just in time.

She and Peter are to report directly to Walter's lab get checked out.

"At least Doctor Bishop vaccinated you against this drug," says Broyles.

Peter shakes his head as they exit the building, "If it works. One of the many drawbacks to being Walter's guinea pigs."

He's half a step behind her as they make their way to the SUV, and it hasn't been a quiet walk. Their bickering has garnered quite a few stares from nosey pedestrians. It was supposed to be an easy operation. For once in this fucked up side-show she calls her job, all they had to do was a simple undercover buy. Just get the drug off the streets before more civilians died.

No mutants. No monsters. No mole-men or alternate universe-tripping. No science fiction-tech gizmos that bring about the end of the earth or slimy parasites that jump out of people's mouths. Just a drug buy. Simple.

Never a break, she thinks. Somehow she always has to end up either fighting things that are better left in novels by H. G. Wells, Isaac Asimov, and Michael Crichton – or being guinea pigged by everyone's favorite mad scientist.

And she's tired of Peter's excuses as to why this clusterfuck of an operation isn't his fault.

They turn down a secluded alley off the main streets, where their SUV is parked in front of a few abandoned warehouses. Her fuck-me pumps are killing her, the skirt and top are flimsy – nothing like the armor of her slacks and utilitarian tops. Everything just feels wrong. And the dissident vibes between her and Peter only add a grating static to the red buzz surrounding her.

She wants to punch something. Needs to release some of this anger and frustration. They're nearing her car, and she can sense Peter gearing up to say something.

Instead his hand appears and grabs the keys. "In the interest of the safety of the general public, I'd better drive."

"What?" That came out of nowhere, derailing her ire enough that she can't form a more indignant reply.

Peter looks down on her and there's a smugness creeping into his face. "Look. I know you're pissed. You've practically got flames coming out of your eyes, so maybe someone with a cooler head should operate the big machinery."

"Maybe you should stick to playing with your little machinery in the lab." Her fist tightens around the keys, yanking them back toward her. "Maybe then operations wouldn't get blown to hell."

"Hey, how was I supposed to know Mr. No-neck back there would remember me? Besides, Rosseti never took you seriously. For all your finagling, only thing you managed to do was give the guy a hard-on. The name of the game was 'let's make a deal' not 'let's buy a date.'"

"I was doing what I had to do get the guy on the hook." She steps up into his face, nose to nose. "I thought you of all people would know that sometimes it takes getting your hands dirty to get things done."

Peter sneers. "Last time I ran a con, I didn't have to come on like a drunken prom date."

"Yeah, and your cons always turned out so fucking well. I had it handled, Peter." Spits his name.

His eyes are cold, and the furrow between his brows is suddenly in stark contrast to the rest of his face. "Yeah, you had it handled alright. You were about to handle yourself into getting bent over that table, not purchasing the drug. Seriously, flashing all that skin? Why didn't you just strip and give the guy a lap-dance?"

Now she sees it. Her fury turns icy and molten at the same time as she lets a feral smile stretch across her lips. "What's the matter, Peter? Jealous?" Yanks the keys and Peter toward her a little more. Taunting. "Or maybe you like to watch…"

Sees him swallow. Oh yes, there's a tell. "'Livia," his tone is gravelly. "Don't." He yanks the keys and pulls her off balance a little. "I was trying to help you, that's all. It's my job to watch your back, isn't it?"

It should have comforted her. But that split second, all Olivia sees is brown eyes that used to be gentle and friendly staring back at her, murderous and mechanical. She feels the recoil of her gun as she puts a bullet in his head, watches him fall to the ground. A grey headstone over an empty grave.

"You're not Charlie," she whispers venomously. Charlie was stable. She knew all there was to know about him, an unspoken requirement of partners. She never had to worry that he could be hiding something that might get them both killed. Peter has, and always will be a wild card that could fuck up the game.

His jaw tightens and he winces despite himself. In a flash, he's recovered. "He's dead, sweetheart. And that deal was going south so fast you and I would have followed him pretty damn soon. If you had cut back on the happy hooker routine, you'd have seen that."

"The only thing I noticed was that you're the only one who seemed to be having a problem." Lets her eyes travel up and down his length, appraisingly. "Maybe you should get laid more, Peter, so you can get your mind back on the job."

Now it's his turn to smile. An ugly, horrible smile she's only seen a handful of times, and makes her sure Peter Bishop is capable of some truly twisted things.

"Pot – kettle, 'Livia," he purrs. Leans into her face, his breath wafting across her cheek. "The last sex you had was vicariously through an empath's mind, so I doubt you have room to talk."

Olivia's body goes rigid, eyes wide. She can't even fucking react as Peter reads her like a book and sinks the barb deeper into an old wound she didn't even know was there.

"And dear ol' John. That guy should've given lessons on running a con, right? I mean, he strung you along for how long?" Pierces her with a sadistic stare, "Tell me, Olivia, is there any guy that you've fucked that's still alive these days?"

She doesn't remember anything except the shooting pain up her arm after her fist connects with Peter's jaw. Damn. Probably cracked a knuckle. And it's supremely satisfying to see him stagger back a few steps, his hand coming away from his mouth covered in blood. She's heaving, legs spread in fighting stance and he only manages a challenging half smile.

"That the best you can do?" he taunts.

She drops her coat to the ground. Adrenaline running through her veins feeds the greedy anger until she's nearly gleeful that Peter seems to want more. She runs at him, fuck-me heels and all, throwing them both back into the rusty warehouse door. The bay doors are old and brittle and give way under the weight of the two as the barrel end over end.

Peter does more shoving than actually landing blows. Trying to pin her. He's holding back. She lands two more punches to the face when she rolls on top of him, and he answers by throwing a leg up and knocking her off. She rolls, and before she can get to her feet, he tackles her again.

When they stand, Peter's got her around the middle, but Olivia steps back into him, headbutting him backwards. He hits the far wall, and she rams her knee into his stomach, barely missing his balls. He's doubled over, sucking in ragged breaths and she doesn't give him time to regroup. One punch after another to his face, head…she wants him to bleed for what he's said. For his belittlement, for the memories she wanted left dead and buried, for making her seem unworthy.

"God you're fucking weak, Peter," she all but screams.

Suddenly, he catches her wrist mid swing and twists. Manages to pivot using her momentum, and Olivia finds herself crashing against the concrete wall again. Peter's face hovers near hers, one hand holding her wrist while the other braces her free arm still against the wall. He's calling her name through the haze of red, and after a moment it clears enough that she sees him. Looks into his eyes for the first time.

It's like a switch has been flipped and he's just realized something. Peter's face is sweating and flushed, but surprisingly, the anger she'd seen is replaced by astonishment. And something else. Need. Raw, naked lust swims in his eyes, which are so dilated they're nearly black.

She's all too aware of his body pressed against hers, now. The way his chest thrums in time with her breaths. It's hot…God it's so hot she struggles to find enough air, but she doesn't want him to move.

Her emotions are a riptide, swirling and frothing inside, and where rage made her want to make Peter bleed, desire makes her want him on top of her, inside her, all over her in as many ways as possible. But who says you can't make a boy work for it, first?

A wicked grin pulls at the corner of her mouth. He seems to understand, answers it with a small smirk just before she finds some leverage and pushes her knee up and between them, shoving him backward. They tumble, Peter taking her with his momentum and it's a mess of hands, elbows and legs as they struggle for dominance.

Maybe she let him win that round, she thinks. Peter is straddling her and takes the opportunity to pin her wrists. They stare into each other's eyes. Olivia takes stock of the fact that Peter is liable to have a nice shiner come tomorrow. And she realizes that she doesn't care how they'll explain it away. Nothing matters but the moment.

A cold draft sneaks up her legs and despite the sweat glistening on her skin, she shudders. At that moment, Peter appears to really notice the state of her. The silk blouse she'd been wearing is torn completely open, revealing the black lace bra she'd picked out. It's sexy and stylish and gives her a nice amount of cleavage. She looks like a porn star in a B-flick right now, sweaty, pinned, boobs pushing out of the bra cups with every breath. The skirt is ripped up one side during the fight, displaying the length of her legs along with a few new scrapes and scratches.

She watches in fascination as Peter drags his eyes up and down her, over the expanse of skin showing, lingering over her breasts and down to her lower section still half covered by her rag of a skirt.

Looks like he wants to eat her right then and there. And damned if she might let him. He leans down, tongue flicking out over a cut just above the swell of her right breast. She sucks in a sharp hiss as he tastes her. Tongue is replaced by his lips, running, suckling along the ridge of her bra, tasting the sweat and skin.

She's very aware of his arousal then as he leans in further to see if she'll allow him to run his teeth along her collar bone, the hard swell in his jeans pressing into her stomach. Olivia automatically pushes her hips upward into his crotch and Peter growls against her neck.

She isn't expecting him to bite her. Hard. "Be still, damn it," he orders.

But Olivia isn't going to obey. She finds that she likes making him wait, drawing it out a bit further and something about Peter having to physically force her to submit makes her wet in all the right places. She's never felt like this before with any man…and it's intoxicating.

Presses her mouth to his ear. "No," she says. Peter's defenses are down as the control center calling the shots has shifted from his brain to his dick. Really, men are so predictable about some things, Olivia thinks as she finds some leverage, working her knee under his stomach, and flipping him over her head. He lands with a thud and a curse on his back, and she skitters to her feet. She's still managed to keep those three-fucking-inch stilettos on, which is some sort of unnatural miracle.

Peter picks himself up, but when he sees the challenge in her eyes, the grin that digs in one cheek says he knows if he answers her challenge, he'll get rewarded for his trouble. He also looks like he might come just staring at her.

"You should do that look more often. Might go a long way to getting you to relax…"

She smirks. "Fuck you," she murmurs.

This time, he has a bit of a swagger in his step as he stalks toward her and she can't help but smile at the cocksure glint in his eyes. His dark shirt is torn at the shoulder, the buttons half undone revealing the line of his chest. Can just see the striation of muscle between his pecks, and she berates herself for not noticing Peter's physique any more than she has. He doesn't have the bulk size or definition that John had, but he's lean and wiry and deceptively strong even without the performance enhancing drugs.

Olivia's distracted by the teasing glimpses of muscle moving under his shirt, and isn't ready when he snatches her by the arm. Her back hits the wall and she gasps, more in surprise than anything. Damn. Very strong.

His mouth is already all over her chest now, sucking, biting, and lathing her with his tongue. He lets go of one wrist to slide his hand dawn her flank, then back up to cup her breast. They're both panting, and fuck, Olivia can't get enough of him.

Savor. Touch. More. Everywhere. Her brain is stuttering out single syllable directives for her body.

He forces himself between her legs, shifting her weight so that she's semi-supported between himself and wall. She nips at his ear, and he answers by pulling her bra down enough that he can get her nipple in his mouth. Dear God, she nearly sinks down the wall when his tongue does an amazing swirling-motion around her hardened nipple.

She bucks against his crotch, teasing his hard-on. Peter groans, but presses her against the wall harder. "I said, be still," he says against her chest.

"You should know by now…," she says, reaching down with one hand and expertly unzipping his pants, "…that I don't take orders well."

Olivia lets his swollen cock fall out of his pants and in her hand, gently pumping the shaft. Peter's buried his face in her neck now, his breathing ragged as he frantically pushes her skirt up and pulls on her thong string. It rips, and Olivia thinks that's vaguely cliché, but at this point she doesn't care. She decides to screw with him a bit more, and guides the head of his cock to her wet core, but only to rub it through her heat a few times.

And oh, does it have an effect. Peter gasps and tries to thrust into her, probably on pure instinct, but she won't quite let him.

"Olivia…" It's plaintive and desperate and makes her grin wickedly.

Rubs him against her a little more until he's so slick with her wetness she can barely hold onto him. He grasps her hand and moves it off his cock, probably because if she keeps doing what she's doing he'd going to come everywhere before the real fun begins.

Slams her hand back against the wall and pins both her wrists in one hand above her head. He slides voracious kisses up her neck until he is even with her face. She takes a moment to look into his eyes, which are so dark with hunger that she wants him inside her right now. Peter pushes his lips against hers and explores her mouth for a moment. She arches into him, letting out a pleased purr, giving him permission to get on with things.

But she feels him smile against her mouth and say, "Ah ah…"A hand slides down between her legs and a finger rubs idly over her clit. "Bet you'll do what I say now…"

She nearly bites the end of her tongue off when he slides one finger inside, curling it in a "come here" motion until he finds the spot. She's writhing under him, probably making very undignified mewling noises, but fuck. Her nerves are imploding in a chain-reaction. And damn the sadistic bastard, he's taking his time. Now he's two fingers in and stroking her clit with his thumb and Jesus fucking Christ, she's going to scream.

"Do it," he commands. "Scream for me."

And she does. A strangled cry as she clings to his shoulder, tipping over the cliff and into bliss. Has it really been that long? Shit, she needs to get out more if this is what she's been missing. She can feel him being smug. One wouldn't think it possible for smugness to give off a palpable vibe, but Peter manages to pull it off.

And Olivia Dunham has never been one to let a man think he had the upper hand. Even if said hand just did some ridiculously amazing things to her.

He's still coiled and achingly hard, and there's a plea somewhere under the presumptuous gleam in his eyes for her to make all this sweat and sore muscles worth it. She's only too happy to oblige. But not before she makes him beg.

Peter's dark button-up shirt is already torn, so she helps it the rest of the way off by ripping the remaining buttons. They push and scrabble and scrape against each other as Olivia maneuvers the two of them to a ledge inside the warehouse that looks like it had been part of a room divider. It's table height and she pushes Peter against it, kissing his chest and down the subtle ripple of his abs. When his fists in her hair start to pull her back up to his face, she nips him soundly in the spot where his hip meets his groin. Ah ah, who is in control now? He flinches and obeys readily.

He is so incredibly hard now, and she smiles to herself before guiding his cock into her mouth. Swirls her tongue around the shaft. Licks the head and flicks her tongue over the most sensitive spots. Peter's making some interesting guttural sounds, and rhythmically thrusting with her sucking and pumping motions. When she senses his rhythm increasing, she decides to make him scream. Lets out a breath, concentrating on the technique so she won't set off her gag reflex, and slides the whole of his cock into her mouth.

Obviously Peter hasn't been deep-throated too many times, because she feels a bone-deep shudder shake his body and every muscle tighten. Something animalistic erupts from his throat, and she's very sure he's going to explode right there. But the man must have a guru's control, because he doesn't come and Olivia doesn't have time to think as she's hauled up by the arms and pitched onto her back on the divider behind him.

He's on top of her in a second, pinning her again, and pushing inside her before she can enjoy her victory. But all thought of the little 'contest' erodes away in a fresh wave of heat as he thrusts into her violently. Wraps her legs around his torso and hangs on, because this ride is all Peter, and she arches into each thrust as best she can.

"Fuck, 'Livia," he growls into her ear. "You're so fucking wet…"

"Shut up. Harder…harder…"

He pounds into her and she sees little sparks behind her eyes as the release pours like liquid metal through her muscles and veins. He snarls something inaudible in her ear as he finally comes too, ramming deep into her before collapsing.

A blissful eternity passes in the few moments they lie tangled together, breathing heavily. Olivia's body is still vibrating with sensation, and her brain succumbs to the aftershock white noise of falling back to Earth. She thinks this must be what true peace feels like.

When sanity seeps back into her, Olivia has a horrifying thought that someone could come in and see two half naked, beat-to-hell people fucking like they hate each other in a filthy warehouse. God, Broyles is probably burning up the phone lines wondering where she and Peter are, and why they haven't reported to Walter yet.

Olivia feels hung-over, spent and very, very sore. Her muscles are quivering from over-excursion as the drug subsides in her system. The tidal wave of emotion has ebbed back out to sea and all that's left is the horrifying realization of what's just happened. She and Peter Bishop just had sex. Correction – this wasn't sex. Sex has meaning, even if that meaning is simply release. This…was nothing but a blur of emotion. Olivia sits up and pulls the ruins of her cloths about herself, while Peter is zipping up behind her.

She steps away, her mind frantically running through all the side effects Walter had rattled off. Not a damn one mentioned anything about frantic, irresponsible sex. Oh shit, what have they done?

"I'm going to kill Walter." Peter's got his legs dangling over the divider, running a hand through his mussed hair. When he looks up at her, concern etches into his features when he sees her horrified look. "'Livia?"

She's clutching herself, shivering. "Walter's vaccine?"

"Yeah, not so much. I think we can safely say he needs to re-tune his formula." Peter stands, watching her carefully. "Are you okay?"

A hollow laugh as she presses a hand to her head. "Uh…no. Definitely not okay, Peter. I thought Walter had isolated the specific hormones the drug affected so he could neutralize it?" She's starting to pace because she can't make herself stand still, a new flush of anxiety replacing the hangover.

Peter looks like he's trying to soothe a cornered animal. "We'll figure it out, Olivia. It's okay. At least it looks like the drug has cleared out of our systems."

But Olivia can't right her skewed world. She'd been drugged, yes, and that drug caused increased aggression and lowered inhibitions. That explained why they'd been sniping at each other. But the rest…

She looks up at Peter with wide, pleading eyes. "Peter…what happened between us…"

"Look," he says, edging closer to her. "I'm not going to stand here and say it was all the drug. I'm sure it had a lot to do with it, lowing our inhibitions…" he pauses, his eyes gentle, "But I think… maybe…"

"Something was there to begin with," she finishes. Oh, this is so very bad. "So you're saying some part of us wanted this to happen." It isn't the sex, or even the mildly violent way they went about it that terrifies her. She remembers coming not-so-gently into that good night with John on more than one occasion.

It's that, she likes the deal they have: their working relationship. Their friendship. He's all she has against the darkness and the mind-fuck that is their job. He's her rock that keeps her weighed down to reality when the unreal comes out of nowhere, flinging her off the cliff. How can they possibly go back to that now? Blame it on the drug and walk away, like a one-night stand after a few too many drinks? Maybe that's what they'd have to do to be able to work with each other.

She'd have to find a way to deal with this. She's an expert on dealing with life's little potholes.

He sighs. And she takes some small comfort in the fact that he, too, looks mildly freaked. "Maybe the drug was just the key to unlock the door."

Olivia doesn't like unlocking her doors. She likes all her deep dark nasties closed up tightly in her little closet inside her soul. Being lonely wasn't an excuse for the kind of feelings that crashed over her while she was with Peter.

But when she feels his hand cupping her cheek gently, turning her to face him, she thinks Peter won't simply leave it alone.

"Don't do this, 'Livia," he says tenderly. "Don't shut me out while you try to regain control of everything. You can't do everything on your own, you know."

Part of her rails at the idea of letting someone else take control. The drug took control and look at all the lovely shit that flew out of Pandora's Box. But part of her – the part that could easily lose itself in Peter's comforting gaze – wants him to be right. Maybe it's good these feelings are out in the open between them.

"We don't have to let this come between us." Sometimes it's scary how Peter reads her mind. Or maybe she's just that transparent about some things.

Peter knows her – all of her now – and that causes a twitch of worry deep inside. Letting someone have that much power has blown up in her face a couple of times, now. But then again, she knows him, too.

She offers a small smile. "Guess there's not much we can do about it now." Compartmentalization. Olivia is an expert at that too. This is a truck load of fallout she'll deal with later.

"I vote for strangling Walter. Not so convinced he didn't screw with the vaccine a little to make it less effective."

Well, that's terrifying. "He wouldn't."

Peter picks up his discarded shirt and wraps it around her shoulders. "C'mon Liv, you've been around him long enough to know that anything is possible. He's been hinting - which in Walter's case means glaringly obvious – that he'd like us to get together." A blush creeps up his neck and his self conscious half-grin digs a dimple in one cheek. "Not sure this is exactly what he had in mind, though."

Oh, she can't have that information in her head. Walter playing a sick game of matchmaker? No. It's too… weird. "Okay. I don't want to know."

They start toward the door, when Peter pulls her up short. "I'm sorry, Olivia," and she can tell he truly means it. "What I said before about the operation – about you – I…" He struggles around his remorse but she just nods.

"It was the drug," she states. Won't let him know how his remarks cut so deep because they were true, and that truth frightens her still. She's allowed some secrets from this man.

He looks like he wants to push the subject, but she deftly changes direction. Deflection has always been a talent of hers. "You really had a problem with me working Rosseti, didn't you?"

Now Peter looks downright shy. It's endearing. He grins. "Maybe. Maybe it was just the drug."

"We hadn't been drugged yet."

He smirks. "Alright, maybe I did." Then the smirk turns mischievous. "It was the shoes. I can't make any promises when you wear fuck-me stilettos." Looks her up and down, and damned if he doesn't get a lascivious glint in his eye again. "You, in those shoes…I'm not responsible for my actions."

"Fair enough," she says, then levels a stony glare at him. "But call me a "happy hooker" again and I'll shoot you in the balls."

And he looks like he believes her.

END